Black Mask (Vol. 7, No. 5 — April 1950), British Edition

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.

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.