Black Mask (Vol. 33, No. 3 — September 1949)

“I don’t even trust the walls,” she said slowly. “If you’re going to vanish, Monty — don’t tell anyone your destination!”

“That’s right,” I agreed. “But you can’t stay here alone. I’ll—”

“Have you forgotten?” She was checking the contents of my overnight bag.

“Your sister!” I exclaimed. “I’ve never met her — and she’s arriving today from Chicago!”

“Of course.”

“But what will you tell her about me?”

Lyria paused, dismayed. “What should I tell her, Monty? That you’re away on business?” She eyed me anxiously. “That would sound all right.”

“Sure,” I said. “Tell her anything. And Lyria — fill the house with people. You two mustn’t be alone. Don’t worry about me. This will be a little vacation. I’ll figure out a way to get the money back to the bank without implicating myself.”

Her lovely eyes clouded. “Oh, Monty, take me with you!”

I shook my head firmly.

“I’ll live by the phone,” she said. “If you need me—?”

“Of course!”

It was exciting — racing the car down long, open stretches of highway beside the blue gulf. Unconsciously, I had decided to head this way, instead of inland. Friends at the Club would never have recognized M. Harrison Sprague, wealthy manufacturer of hot water heaters. I wore dark-colored glasses, no hat at all, and sport clothes much in need of pressing. And I hit the accelerator hard, between towns.

Lunch was a brief affair. A loose wire under the dash had been giving me trouble. I monkeyed with it awhile. Then I was off again. Miami milage signs were growing more frequent. Saturday traffic was getting thick. A strange tenseness entered my hands. I was jumpy on the wheel, passing cars with too little margin to spare. I’ve made the trip before — but never with this feeling of impending disaster close at hand.

A flaming sunset dappled the cloudy horizon as I merged with the long line of cars on Biscayne Boulevard. I spotted a neon sign: EMPIRE HOTEL, and a parking lot; pulled into the driveway and eased up against the brick wail of the building. The motor sputtered. I fiddled with that loose wire again, but gave it up, hauling my grip out of the back. Momentarily I stood admiring the green sweep of grass beyond the boulevard, leading down to the bay, then walked around the corner of the building, glancing at my wristwatch. It was 6:30.

The lobby was large, comfortable, fat marble pillars extending up to a high ceiling. No bellhops came rushing forward. This seemed to be one of those moderate places that seek the average tourist trade. I lowered my grip before the long desk at the rear and a clerk rose from behind a switchboard.

He hurried forward, tall, dark haired, wearing glasses, an affable smile lighting his scarred face — the scar was more like a cleft in his chin, faintly purple. He turned the ledger around for me to sign.

I hesitated, then scrawled my name in a bold baud.

He whirled the book around dexterously. “Oh yes — Mr. Sprague. I have your reservation.”

I almost dropped my glasses as I slipped them in my pocket, eyeing him sharply. “Must be a mistake.”

He bent above the name again. “M. Harrison Sprague? No sir. I received a phone call about four o’clock.” He went over to the switchboard, ruffled through a few pieces of paper, moved to the key rack and brought out a key from box 214 with a slip of paper. “Here it is, Mr. Sprague. I’ve given you room 214 — very nice—” He handed me the paper.

On it was scribbled a notation in pencil: M. Harrison Sprague. Phoned 4:30 p.m. Saturday.

I looked at him. “But at four-thirty I was sixty miles from here!”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Perhaps a friend—?”

“Was it a man’s voice?”

“Yes sir.”

“I see.” I said slowly.

He came out from behind the counter and picked up my grip. I followed him across the lobby to the stairs. There was an elevator, but the door was closed, the indicator hand moving slowly from 4 to 1. We mounted to the second floor, moving down a dim hall.

He let me into room 214, fussed around opening the window, but I told him it wasn’t necessary. I reached in my pocket for a tip. He smiled, shaking his head. The overhead light gleamed on his glasses as he put the key in the door and left.

I closed the door, locked it, sat down limply on the bed, fumbling for my cigarette case. This was utterly impossible! No one knew I was coming to Miami, nor to this hotel. I hadn’t known it myself! And yet someone had phoned a reservation in my name at 4:30! I lit a cigarette, sitting very still, trying to think. I gazed around the room.

There was a phone. For an instant I battled a crazy notion to call Lyria — tell her about it. But I put the desire out of my mind. Presently I stood up, snubbing the cigarette in an ash tray on the dresser.

The phone rang.

I picked it up. The operator’s voice said she had a long distance call for M. Harrison Sprague! I groped for the back of a chair, leaning heavily.

“New York calling. Mr. Sprague?”

“Yes.” I replied weakly.