Black Mask (Vol. 22, No. 2 — Mary 1939)

Clay was well acquainted with the hostess before he reached Washington. When leaving he said: “You’re too smart, got too much umph, too too pretty to be playing to such a small audience in a four-a-day plane. Ever thought of the movies?”

“No,” she told him, “nor the stage, nor night clubs.” And when he looked up at her slightly startled: “You don’t need to be so surprised. We carried you to Chicago about six weeks ago.”

Clay’s laugh was boyish. “You win the orchids, honey.” Clay pinched her arm. “Or would ten pounds of candy put you overweight for the job?”

She smiled knowingly, Clay thought, as she went forward to assist an old lady with her rug.

At the ticket window inside Clay inquired: “Can you tell me the name of the hostess on the plane which—”

“I know.” The young man went back to his figuring. “She was very pleasant to you on the trip. We have certain rules, but if you speak to one of the porters he’ll deliver anything you—”

“Just like that, eh?” Clay left the window, sought out a porter.

“Yes sir. For Miss Helen from the gentleman in seat eight. Five dollars won’t do. The other gentleman paid eight and—”

“Ten it is.” Clay slipped the bill into the porter’s hand.

With that Clay went whistling toward the cabs. He had plenty of time to keep his engagement at the Paul Hotel, and since there was still light in the sky, he spent that time driving about the capital. He didn’t know how private his visit might be and would keep himself inconspicious for the hour before the five o’clock plane would arrive.

When the time came and he entered the hotel, he saw how silly any idea of secrecy might be. The lobby was crowded with people who talked excitedly as people do. As people do? Clay wondered. But he was at the desk. He said to the side of an over-important clerk: “Captain Summers to see Colonel Stone.”

The clerk spun like a top, stared at him a moment. The quick flush of red that came into his cheeks drained to a lifeless white. Twice his mouth opened, but no words came. Then he turned, and, picking up a telephone on the counter far back behind the desk, put his mouth close to it. He talked then, for Clay saw his mouth move as three times he looked over his shoulder at Clay. At length he came from the phone, said: “The boy will take you up.”

It was a head bellboy who took Clay to the elevator, and at least one of the two men who crowded in with him was a detective. Clay knew that. He surmised, too, that he was the head house detective of the exclusive Paul Hotel. Clay didn’t claim any occult power, nor did house detectives stand out like poor relations in the best hotels. No, they look like prosperous business men, except that they are a little better dressed and carry that dress with more ease. Anyway, Clay always knew them.

So he was not surprised when the better dressed of the two men followed him down the hall to Suite A. He even followed Clay into the sumptuous room where a single man stood. That man was tall and gaunt and stooped slightly as he leaned upon the table. His eyes were hollows far back in his head, his cheeks sunken and his two ears flanking his head were like tugs docking an ocean liner.

Clay knew the man. He recalled now where he had heard and seen the name of Colonel Esmond Stone. His picture, too. This was the man who had taken a leave of absence from the army and was going to fly the new mystery plane to Europe. A small bullet-like two-passenger cabin job. There were hints that it would make over five hundred miles an hour.

The Colonel looked at him and did not speak. Clay heard the key turn in the lock, felt the hand upon his arm as he was roughly swung around. The better dressed business man was different now. He glared at Clay, crashed the words through his teeth.

“What do you mean by coming here and asking for Colonel Stone, masquerading under another name. Come on!” A great hand fastened on the lapels of Clay Holt’s jacket; he jerked it up and started to speak again, then found himself hurled back against the wall.

Clay said, “Come on, flat foot. You’re not pounding alleys now. Bring that hand from behind your back or I’ll blast you through the wall out into the hall.”

The gaunt man said, “A few minutes, gentlemen.” And as the house detective glared but made no threatening movement, he said to Clay, “Just who are you?”

“Captain Summers to you, Colonel, and if you still have any idea left of inviting me down here to Washington to get me arrested and keep me out of the way for something, forget it — unless you are willing to go for a dirty mess.”

The Colonel smiled. Clay straightened. It was a ghastly sort of leer. The Colonel’s whole face took on a cadaverous look; only his eyes seemed alive. The Colonel coughed once, then: “How did you arrive?”

“By plane,” and when he got no reply: “I came on the five o’clock plane from Newark.”