Black Mask (Vol. 22, No. 2 — Mary 1939)

Murder Made Easy by Carroll John Daly

Clay Holt brings death to a spy — in a plane that goes 500 miles per hour!

Clay Holt swung easily out of his office, looked at his secretary assistant, said: “Bad morning, Awful.” He took in with a glance that drawn-back hair, the rimmed glasses that gave those gorgeous eyes a sandy appearance. He saw too the other grotesque little jokes that she worked backward on the public.

“You’re so beautiful.” He held a hand over her eyes. “And yet you spend money to make yourself look so homely. Listen, Awful, I’m known as big and tough in the business since I got Carson Simmons, Public Enemy A, B, C, and D. I want you to look yourself.”

Awful said, “I talked you into hiring me because I was homely. If you had a good looking girl you’d spend all your time chasing her around the office or taking her out. You’re a sucker for women.”

“Me?” Clay was indignant. “Just because I have an old-fashioned courtesy toward the fair sex!” And, side-tracking that line quickly, “Give me four or five hundred dollars. I like to feel real dough in my pockets.”

“That’s right, Detective Holt.” Agatha Cummings’ stiffness was more pretended than real. “You had a big case, spent the money like a drunken sailor, then turned down small cases. Here.” She opened her purse and gave him fifty dollars. “Don’t look at it in such disgust. You mightn’t see that much again for some time. And don’t give me that line about beautiful women being needed in your business. The last one you wined and dined gave you the wrong telephone number. If you want to do some real sleuthing, do it in your bank book.”

“Is that all that’s in the bank?” Clay looked at the five tens; at Awful’s face, turned and walked out of the office.

He was all business now as he trotted down to the biggest detective agency in the city. He bolted into the manager’s office, said: “I’ve got a bit of time, Frank. You offered me a thousand dollars sometime back. Spill the grand; I can fix it up for you now.”

Mr. Frank Bead was a hawk-eyed little man. His voice choked with sarcasm. “Why, that’s real nice of you, Clay. But there wasn’t any beautiful woman in that case.” And coming suddenly to his feet: “Damn it, Clay, that was three months ago. The client was shot dead — and what’s more, I won’t lend you a cent.”

“Lend me a cent!” Clay’s mouth opened wide. “Why, I could buy your whole works. Don’t come around asking me for favors with your dime a dance clients. I’m having lunch at the Walden Hotel. There might be ten grand in it for me.”

Bead said, “Keep your fingers out of the coffee,” and leaned over the reports on his desk.

Fifteen minutes later Clay trod heavily into the Walden Hotel. The doorman bowed low. The clerks behind the desk smiled. Bellhops jumped to attention.

Clay handed his coat to the wide-eyed girl before the door of the dining-room. “On the level, honey, you should be in pictures. Give me a card with your address and — Hello, Charles.” This to the captain as he came forward. “Same table. You, Joe,” to a boy in a white and red uniform, “call up my office and see if anything of importance needs my personal attention,” and to the manager: “How’s business, head man?”

“Good! And with you, Mr. Holt?”

“Immense, immense!” Clay bent confidentially toward him. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you the amount of jack I picked up last week — blackmail case. I’ll be setting up an account here again I guess.”

“But we agreed on that three days ago.” The manager shook a finger at him. “I am not to push you for your bill — and you simply pay cash.”

Clay started, shook his head. “So I’ve been signing for stuff, eh? Remember the amount of the bill?”

“Four hundred dollars. A mere four hundred and seventy-seven dollars and thirty-five cents, Mr. Holt.”

“Is that so? Is that so?” Clay was watching the knock-out in white who was alone at a table completely across the room. Her dark hair, her black eyes and her dark complexion enhanced her spectacular beauty against the white. Her eyes were on him. They were pleading eyes — pleading for him to come to her table. Clay jerked at his tie, took one step and stopped.

“Your office on the phone,” the bellhop said. “Your secretary, Miss Cummings, sir.”

“Tell her — er, ask her if there is any message for me. I’ll wait here by the door.”

Clay was studying the woman. He was used to women looking at him. There was something else in this woman’s eyes, as if she needed him more than just wanted his company. As if she were in trouble.

He turned to the returning bellhop: “What did my secretary say?”

“Why, she said, sir, if you’d excuse yourself to the lady for a few minutes she had to speak to you.”

“What lady?” And as the boy started to point: “Never mind!” He slipped the boy a bill and walked straight to the telephone booth. “Well, Awful, what’s so important that you need me? I just rang you up about joining me for lunch, but—”

“I can see the but from here. Really nothing to tell you, Clay, except someone leaned down from an upper window and tossed a pineapple into your private office, blew your expensive modernistic furniture to pieces, and pushed the back of your hidden wall safe right out in the little room behind. Eight dollars fell out. So that’s a find.”

“The furniture — was the insurance paid up?”

“There can be no doubt of that,” Awful’s voice came back. “You don’t own the furniture yet, you know. Or don’t you know?”

“Who did it?” Clay demanded indignantly.

“A little man with a big package and a red beard. Your friend — the big monkey, Lieutenant Nevina — gave me that fool answer.”

“The police are there, eh? Did you notify them?”

