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

“Perhaps,” said Clay. “Don’t tempt me, Major. I would be unable to resist.”

“Well put, indeed, Mr. Holt. It’s a pity you can’t be bought.”

“You recognize that fact?”

“Certainly. Stupid and conceited men are that way. You have probably unconsciously discovered my one weakness. Having no background, you would probably not understand. A man of my culture would naturally abhor common brawls.”

“You’d rather blow a plane to pieces, kill innocent women and children.”

“Of a certainty, Mr. Holt.” The Major slid his chair back suddenly as Clay’s face flushed and his right hand moved up beneath his jacket. “There, there, Mr. Holt, I am not placing temptation in your way. I rather admire you.”

“And fear me?”

“Let us use the word annoy in place of fear. Your predecessors have been many.” The Major laughed pleasantly. “One, slinking behind a palm in the lounge. One, a steward on my yacht. Another a ‘wealthy’ business man who wished to invest money in one of my enterprises. But enough about them. Never in my many years of diplomatic accomplishments have I had an adversary big or small who pounded upon the table, shouted me down, threatened to throw a table into my chest. Amusing, perhaps, except for the fact that back, far back in your eyes, is a lust that I have recognized. You call it temper, or perhaps with pride point it out as a reckless courage. To me it is the lust to kill.”

Clay’s impulse was to lean suddenly across that table and clutch the Major by his thick neck and close strong fingers upon it until no life remained in his body. But the Major was right. Clay thought of the innocent victims of that plane. Maybe not the lust to kill was there, but certainly the desire to kill.

“Major,” Clay said slowly, “do you ever visit high buildings?”

The Major laughed. “Come, come, my boy. You are into a business far above your intelligence. Shooting bandits on the street is your business. This is a world game, great powers against great powers, far too big for you. Your country and my country. But tell me why you came. You have a message to deliver, a threat perhaps?”

“Perhaps.” Clay’s blue eyes knitted. “You’re right, Major, one country against another country. The game’s too big for me to play.” And when the Major nodded his satisfaction: “So let’s forget that and bring the game down to my size — one man against one man. If your next attempt to kill me fails, I’ll shoot you down like any common thug, anywhere, any time, any place.”

“You mean that?”

“Mean it? Take a look into my eyes now, and if that great brain of yours can’t turn the trick, you’ll have to die to find out.”

It was a full minute before the Major spoke. “Very well, Mr. Holt. I believe you. There’s a chance yet to save your life. There’s Judge Van Eden. You remember meeting his daughter with me only this afternoon?”

“What of her?”

“What of her?” The Major’s eyelid contracted. “Like you, Clay Holt, she might die at any moment.” There was no softness in the Major’s voice. “If anything happens to me, Muriel Van Eden dies.”

Davis and his table mate moved from their seats and the bull-necked man, and another were walking leisurely toward him. He knew that the Major’s eyes watched his, and he didn’t know what the Major saw there. But he knew what he saw in the Major’s face, and he wondered, did the other men see it, too?

He saw fear in those little, round eyes. Yes, even terror. The Major seemed to shrink down in his seat as Clay’s hand snapped under his arm and clutched at his gun.

Yes, the Major feared one thing. He feared death. Death that was about to strike. A death that neither the Major nor Clay Holt could control. It was beyond Clay now. A bursting plane in mid-air, women and children, other planes, other women, other children. They were bursting in Clay’s head — a kaleidoscope of twisting, turning bodies, and twisting and turning with them were the contorted, horrible features of the Major.

Time, place were forgotten. The consequences not even thought of. Four men approaching — a split second, and there might never be another opportunity.

And a voice called out: “Mr. Holt, paging Mr. Holt.”

Clay raised his eyes, and they rested fully upon a pair of sandy eyes behind glasses, unpleasantly old fashioned and stiffly arranged hair.

Clay Holt spun around and nearly knocked down Mr. Davis. “Out of my way, heel,” he said as he walked straight toward Agatha, whose reflection he had seen so plainly in the long mirror as the page boy called his name.

Clay Holt strode out, Agatha Cummings hanging to his arm.

“All right, Clay,” Agatha said when they reached the street, “bawl me out.”

He leaned over and patted the hand that clung to his arm. “No, kid,” he said. “I’d have killed him, shot him to death. Let’s go across the street and have a drink.”

At the table in the little place across the street Agatha said, “He got you, Clay. I saw your face. I had the page boy by the door ready.”