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

“How can I help it? Has anything happened?”

“No! I’ve got to hang up, Lyria. See you soon?”

She murmured what any husband likes to hear and I was smiling — until I turned.

He’d been taking it all in, face expressionless.

“My wife,” I explained coldly. “What do you want?”

His upper lip lifted slightly, exposing strong, white teeth. He took his time about stepping back and letting me emerge. “I’ll ask the questions, mister. There’s been an attempted robbery here.

“I know that. I checked in at six-thirty. It must have happened shortly afterward.”

He bit off the end of a black cigar, looking around for a cuspidor. “What are you so jittery for?”

“I’m not.”

“Anybody here identify you?”

I clenched my hands. “I don’t know anything about it.”

“I asked for your identification!”

While I fumbled angrily for my wallet, he spat on the floor, one hand carelessly sliding beneath his light, gray topcoat.

I’ve never been mistaken for a thug before. I didn’t like the faint prickles it aroused in the small of my back. “My name’s Sprague,” I told him. “I’m a stranger here. But my driver’s license ought to prove who I am. And here’s my check book — a business card—”

He thumbed through everything thoroughly, pausing to study my card. “Sprague Manufacturing Company.” His eyebrows lifted. “Hot water heaters.”

I didn’t like him, and yet — he seemed capable. There was a solidness about him — not just physically. He was tough, experienced. My eyes were taking him apart, estimating. How much should I tell him — about me? I realized that here was an opportunity to get protection — if I handled it right.

“I need your help,” I blurted. “Something’s happened in the last hour — since I checked into this hotel.”

He tossed the wallet back. “I’ll say it has. The clerk’s on his way to a hospital for one thing!”

“I don’t mean the hold-up or whatever it was. I mean to me.”

“Yeah?”

I hesitated, groping for words. “Someone knows every move I’m making. I don’t know who or why.” I dug out a hundred dollar bill and handed it to him. “Will you help me — say — unofficially?”

He was silent, the bill lost in his fist, black eyes studying me.

A bellhop brushed past with a handful of luggage. There was a different clerk at the desk, gazing nervously around the lobby, fooling with the inkwell. Suddenly I was desperately afraid that this big man wouldn’t help me. I watched him apprehensively, holding my breath.

The bill disappeared, tucked in a vest pocket. “M’name’s, Mace,” he grunted. “I’ve got to make a report. How about waiting in the bar?”

I nodded, relieved, staring after his broad back as he moved away. He went to the desk. The clerk ran and brought him a phone, asking several rapid questions, desisting when Mace volunteered nothing but grunts.

I went into the cocktail lounge, took a table and a Collins, grateful for dim lights and the booth at my back. A Vieneese waltz drifted from the radio. There were a few people seated at the bar, laughing and whispering, receiving scowls from the bartender. But none of this affected me, nor held my interest. I don’t suppose anything could really penetrate that fog of fear swirling within my mind. That voice—? I peered around furtively. There was no one in the next booth. I forced the quiver from my hands as I raised my glass.

He walked in a moment later, removing his coat. His glance found me, merged with the gloom. He thrust his bulk my way; a smooth, heavy stride, devouring the distance between us; squeezed in across from me. “All right, Sprague. From now until midnight I’m on my own time. Let’s cut the formalities and get down to facts!”

“What’ll you drink?” I asked.

“Skip it.” He pushed his hat to the back of his head, eyes drifting over me appraisingly, missing no detail. “You look crowded — crowded on the inside. Know what I mean? I’ve seen guys takin’ the last walk that looked better.”

I drew a shaky breath. “I must admit I am afraid. I think I’ll tell you first about the bullet hole in the window.”

I told him that part as briefly and concisely as I could, finishing with: “So you see I left Jacksonville this morning, driving alone, not heading any particular place.”

“Destination unknown, huh?”

It didn’t sound too good, the way he said it. I lifted my glass swallowing the rest of my drink. “That’s correct, Mace. I picked the Empire hotel just by chance; maybe because it had a parking lot easily accessible. I registered, and when the clerk saw my name he assured me my reservation had been taken care of. I was dumfounded! He had all the information scribbled on a card. The call had come in at four-thirty — a man’s voice, he said. But at four-thirty I was sixty miles from here!”

Mace looked skeptical.

I plunged on grimly. “There weren’t any bellhops around at the moment and he showed me up to the room. While I was having a smoke, the phone rang. It was a long distance call from New York. I don’t know anyone in New York.” I paused, sweat coming out on my forehead.

Mace flicked an ash from his cigar, watching me. “Go on.”