A pleasant but facetious little laugh came over the wire. “I’m afraid someone must have let the information leak out. You see the front of your office was blown away.”

“Yeah? Better hire that furnished office across the hall and— Were you hurt, Awful?” And when she didn’t answer right away, “Hell, Princess, you know that was my first thought. I think I’ve got a case here.”

“I can imagine the sort of case! Really, Clay, is there money in it?”

Clay saw the woman in the dining-room through the booth door. She had risen to go, then sat down again. She was trying to signal him!

“Looks like the real thing, Awful! Now, about your being hurt?”

“No, Clay, I wasn’t. Anyway, I carry accident insurance. But the police assured me that this was no accident.”

Clay said, “Damn,” when the phone clicked. He walked out of the booth to the dining-room, and before the captain could lead him to his usual table, he had pulled out a chair and sat down opposite the Woman in White.

“Hello, Helen.” Clay spoke quickly as a waiter arrived. “Imagine after all these years!” And seeing she had finished her lunch: “A small cognac for the lady and a dry martini for me... Imagine saying after all these years to one so young and beautiful! But it does seem a long time.” He stretched a hand across the table — gripped a listless wrist, caressed for a moment the little hand itself and the long, slim fingers. “I don’t like so much jewelry on a woman.”

“I think,” she knocked the ash from the cigarette on the end of her holder, “that you are one of the few men who can afford to dislike jewelry on a woman.” She gave a half nod down the room.

Clay followed that nod. Two men and a woman were sitting almost directly facing him. He said, “I picked the right position at the table then. Don’t let them bother you. I presume you wish to leave and fear that those men will try to prevent you.”

“And you, Mister Clay Holt,” green eyes flashed beneath long lashes, “would prevent them from preventing me.”

“Exactly, Goddess.” He patted her hand, added, “When you want out, you can have out.”

“My name,” she told him, “is neither Helen nor Goddess, though I profess liking the Goddess somewhat. My name is Una — you like that?”

“Sure.” Clay looked at her generous mouth, the finely shaped nose, the life in those green eyes, the long lashes and pencilled brows. He looked, too, at the intelligent forehead. “Sure,” he said again, then: “I’m not much for names. If I don’t like a name it’s simple enough to make up another. Now there’s a girl called Agatha—” Clay stopped. He was thinking of Awful, of course. Awful fitted her well enough, yet there were times — but the woman was talking.

She put her hand under the table and gripped his after the waiter left.

“You say if I want out I can have out. Alone, I mean?” Her warm little hand squeezed tighter. “I mean without those men following me.”

“Lady Una,” Clay said, “I would, if you preferred it, step out with you,” and when she shook her head, “They’re not very tough looking customers. But I’ll promise that neither one of them will leave the table until you have passed through the door and have had a few minutes to make other arrangements.”

“You are a very brave and a very foolish man.” She looked into his eyes for a moment. “And a very confident one; I might even say a conceited one. Here.” She opened her bag. “I will telephone you later. A five hundred dollar retainer now.”

“A thousand is the smallest I—” Clay started as he saw the roll in that bag. Then he saw her eyes. “Una,” he stood up, “the little you request is a pleasure. You may leave when I give you the nod. Under no circumstances are you in the slightest danger. I will talk to them like a stern parent.”

Clay Holt faced the two men. Of course they saw him. He wanted them to see him. Then he walked slowly toward their table.

Of the three people at that table the girl showed the most interest at Clay’s approach. She was slim, sat very erect, her wide blue eyes on him. Somehow Clay thought of her as a spoiled child as he placed his hands on the back of the single unoccupied chair.

A tall man about thirty faced the girl. He wore tightly trimmed little mustaches and his clipped sandy hair bristled. Now his eyes shifted sideways to stare up at Clay.

It was the partially bald man directly across the table to whom Clay gave his entire attention. Tiny lines of veins etched his forehead and were turning a purple blue, like rivers watched from a plane far above the countryside.

The bald man’s bulging eyes rested on Clay’s face, held there. It was some time before he spoke. His puckered lips moved precisely. “Why am I favored by this visit?”

Clay said pleasantly, “I picked you out to do a lady a service. She’s leaving the dining-room, and I promised her you would remain seated until a few minutes after she had gone.” Clay’s smile broadened. “Rather simple, eh? I’ll give her the nod to leave now.”

“No.” The colorless eyes contracted into points of sharp steel. “She will come over and join us here. I have a message for her which will erase from her mind all desire to leave alone. Now take yourself off and inform the charming lady in white that I wish her presence.”

Clay said, “I’m sorry, but I’ve already promised the lady. I’m a plain-spoken man, sir. It’s best that you understand me in the beginning. If you come to your feet or leave this table it will be the greatest mistake of your life.”

The man’s huge lips puckered like a baby’s. “I never make mistakes, Mr. Holt. Yes, I know you. I know that you are going to tell me how tough you are. I know that you jumped into prominence a few months ago by shooting some notorious racketeer dead on a lonely side street at two o’clock in the morning. But fame dies quickly. I did not hear of you again.”

“You hear of me now,” Clay told him. “I am giving the lady her signal. If you get on your feet after that, I’ll bust into fame once more.”

