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

Clay returned his gun to its holster, said as he reached over the table and lifted the phone: “The Major must have fainted, Awful. Yeah, Central,” and he gave a Jersey phone number. A minute later he said into the mouth-piece: “Clay Holt talking, Colonel Stone. You sound wide awake. Can you make your flight this morning — now, at dawn. Good! Major Ernest Hoff will be your passenger. Hell, man, I’m not mad. Can I reach the hangar by car without being seen?”

Major Hoff lay well hidden in the back of the car as the young mechanic stood on the running-board and guided Clay Holt across to the hangar. It was still dark. Colonel Esmond Stone stood in the open doorway. He helped Clay lift the Major from the car and carry him to the plane — a small cabin job for such a trip, Clay thought. But when they had stowed the Major away in the long tail, Clay asked:

“I’m not much on planes, Colonel, but it looks like an ordinary plane, no extra gas tank. I was wondering how it could fly the ocean.”

The Colonel laughed — a queer sort of laugh. He said, “The Major always wanted to know that. That’s why I’ve called it the Mystery Plane. I’ve guarded quite a few secrets for the government, things the Major would have liked to know. He used to threaten me.” He was waving a lantern down the field now. “I sent the boys away until you brought our passenger. They know I’m going to have a passenger, but not how he’d come aboard.”

Clay watched the men come, wheel the machine out, push it to the runway. Dawn was just appearing as the field lights went on. A man said to Clay:

“Ordinarily you wouldn’t think he could get over a thousand miles with that gas tank. It’s hard for an old-timer like me to believe that he has some magic chemical or something. If it wasn’t Colonel Esmond Stone, he’d never have gotten a permit. Yep, he knows his stuff; crossed the ocean twice already. And there he goes.”

The plane had taxied up the field, turned, and was roaring down toward Clay. Once, twice, the wheels left the ground. Then it was in the air.

A dozen or more white cards flickered from the cabin. Men ran wildly to get them. One landed at Clay’s feet. He held it beneath his flash. It read:

THE MYSTERY PLANE

Six hours to Europe. This flight is made possible by America’s good friend, Major Ernest Hoff, my mystery passenger and backer.

— Colonel Esmond Stone

Clay avoided the reporters, which was not difficult. He got his car, pulled Awful into the seat beside him. Silently they drove from the field. At the entrance they stopped. It was Una. She squeezed into the front seat beside them.

She said, “No one will know anything about Muriel Van Eden. You’re quite a man, Clay Holt.”

“Yes.” Clay yawned. “If I were half a man, I would have killed him. I don’t understand the play. The only luck we could hope for... well, that Stone doesn’t make it. And that’s tough on Stone. The Major will be back.”

“So you don’t know, then?”

“Don’t know what?”

“That the Major offered Esmond Stone thousands of dollars for certain aviation information.”

“And didn’t get it?”

“No.” Una moved back in the seat. “The Major didn’t get it. The Colonel laughed at his threats. He has never laughed since. His wife and child died in his summer cabin at Maine...”

“And the plane doesn’t have enough gas? Won’t go five hundred miles an hour and—”

Una lowered her head, gravely said: “Yes. The plane will go five hundred miles an hour in a power dive from a great height. First one wing will rip off, then another. Then the fuselage—”

“God, how terrible!” Agatha Cummings gasped.

“Terrible?” There was a question in Una’s voice and then a sudden viciousness. “Colonel Stone will talk to the Major, I suppose, and maybe he’ll laugh again. But he’ll talk to him — talk about his wife and child until the gas gives out. No, you don’t have to worry, Clay. Major Hoff isn’t coming back, isn’t ever coming back.”

Bare Facts by H. Randolph Peacock

A shamus — a runaway girl — and a nudist camp!

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