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

“Hide!” Clay laughed. “We’ll work it out my way, Mr. Wilburt Somehow I feel a responsibility for those on that plane. Oh, I know that sounds silly. But to me it sounds silly that you know the name of this man and do nothing about it, officially or unofficially. You do know his name?”

“Yes, we know his name. International relationships all over the world are strained to the breaking point today. Even a suggestion that this well known Washington, New York and World banker and social figure was a spy would cause the most grave crisis. His arrest — well, nothing less than an open break could follow it. International politics—”

“His name?” Clay was impatient.

Carlton Wilburt said, “His name is Ernest Hoff — Major Hoff.”

The name jarred Clay. He never thought of that partly bald man in connection with the destruction of a great passenger plane. And certainly he had never thought of the Major as being beyond even the retribution of the United States Government itself. But when he heard the name, Major Hoff, he fitted him in at once. Everything dovetailed so perfectly.

“You know him?” the Judge asked.

“Yes. That is, I know who he is.”

“Good.” The Judge nodded. “You will perhaps meet others who are working for us. Under no circumstances are you to offer them any assistance or protection that is not for one purpose only — the destruction of this human monster. We tried working from the bottom up, but new and strong men replaced the ones we had known and made the task of finding the Major’s closest associates a more difficult one. You may be sure, Mr. Holt, with the disappearance of the Major the entire structure which he had built goes with him. Your service to your country will be beyond payment.”

The Judge seemed tired as he led Clay to the door. “Mr. Wilburt will take you to talk with Colonel Stone. He is a strange man who has suffered much. You will bear with him, listen to him.” And before Gay could ask the question: “You act as you wish, take no orders from anyone but Mr. Wilburt or myself. And the price — no compensation would be enough to drive out this soulless beast of destruction. We are not wealthy men, but our fund will permit of ten thousand dollars. That is all, Mr. Holt, except — let no personal appeal sway you in the least. That is an order.”

The door closed. Wilburt and Clay were in the hall. He led Clay down it a bit, whispered: “The Judge and I give orders together, Mr. Holt. Sometimes I am afraid this thing will drive him mad. Little wonder when I find myself awakening in the night in a cold sweat. Yes, I believe the Judge would gladly walk up to this Major on the public street and shoot him to death if he did not fear the act would bring on the very international disaster we wish to avoid.”

“And you have an order to give me?”

“An order.” He stroked at his chin. “I repeat that the Judge is almost a fanatic about this Major. My order is to disobey one order of his about protection — personal protection to one person, just one person.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will understand later.” And, as he led Clay down the hall and opened a door where he could see Colonel Stone sitting, he said: “In way of helping that understanding, Mr. Holt, the Judge is Justice Richard Van Eden... Mr. Holt to talk to you, Colonel Stone.”

Another blow below the belt. Clay stood there and looked at the Colonel, watched him close the door. Agatha Cummings had told him that the girl was Judge Van Eden’s daughter, of course. Who had put the Van Eden girl into this thing? Carlton Wilburt knew she was in it; he had given Clay more than a hint. But—

Colonel Stone was talking. Here was a man who knew his subject — didn’t speak of his country or the flag; no hysteria in his voice; yet his words, though calm and slowly spoken, carried more to Clay of a hatred of the Major than had those of either Judge Van Eden or Mr. Carlton Wilburt.

“I hope, Mr. Holt,” Colonel Stone was saying, “that you will consider seriously my suggestion and permit me to be at your service day and night. From now on I will stay in the hangar with my plane in Newark. I have living quarters arranged there. I’ll be there twenty-four hours every day until I hear from you.” He handed Clay a plain white card. “That is my telephone number.”

“Thank you.” Clay looked into those sunken eyes, the cracked, broken cheeks, the lips that every few seconds twisted spasmodically.

“Yes,” the Colonel went on, “many have left these rooms here to die or disappear. Some of them have been professional hunters of men. but none, I think, just like you. You may speak freely, Mr. Holt. I know everything.”

“If you knew everything, you wouldn’t ask me to speak freely. I’m not asking you. I do not understand why you offer me your services day and night.”