The man with the thin, sharp face spoke for the first time. “I wouldn’t press the point, Major,” he said. “This man, Holt, has a bad name.”

The Major turned his head and looked at his companion. The girl coughed and the Major turned his eyes back to Clay. He was deliberate in his words:

“This is not a lonely street. This is the Walden dining-room at midday. You interest me, Mr. Holt. You have, you say, made the woman a promise. I will be pleased to observe how you work out your problem.” He waved a hand toward the half-filled dining-room. “Give the lady your signal and I will see that she takes the chair — the back of which you now grip so tightly — not in anger, I hope.”

Clay’s shoulders moved up and down. He said, “I’m sorry, Major, that you insist on a demonstration which will not please you.” He turned his head quickly, nodded to Una, then, pushing the chair aside, leaned far over the table. “You will remain seated, Major.”

The Major very slowly looked toward the woman in white. Just as slowly he smiled and deliberately pushed his chair back and came to his feet.

“Sit down!” Clay roared the words as his right fist crashed down on the table.

The smile was wiped from the Major’s face. He jarred back down in his chair. For ten seconds he wasn’t fully aware of just what had happened. In that respect he was like the rest of the guests.

Every dish on that table jumped, every glass overturned. The Major’s coffee bounced from the cup into his lap. The girl, with womanly instinct to protect her clothes, slid her chair back. The head waiter was there, two captains, four waiters. They looked dumbly at Clay, who had pulled out the chair and slipped into it before the few seconds of amazement were past.

Clay was the first to speak. He said easily to the head waiter, “The Major overemphasized a point in his story, and he’ll want another cup of coffee.”

“Yes, Mr. Holt.” The man waited for further explanation which did not come, then gave quick orders to the waiters. The cloth was replaced by a fresh one; other cutlery was upon the table. The Major had his coffee.

“Billings,” the Major slipped a bill into the head waiter’s hand, “you will take care of the boys and accept my regrets.” And as Billings still waited: “Mr. Holt was not quite correct; I am afraid I underemphasized a point most deploringly.”

When the waiters had gone Clay lowered his voice, said: “Well, Major, how did you like my act? No hard feelings, I hope. As a rule, I charge a high purse for such a bit of fireworks.”

“But today?”

“Today it was free. The woman was very beautiful, very young and — suppose I just call it an amateur performance.”

The Major nodded very gravely. “Yes, I think that is correct. An amateur performance.” He turned to his companion, said: “Mr. Davis, my apologies for not listening to you and very nearly mixing myself up in a common brawl. Still, you were wrong about Mr. Holt. His spirit is rough. His thinking is perhaps toward the tough side. But physically he is far from a well man.” The Major shook his head. “I don’t think, Mr. Davis, he has very much longer to live.”

He dug his hand into his pocket, produced a huge roll of bills, handed them to Davis, continued: “Mr. Davis, I wish you to take a good look at Mr. Holt, remember all you read about him in the papers, discover what you can concerning his past bad health — then get the best advice obtainable on how long an expert predicts he can live.”

Clay Holt leaned back in his chair and laughed. He said: “A bit melodramatic, Major, but I’m always willing to take a man seriously and help him out. For that bit of change you couldn’t get any gunner in the city to chance it.”

“Really, Mr. Holt. I am speaking more in a psychological than a physical way. Even you will find it unpleasant, and perhaps as the feeling of impending death grows on you, a fear will follow that will turn to terror. You will carry with you the feeling that perhaps any day, any hour, any minute, someone you do not know and have never even seen — never will see — is waiting for the doctor’s orders.”

Clay laughed again, boyishly. He said, and meant it: “I’ve been threatened hundreds of times but never with a psychological bullet in my back but a real one. Have your fun. I daresay there are a hundred gunmen in the city today who have the same idea as yours with the psychology subtracted, so one or two more won’t bother me much, especially if I don’t see them. If I do see them... well, they’ll bother me less.”

The Major looked at him long and steadily. “You are a remarkable man, Mr. Holt, and perhaps a stupid one. Stupid men sometimes lack the faculty of recognizing fear. But stupid men can also be very dangerous. We have finished our lunch and are leaving. You, too, I presume?”

The Major rose, inclined his head, first to Davis, then to the girl. Both came to their feet. The girl spoke for the first time. Her voice was shrill as she caught at Clay’s hand when he turned to leave.

“No, Mr. Holt!” Her eyes were big and round... and blue through a mist. There was a sort of childlike wonder in her face that appealed to Clay. “I came too late for lunch, Major. Mr. Holt has not eaten; perhaps he will lunch with me.”

“If you wish, Muriel.” The Major bowed. “Mr. Davis and I have business. Good day, Miss Van Eden. Good-by, Mr. Holt. I shall never have the pleasure of seeing you again.”

“Fine sort of company you keep.” Clay turned to the girl. “I hope you will tell me the racket and how a girl like you got in it.”

She smiled up at him. “As if you didn’t know, Mr. Holt. Sit down.”

But Clay did not sit down. A hand touched his arm. A voice spoke softly. “Surely you have not forgotten our engagement and that even a woman must eat.”

Clay turned suddenly as he heard that voice. He stretched out his hands to Awful.

