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

She spoke to someone on the other end of the line, “Here’s your party, sir.” A pause, a strange man’s voice spoke quickly, sharp and dear: “Sprague? You have something that doesn’t belong to you. You’ll have a visitor soon!”

“Who is this?” I asked.

There was a dick. The line was dead.

My heart was banging against my ribs as I replaced the phone on the table. I didn’t know anyone in New York. How could a hoodlum that held up a bank in Jacksonville, have someone phone me from New York, a few minutes after I’d checked into a hotel I never expected to stop at? In Miami! This was too much!

The overhead light blazed down from the ceiling, unwinking. The sound of traffic outside was muffled, distant. The room began to take on an eerie aspect. I peered into the bathroom. Empty. There was a door on the other side of the room. It opened, I found, into a huge, barren clothes closet. I looked under the bed. I was sweating. Maybe I should get help? But who could I trust? I was a stranger in this city. I didn’t even have a gun, in case my soon-to-be-visitor—?

I strode over and threw open the window, stood for a long time watching the lights on Miami Beach across the causeway. At 6:45 ft was already dark. A warm wind blew across the sill, fanning my face. Abruptly I couldn’t take this room any longer. It was a trap! I stepped to the hall door, unlocked ft, yanked it open.

There was nothing out there — except a sour, musty odor. Turning off the light at the wall switch, I whipped the key to the outside of the door, stepped out and locked it behind me, slipping the key in my pocket. I needed fresh air — and a chance to think — maybe the opportunity, once outside, to start running—?

I found the stairs and started down. A man was coming up, taking two steps at a time, his breath sounding harsh in the stillness. He was neatly dressed, hatless, with iron-gray hair and glasses. I slunk back against the wall, half raising my fist.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said soothingly. “The police are here now. It’s all right. Just an attempted robbery. I’m the manager, Mr. Albritton.”

“An attempted robbery? Here?”

He shook my hand off his arm impatiently. “Yes. My clerk was slugged and bound, dragged into the inner office. But he’ll be all right. They’re taking him in the ambulance now. You can go down, Mr.—?”

“Sprague. I’m in 214.”

“Oh yes — Mr. Sprague.” He started on up, changed his mind, muttering, “I must tell the police those crooks didn’t locate the wall safe. Nothing was taken.” He plunged downstairs again.

I followed.

He went across to a group of people at the desk, spoke to a blue-uniformed figure. They went back into an office beyond the switchboard. A few people were standing around, either guests of the hotel or onlookers attracted from the street. A siren moaned in the darkness out front, growing fainter.

I chatted with a bellhop near the elevator but didn’t learn much. He said the hotel had been “stuck up” about a year ago. This time they didn’t get anything. “Better stick around,” he advised me. “They may want to question everybody.”

I nodded, but headed toward the front door.

A detective eyed me suspiciously. At least I judged he was a detective when he came out of the manager’s office. He topped my one hundred and forty pounds by a good sixty, hat pulled low over his eyes, maneuvering past the switchboard, lifting the hinged part of the front desk and stepping into the lobby.

I knew he was watching me. I’m afraid I wore my fear badly — my hands were shaking when I paused, trying to light a cigarette.

He passed me slowly.

Chapter Two Crowded on the Inside

Avoiding his gaze I sauntered toward a phone booth, fumbling for change, heard him say something to the cop who was stationed by the front door, then his heavy stride approaching.

I closed the door; the light flicked on, and the operator’s voice was crisp, impersonal.

I asked for long distance. I was worried about Lyria — or maybe I just had to hear her voice again.

The echo returned: “Long Distance?”

“I’m calling Jacksonville. Mrs. M. Harrison Sprague. Reverse the charges. The number is—”

He pulled the booth door open, rested one shoulder against the edge, motioning for me to continue.

My ears grew red. I didn’t hang up because it would look suspicious. Instead, I repeated my information to the operator and added the number. Then there was the formality of waiting, and finally Lyria’s cool voice on the wire: “Monty? I’ve been waiting.”

“Guess where I am!” I could hear the radio going, a woman’s laughing voice.

“Are you all right?”

I wanted to tell her — so many things, but I said I was all right.

Her voice lowered: “I wish I was along.”

“You can’t guess how much I wish that,” I agreed fervently, “But, it’s best this way. Did your sister arrive?”

“Yes. She wanted to meet you. Monty—? Your voice sounds — worried. What is it?”

“Nothing,” I lied hastily. “You sound a bit strange yourself. Maybe it’s the phone. Now listen, don’t worry, Lyria. Please.”