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

The house detective moved forward. The Colonel held up his hand. “That is impossible, Captain Summers. It is now after seven o’clock. At fifteen minutes after five the plane you mention blew to pieces in the air, killing all passengers and crew.”

Clay Holt rocked back on his heels. The house detective could have pulled a dozen guns then, could have led him across the room and handcuffed him as if he were a little child. He knew why the clerk had been surprised. He knew why the talking of the people was different downstairs. It was he now who found it difficult to speak. He simply took the ticket from his pocket and handed it to the Colonel.

“I took an earlier plane,” he explained and his voice seemed to shake. “I drove around town and and — I wish to God I had waited for that plane.”

“And be killed?” And when Clay tried to mutter something about preventing the disaster the Colonel went on: “All right, Mr. Rollins; I recognize Captain Summers now.”

The Colonel followed the house detective to the door, thanked him, and when he was gone, turned and faced Clay.

“My apologies, Mr. Holt. I have seen you before; would have recognized you the minute you came, but your arrival seemed impossible. Don’t ask me for information. The company officials have already denied any possibility of sabotage. I, of course, know better, and you will shortly.”

He led Clay down a narrow hall, past two closed doors, then paused before a door at the end of the hall. He turned those luminous sunken eyes on Clay.

“I envy you, Mr. Holt. You must be a very much feared man, and a most dangerous enemy. It would not have been a glorious death for you in that plane, for it would have been without purpose.” After a pause while Clay simply stared, the Colonel added with almost fanatic zeal, “But what a glorious death it might have been — with purpose.”

That was all. Colonel Esmond Stone simply opened the door and walked in. He said: “Gentlemen, your fear was unfounded. Mr. Holt took an earlier plane and arrived safely.”

The Colonel backed from the room.

Two men rose, and one walked around the table behind which they had been seated and shook hands with Clay.

Neither one was a young man. Both their faces were familiar, but Clay placed neither. The tall, dark, stiff man with the gray hair, was certainly capable of a direct look.

The smaller, rotund man was much older. His hair was white, his mustache iron gray, thick, long, and hanging old fashionedly at the ends. His face was round, his skin smooth and soft with bags under soft gray eyes that seemed hopeless and sad. His mouth would droop momentarily, then catch itself up as if a last desperate sort of determination was holding him together before the final crash.

It was he who spoke. “Sit down, Mr. Holt. Sit down.” And when the three were seated: “We thought that you were dead and were wondering now if we were two beaten old men who must give up hope or try for someone else. My friend here had decided that we had sent our last man to sure death. Indeed before the accident we had made up our minds that if there was any possibility that you were known to be retained by us, we would refrain entirely from using you.”

Clay did not understand the meaning of the man’s words, but he did understand the shock they had suffered and tried to cover it.

“I am deeply shocked,” Clay said, “if it is true that so many unfortunate people met their death because of me. But don’t have any illusion about dropping me from any work you have in mind. If that plane was blown up just to kill me, the people who did it already know of my association with you, suspected even before I arrived to see you. So they want my life. They will believe I am with you, even if I am not.” And suddenly, his anger rising: “And with you or not — I’ve got some pride, some sense of duty, even if you call it vengeance.”

The taller man rested his hands upon the desk. “Would you,” he said, “knowing this man, kill him?”

“You mean murder?” Clay was startled into the words.

“I mean justice.” The tall man got up, beckoned Clay to the window, pointed to the lights in the night, said: “Far down to the left is the Capitol. Closer is the President’s residence. Across from us is the Potomac River and the Washington monument. Here in this city our national laws are made; here, too, prestige, diplomacy, international rot permit our country to be pilfered of its greatest national secrets. An espionage system that our government does not understand, does not recognize, and cannot, without international complications, raise one finger to prevent.