“Princess! Princess, you’re beautiful.” Until Agatha Cummings spoke he just stood there and looked at her.

Agatha laughed. “You forget, Clay. We are in the center of the dining-room — a hundred people are staring at us.”

“I like it.” Clay’s smile made her eyes sparkle. “It’s too bad some columnist isn’t here. Can’t you see it: ‘Clay Holt, New York’s ace private investigator, noted for being seen with beautiful women, outdid himself at lunch today and appeared in the Walden Main Room—’ ”

“Clay,” she led him to a table, “is that all you see in women, how they reflect on your own personal vanity?”

“All but you, Princess. It’s the first time in over a month that you’ve turned Miss America. Another thing, Princess, yours is the sort of beauty that gives a man an appetite.”

After they had ordered Agatha said, “I was wondering what you saw in Miss Van Eden.” And, at Clay’s “Good Lord!” as he started to his feet: “She’s gone, Clay; turned almost at once and walked out of the room. She’s pretty, of course, has a certain appeal, but her face is weak, even if there is a long line of breeding behind her.”

“Cat.” Clay cut a slice from his filet mignon and devoured it with zest as Agatha played with hers. “She’s very young, maybe spoiled. I like the childish pout to her lips, the tilt — oh not an aristocratic tilt like your nose, Princess.”

“She’s weak, Clay. You’re not very good at character reading.”

Clay smiled. “Maybe I like weak women.” And more seriously, “She’s a kid trying to play some grown woman’s game.” And suddenly: “What do you mean she’s got breeding behind her? What do you know about her?”

“She’s Muriel Van Eden — Judge Van Eden’s daughter. The other woman I don’t know. But you won’t be bothered with them now. There will be no case for you there.”

“No.” Clay chewed and swallowed. “I’ve been threatened with death already. Yep! Just for letting the Woman in White walk out of this dining-room. The big man with the huge partly bald head and popping eyes—”

“It doesn’t matter, Clay. I couldn’t tell you on the telephone and I couldn’t wait until you got back to what’s left of the office. You have a case, something big. Twenty-five hundred dollars and a ticket on the five o’clock plane for Washington. Here’s the money and a sealed envelope with your instructions.”

Clay grabbed at the money, tore open the envelope, glanced at the note, said: “Good girl. Now tell me about Washington.”

There was little for Agatha to tell. The man who came to the office just after the explosion met her in the hall. He left the money and the sealed envelope.

“He said,” Agatha finished, “that he knew your trust in me and he knew you were broke.”

“A general condition.” Clay grinned: then, as he saw the head waiter at his elbow, “Greetings, Billings.”

Billings bowed. “Good afternoon, Miss. And could I have a word with you, Mr. Holt? I—” Billings leaned forward. “Why, Miss Cummings! Your dress, Miss Cummings, your hair — it’s very becoming.”

Clay burst in on Billings’ sudden embarrassment. “Don’t cover up, Billings. It’s her face that’s becoming. And you’re right. What an eye — and what tact! Remember, don’t speak a word to anyone about Miss Cummings’ sudden transformation.”

“No, sir, Mr. Holt, not a word. I can speak freely then. Jean, one of our captains, saw the Major rise and pound the table. Jean was amazed.”

“He should be.” And to himself Clay thought, “The power of suggestion!” To Billings he said: “The Major come here often?”

“Yes, sir. Most evenings he spends hours in the grill; many people visit him at his table. He holds open house, so to speak. We sized him up as tight-fisted, but when he wants extra service he’s liberal beyond all our guests — except yourself, Mr. Holt. I just didn’t wish you to think hard of him, though the manager thinks you said something to anger him.”

“It’s no use, Billings.” Clay grinned. “I won’t talk. I won’t make a complaint, even if the Major did.”

“Indeed he didn’t, Mr. Holt. He spoke most highly of you to the manager. To be frank, sir, the manager would like to know if there’s any difference of opinions remaining between you and Major Hoff.”

“Frankly you mean hard feelings between me and Major Hoff? Don’t worry, Billings. Major Hoff was interested in my health, offered to pay out of his own pocket for a doctor’s opinion.”

“It’s like him, sir.”

“Of course.” Clay came to his feet. “The Major recommended everything but an undertaker for me and I’m sure that was an oversight on his part.”

“I’m sure it was, sir,” Billings echoed politely.

Clay Holt felt pretty good as he saw the Princess leave by the north entrance to the hotel. He liked her easy carriage, the way women turned to look at her. Men turned, too, but he wasn’t sure he liked that. Agatha Cummings! He made a face as he thought of that name. Awful or the Princess, what did it matter? She had everything, courage, loyalty and patience, a belief in him — and she could take it.

He felt good because he had money in his pocket. He liked the feel of heavy dough. He was used to it. And he was used to earning it.

Clay stopped at the cigar counter. “You still here, sweetheart?” he said to the girl behind the counter. “It’s a crime. I’ll speak to Georgie over at the Paris Night Spot. He’ll have a place for you sure. One of those cigars. Sure, the fifty cent ones. Do you think I smoke rope?”

