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

“I’d say you’re above average. Owner of a manufacturing business, able to take off when you feel like it. That suit cost better than two hundred bucks. Right?”

I remained silent a moment, digesting this. “You think it’s money someone’s after?”

His lip lifted. “What else?”

“But how? And that New York call—”

“We’ll check on that in a minute. How many people knew you were taking this trip today”

“Only my wife.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. But she didn’t know where I was going. She couldn’t even have let it slip accidentally. Lyria was more frightened than I was. She urged me to cancel my appointments today and just vanish for awhile. She wanted to come with me, but of course I wouldn’t let her.”

“Naturally.”

I didn’t like the way he said it, his eyes half closed, not actually regarding me, as if his thoughts were racing far ahead. “A bullet hole in the window. Glass all over—” He paused, eyeing the tip of his cigar, gripped between the stubby fingers of his left hand. “You smelled gunpowder. How about your wife? Did she smell it too?”

“I don’t remember that I asked her. I was a bit confused — awakened from sound sleep like that. But you can leave her out of it, Mace.”

He shook his head. “That’s just where I begin, Sprague.”

I half rose.

He shoved me back. “Okay. So you’re touchy. But I’m sticking to facts. I’ve got to earn my hundred between now and midnight. That doesn’t give me much time.”

The blood was suddenly throbbing in my temples. “I said leave her out of it!”

His eyes went cold, boring into mine, probing.

When I couldn’t stand any more of it, I looked down into my empty glass. Lyria’s red lips, softly curved — her face — seemed to stare up from the bottom. I could hear her voice, frightened — or had it been coaxing? “Go away, darling. Now!” But her terror was entirely natural. Why shouldn’t she be worried about me? Me, with a stick-up artist on my neck, and sixty thousand hot dollars! A kill-crazy shape — hurtling downstairs.

Mace was watching me — sympathetically.

“Look,” I spluttered, “I just talked to Lyria on the phone. She doesn’t know yet where I am. She didn’t want me to tell her; probably in case someone was listening in. If you can’t do any better than to suspect her—?”

“What about the sister?”

“Viola? I never met her. She’s with Lyria now. You can’t connect her with this. How do you explain the fact that someone knew I’d stop here tonight?”

“There’s only one way to explain it. If you weren’t so upset you’d have figured it out.”

I sat back slowly. “How?”

“You were tailed. As you put it yourself — someone knows every move you’re making.”

I stared — trying to think back over long stretches of highway, recalling nothing particularly suspicious...

“You forget,” I said, “the clerk. He said a reservation was made at four-thirty this afternoon. I wasn’t even here yet!”

“That’s easy too. He was probably lying in his teeth!”

“He never saw me before in his life. Why would he?”

Mace sighed. “You’re a nice fella, Sprague. Would it break your heart if I informed you that there are rascals and scoundrels in the world?”

I stiffened. “We don’t need the wise remarks, Mace. Maybe this is funny to you — but not to me!”

His expression hardened. “It isn’t funny. Murder seldom is.”

“Murder?”

“Yeah. Yours. I never saw a better build-up for just that.”

The music was pounding, pounding. Someone had turned up the volume. I smiled a bit uncertainly. “You put it pretty strong. Are you trying to scare the hell out of me? Because if you are—”

“Someone beat me to it,” he said curtly. “Whoever your little playmates are — they play rough. You should have seen that clerk’s head.”

I looked my bewilderment.

He leaned across the table. “It was six forty-five when the manager found him lying on the floor of the inner office. Just how long before that he was slugged, we don’t know.”

“But what has that to do with me? I told you I checked in at 6:30. He was all right when he showed me to my room.”

Mace frowned, snubbed out his cigar. “Maybe plenty. I want to check that long distance phone call.” He rose, shrugging on his topcoat.

“Shall I — sit tight then?”

He glanced around. “You better stick with me. Come on.”

I tossed the bartender a bill and followed him into the lobby. At the desk, Mace beckoned the clerk.

“Do you keep a record of all phone calls?”

The young man shook his head. “Just out-going.”

“Get the supervisor on the wire and find out if there have been any New York calls to this hotel within the last four or five hours.”

“Yes sir.” The man hurried over to the switchboard.

Mace drew out another cigar, eyeing me. “You wanta bet there haven’t been?”

“You think the call was faked from right here?”

“Sure.”

“But the operator’s voice—?”

“All right. A man and a woman did the faking — so we’re after a man and a woman.”

“As simple as that? They walk into a hotel and take over the switchboard?”