He left the hotel by the downtown side. The cigar stuck in his throat, made him cough. He tossed it into the gutter and drew a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He couldn’t stand cigars. He hated the taste of them.

Cigarettes! He smiled. Cigarettes always did a man good. It did him good right then. He had turned slightly when he bent to get his light, and before he had straightened and started down the street, he had spotted his shadow.

The man held his right hand deep in his overcoat pocket. Clay couldn’t see his face hidden beneath the rakishly tilted gray fedora. Clay’s right hand involuntarily slipped up under his jacket. For a single moment it caressed the gun which lay snugly in its shoulder harness under his left armpit.

So the Major was on the job. The Major was a man who believed in action, and the youthful Mr. Davis of erect carriage and military bearing saw that he got it. Clay shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing easier than shaking off a shadow.

Clay’s mouth became a little hard. Someone with real money had offered him business, and that someone was entitled to his work without it being hampered by a shadow — perhaps even a killer. The more he thought of it, the grimmer his face became. The Major might be as bad as he said he was. Maybe he would spend enough money to have him shot through the back of the head on a public street in broad daylight.

Clay passed up the taxis directly before the hotel and walked in a swinging zig-zag motion to the corner. It was a time like this when he felt he earned his reputation. There was only one sure way to prevent that man from shooting at him if the man so intended, and that was for Clay to turn suddenly and shoot that man to death.

Clay shook his head. The police wouldn’t like that; the law wouldn’t like that. Even his own lawyer wouldn’t like the job of trying to prove that the man behind him was bent on murder. As for Clay, he wouldn’t get much satisfaction in knowing that he was right — if he were dead.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw another line of taxis; jerked open the door of the first of three, and tossing himself low against the back seat said: “Holland Tube.”

The tiny mirror Clay held in his hand showed him that the man who followed him had climbed into the taxi behind and that it swung into the traffic in a line directly behind him.

Clay leaned over, and, handing the driver a five dollar bill, spoke to him seriously. The man took the money, nodded and said: “At the next light, or light after that, eh?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Clay told him, “just so that you are able to get one car between us and the taxi behind. Can do?”

“For five, can do,” the driver nodded.

It was the third light before Clay’s driver made that quick swing out of traffic and tore directly before the car already slowing down for the red flash.

“Fine!” Clay watched the light, waited until he saw the reflection of red on the cross street side, then pushed the taxi door open and stepped onto the street. He moved quickly back between the closely packed cars, reached the shadow’s taxi.

Just as the line of cars started to move, Clay jerked open the door and stepped quickly into the taxi. “Don’t move your right hand any further,” he said, “or I’ll blow it off at the wrist.”

The man stared in wonder beneath his slouch hat as Clay Holt, his gun suddenly slipping easily into his hand, sat down beside him.

Clay’s left hand knocked up the man’s hat; the gun in his right hand jarred up the man’s chin. “Brother,” Clay said, “you haven’t got a nice face.”

“Who are you?”

Clay answered easily. “Name of Holt — Clay Holt, who shot Carson Simmons to death up on a lonely street a few months back. Here we have the roaring traffic, the noise of a great city. A pistol shot would hardly be heard. There’s no use in trying to push yourself through the back of the car. You took on the job with your eyes open. You must have known the result if you failed. I was taught never to play with firearms. I’m not playing now.”

The man had his feet pulled up on the seat now, forcing his trembling body as far as it would go into the corner. “I didn’t know, Holt. I didn’t know it was you. I... I mean, I was only following you.”

Clay’s eyes were hard, and those hard eyes caught the side glance of the driver. If the chauffeur had seen him jump inside the cab or not, Clay couldn’t tell. But that the man knew he was there now, Clay was certain. He felt, too, that the driver was watching for the first policeman.

“All right,” Clay told the terror-stricken gunman, “open the door and jump for it.”

The man clutched at the handle of the door, jerked it open, and was gone, stumbling into the traffic as Clay pulled the door shut. This time when Clay opened the little window he handed the driver a ten dollar bill.

“It would be best,” he said, “to use this money to buy things that you can continue to use. A policeman won’t be much good to you if you are dead. Stop by the subway.”

Five minutes later Clay was on his way to the Newark airport. And he boarded a plane shortly after four o’clock for Washington.

Clay was well beyond Philadelphia before he realized that he still had his reservation on the five o’clock plane. But there was evidently nothing important about that. His instructions were simple enough. He was to arrive at the Paul Hotel in Washington at seven o’clock and, using the name of Captain Summers, ask for Colonel Esmond Stone.

He didn’t wonder, think, or even try to conjecture what his job was to be. He simply hoped it would be a short one so that he might give his attention to the Major. He hadn’t liked the face of the man in the taxi. He knew a killer when he saw one. But he didn’t bother about that now. Billings had said the Major was often in the Walden Grill.

Clay was well acquainted with the hostess before he reached Washington. When leaving he said: “You’re too smart, got too much umph, too too pretty to be playing to such a small audience in a four-a-day plane. Ever thought of the movies?”

“No,” she told him, “nor the stage, nor night clubs.” And when he looked up at her slightly startled: “You don’t need to be so surprised. We carried you to Chicago about six weeks ago.”

Clay’s laugh was boyish. “You win the orchids, honey.” Clay pinched her arm. “Or would ten pounds of candy put you overweight for the job?”

She smiled knowingly, Clay thought, as she went forward to assist an old lady with her rug.

At the ticket window inside Clay inquired: “Can you tell me the name of the hostess on the plane which—”

“I know.” The young man went back to his figuring. “She was very pleasant to you on the trip. We have certain rules, but if you speak to one of the porters he’ll deliver anything you—”

“Just like that, eh?” Clay left the window, sought out a porter.

“Yes sir. For Miss Helen from the gentleman in seat eight. Five dollars won’t do. The other gentleman paid eight and—”

“Ten it is.” Clay slipped the bill into the porter’s hand.

With that Clay went whistling toward the cabs. He had plenty of time to keep his engagement at the Paul Hotel, and since there was still light in the sky, he spent that time driving about the capital. He didn’t know how private his visit might be and would keep himself inconspicious for the hour before the five o’clock plane would arrive.

When the time came and he entered the hotel, he saw how silly any idea of secrecy might be. The lobby was crowded with people who talked excitedly as people do. As people do? Clay wondered. But he was at the desk. He said to the side of an over-important clerk: “Captain Summers to see Colonel Stone.”

The clerk spun like a top, stared at him a moment. The quick flush of red that came into his cheeks drained to a lifeless white. Twice his mouth opened, but no words came. Then he turned, and, picking up a telephone on the counter far back behind the desk, put his mouth close to it. He talked then, for Clay saw his mouth move as three times he looked over his shoulder at Clay. At length he came from the phone, said: “The boy will take you up.”

It was a head bellboy who took Clay to the elevator, and at least one of the two men who crowded in with him was a detective. Clay knew that. He surmised, too, that he was the head house detective of the exclusive Paul Hotel. Clay didn’t claim any occult power, nor did house detectives stand out like poor relations in the best hotels. No, they look like prosperous business men, except that they are a little better dressed and carry that dress with more ease. Anyway, Clay always knew them.

So he was not surprised when the better dressed of the two men followed him down the hall to Suite A. He even followed Clay into the sumptuous room where a single man stood. That man was tall and gaunt and stooped slightly as he leaned upon the table. His eyes were hollows far back in his head, his cheeks sunken and his two ears flanking his head were like tugs docking an ocean liner.

Clay knew the man. He recalled now where he had heard and seen the name of Colonel Esmond Stone. His picture, too. This was the man who had taken a leave of absence from the army and was going to fly the new mystery plane to Europe. A small bullet-like two-passenger cabin job. There were hints that it would make over five hundred miles an hour.

The Colonel looked at him and did not speak. Clay heard the key turn in the lock, felt the hand upon his arm as he was roughly swung around. The better dressed business man was different now. He glared at Clay, crashed the words through his teeth.

“What do you mean by coming here and asking for Colonel Stone, masquerading under another name. Come on!” A great hand fastened on the lapels of Clay Holt’s jacket; he jerked it up and started to speak again, then found himself hurled back against the wall.

Clay said, “Come on, flat foot. You’re not pounding alleys now. Bring that hand from behind your back or I’ll blast you through the wall out into the hall.”

The gaunt man said, “A few minutes, gentlemen.” And as the house detective glared but made no threatening movement, he said to Clay, “Just who are you?”

“Captain Summers to you, Colonel, and if you still have any idea left of inviting me down here to Washington to get me arrested and keep me out of the way for something, forget it — unless you are willing to go for a dirty mess.”

The Colonel smiled. Clay straightened. It was a ghastly sort of leer. The Colonel’s whole face took on a cadaverous look; only his eyes seemed alive. The Colonel coughed once, then: “How did you arrive?”

“By plane,” and when he got no reply: “I came on the five o’clock plane from Newark.”

The house detective moved forward. The Colonel held up his hand. “That is impossible, Captain Summers. It is now after seven o’clock. At fifteen minutes after five the plane you mention blew to pieces in the air, killing all passengers and crew.”

Clay Holt rocked back on his heels. The house detective could have pulled a dozen guns then, could have led him across the room and handcuffed him as if he were a little child. He knew why the clerk had been surprised. He knew why the talking of the people was different downstairs. It was he now who found it difficult to speak. He simply took the ticket from his pocket and handed it to the Colonel.

“I took an earlier plane,” he explained and his voice seemed to shake. “I drove around town and and — I wish to God I had waited for that plane.”

“And be killed?” And when Clay tried to mutter something about preventing the disaster the Colonel went on: “All right, Mr. Rollins; I recognize Captain Summers now.”

The Colonel followed the house detective to the door, thanked him, and when he was gone, turned and faced Clay.

“My apologies, Mr. Holt. I have seen you before; would have recognized you the minute you came, but your arrival seemed impossible. Don’t ask me for information. The company officials have already denied any possibility of sabotage. I, of course, know better, and you will shortly.”

He led Clay down a narrow hall, past two closed doors, then paused before a door at the end of the hall. He turned those luminous sunken eyes on Clay.

“I envy you, Mr. Holt. You must be a very much feared man, and a most dangerous enemy. It would not have been a glorious death for you in that plane, for it would have been without purpose.” After a pause while Clay simply stared, the Colonel added with almost fanatic zeal, “But what a glorious death it might have been — with purpose.”

That was all. Colonel Esmond Stone simply opened the door and walked in. He said: “Gentlemen, your fear was unfounded. Mr. Holt took an earlier plane and arrived safely.”

The Colonel backed from the room.

Two men rose, and one walked around the table behind which they had been seated and shook hands with Clay.

Neither one was a young man. Both their faces were familiar, but Clay placed neither. The tall, dark, stiff man with the gray hair, was certainly capable of a direct look.

The smaller, rotund man was much older. His hair was white, his mustache iron gray, thick, long, and hanging old fashionedly at the ends. His face was round, his skin smooth and soft with bags under soft gray eyes that seemed hopeless and sad. His mouth would droop momentarily, then catch itself up as if a last desperate sort of determination was holding him together before the final crash.

It was he who spoke. “Sit down, Mr. Holt. Sit down.” And when the three were seated: “We thought that you were dead and were wondering now if we were two beaten old men who must give up hope or try for someone else. My friend here had decided that we had sent our last man to sure death. Indeed before the accident we had made up our minds that if there was any possibility that you were known to be retained by us, we would refrain entirely from using you.”

Clay did not understand the meaning of the man’s words, but he did understand the shock they had suffered and tried to cover it.

“I am deeply shocked,” Clay said, “if it is true that so many unfortunate people met their death because of me. But don’t have any illusion about dropping me from any work you have in mind. If that plane was blown up just to kill me, the people who did it already know of my association with you, suspected even before I arrived to see you. So they want my life. They will believe I am with you, even if I am not.” And suddenly, his anger rising: “And with you or not — I’ve got some pride, some sense of duty, even if you call it vengeance.”

The taller man rested his hands upon the desk. “Would you,” he said, “knowing this man, kill him?”

“You mean murder?” Clay was startled into the words.

“I mean justice.” The tall man got up, beckoned Clay to the window, pointed to the lights in the night, said: “Far down to the left is the Capitol. Closer is the President’s residence. Across from us is the Potomac River and the Washington monument. Here in this city our national laws are made; here, too, prestige, diplomacy, international rot permit our country to be pilfered of its greatest national secrets. An espionage system that our government does not understand, does not recognize, and cannot, without international complications, raise one finger to prevent.

“Our entire country is infested with spies. Understand, I am not saying or even suggesting that our government is not able to meet the situation. In case of war tomorrow we could place our hands on thousands who believe themselves unknown to our government. But today — well, in this country there is a man of unlimited resources. He poses, in an unofficial capacity, of course, as a good will ambassador without portfolio. Unlike other foreigners, he praises our citizens, our government, speaks of a strong friendship between his country and ours, lends every effort publically to cement that friendship. Yet he is the most dangerous man in the country today. He, and he alone, controls the greatest spy system that has been inflicted upon any country. There is no proof, no actual evidence — just knowledge.”

The stout, white haired man cut in: “And if there was proof, the government could do nothing. The international complications would be too grave. The government recognizes this. The President himself is thoroughly informed. But if the government cannot act openly in an official capacity, it can act in an unofficial one. Certain sums of money which may be used without permission or knowledge of Congress have been turned over to us to investigate certain activities.”

He walked forward now and pounded a stubby finger against Clay’s chest. “At least five great plane and train disasters, not including today’s, we have already laid to his door. A great number of our agents, private men employed by the judge and myself, have met violent deaths, been brutally murdered, or disappeared entirely.”

The man called the Judge said: “Why quibble, Carlton? Let Mr. Holt know the truth and know what we expect of him and what he will be glad to do as a patriotic American. Now Mr. Holt, Carlton Wilburt and I...”

He was still talking, but Clay didn’t get it all. He recognized the stout man now. If that name gave him a shock, it also gave him a confidence, too. He was dealing with men very high up.

The Judge was saying, “So up until we thought of you, Mr. Wilburt and I never knew who each one of us hired. I would engage someone for the work, and so would he. His people would report to him, mine to me. We could not, therefore, through lost notes, memorandums, telephone conversations, or even through mistakes, ever blame anyone but ourselves. With you it was different. We knew that this head spy gave orders and many people died. We knew that we hired people and they disappeared. We decided on a great responsibility. And that’s why we sent for you.”

Clay said, “Just what do you want me to do?”

“We want you,” the Judge leaned forward, “to remove this man.”

Clay Holt’s face grew hard. “You mean murder — is that correct?”

“Murder... murder.” The Judge’s voice was hesitant for a second, then a flow of words came. “This man has been responsible for the death of hundreds of people. He has bought, killed, tortured, threatened, and, yes, taken the lives of children to get what he wanted from government employers. He has wormed his way into the confidence of some of our most influential people, stolen or caused to be stolen the most priceless secrets for national defense — plans and formulas and diagrams that will be used — are being used — to snuff out the lives of innocent women and children abroad and perhaps will be used for that same purpose here. And you call it murder?”

Clay said, “You haven’t answered my question, Judge. You want me to shoot him to death?”

The fat man answered: “You know, of course, Mr. Holt, that this man has thousands of eyes, thousands of hands, thousands of men who will kill you, once you are suspected of working against this unscrupulous murderer. You can expect no help from the government, and none from us if you find yourself in trouble. When you leave here you will be on your own.” He smiled. “It is possible that the blowing up of the plane was a simple coincidence.”

Clay shook his head. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

The Judge said. “You are given a great opportunity as a citizen, Mr. Holt.”

Clay Holt cut in sharply. “I don’t need any flag waving, Judge. There was no suicide clause in my birth certificate.” The Judge said slowly, “A dozen more people killed like that! Mangled bodies, burning wreckage — the men I have sent straight to their deaths. I understand your refusal. He suspects you now and fears you—”

“You misunderstand, Judge,” Clay said. “You can deal me in. In fact, I wouldn’t miss it at any — a fair price.” And, with a shrug of his shoulders, “If I have to defend my life — well, we may embarrass this wholesale slaughter of yours no end.”

Carlton Wilburt said doubtfully: “This man knows who you are, Mr. Holt. Perhaps it might be better if you were to hide for a while.”

“Hide!” Clay laughed. “We’ll work it out my way, Mr. Wilburt Somehow I feel a responsibility for those on that plane. Oh, I know that sounds silly. But to me it sounds silly that you know the name of this man and do nothing about it, officially or unofficially. You do know his name?”

“Yes, we know his name. International relationships all over the world are strained to the breaking point today. Even a suggestion that this well known Washington, New York and World banker and social figure was a spy would cause the most grave crisis. His arrest — well, nothing less than an open break could follow it. International politics—”

“His name?” Clay was impatient.

Carlton Wilburt said, “His name is Ernest Hoff — Major Hoff.”

The name jarred Clay. He never thought of that partly bald man in connection with the destruction of a great passenger plane. And certainly he had never thought of the Major as being beyond even the retribution of the United States Government itself. But when he heard the name, Major Hoff, he fitted him in at once. Everything dovetailed so perfectly.

“You know him?” the Judge asked.

“Yes. That is, I know who he is.”

“Good.” The Judge nodded. “You will perhaps meet others who are working for us. Under no circumstances are you to offer them any assistance or protection that is not for one purpose only — the destruction of this human monster. We tried working from the bottom up, but new and strong men replaced the ones we had known and made the task of finding the Major’s closest associates a more difficult one. You may be sure, Mr. Holt, with the disappearance of the Major the entire structure which he had built goes with him. Your service to your country will be beyond payment.”

The Judge seemed tired as he led Clay to the door. “Mr. Wilburt will take you to talk with Colonel Stone. He is a strange man who has suffered much. You will bear with him, listen to him.” And before Gay could ask the question: “You act as you wish, take no orders from anyone but Mr. Wilburt or myself. And the price — no compensation would be enough to drive out this soulless beast of destruction. We are not wealthy men, but our fund will permit of ten thousand dollars. That is all, Mr. Holt, except — let no personal appeal sway you in the least. That is an order.”

The door closed. Wilburt and Clay were in the hall. He led Clay down it a bit, whispered: “The Judge and I give orders together, Mr. Holt. Sometimes I am afraid this thing will drive him mad. Little wonder when I find myself awakening in the night in a cold sweat. Yes, I believe the Judge would gladly walk up to this Major on the public street and shoot him to death if he did not fear the act would bring on the very international disaster we wish to avoid.”

“And you have an order to give me?”

“An order.” He stroked at his chin. “I repeat that the Judge is almost a fanatic about this Major. My order is to disobey one order of his about protection — personal protection to one person, just one person.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will understand later.” And, as he led Clay down the hall and opened a door where he could see Colonel Stone sitting, he said: “In way of helping that understanding, Mr. Holt, the Judge is Justice Richard Van Eden... Mr. Holt to talk to you, Colonel Stone.”

Another blow below the belt. Clay stood there and looked at the Colonel, watched him close the door. Agatha Cummings had told him that the girl was Judge Van Eden’s daughter, of course. Who had put the Van Eden girl into this thing? Carlton Wilburt knew she was in it; he had given Clay more than a hint. But—

Colonel Stone was talking. Here was a man who knew his subject — didn’t speak of his country or the flag; no hysteria in his voice; yet his words, though calm and slowly spoken, carried more to Clay of a hatred of the Major than had those of either Judge Van Eden or Mr. Carlton Wilburt.

“I hope, Mr. Holt,” Colonel Stone was saying, “that you will consider seriously my suggestion and permit me to be at your service day and night. From now on I will stay in the hangar with my plane in Newark. I have living quarters arranged there. I’ll be there twenty-four hours every day until I hear from you.” He handed Clay a plain white card. “That is my telephone number.”

“Thank you.” Clay looked into those sunken eyes, the cracked, broken cheeks, the lips that every few seconds twisted spasmodically.

“Yes,” the Colonel went on, “many have left these rooms here to die or disappear. Some of them have been professional hunters of men. but none, I think, just like you. You may speak freely, Mr. Holt. I know everything.”

“If you knew everything, you wouldn’t ask me to speak freely. I’m not asking you. I do not understand why you offer me your services day and night.”

“I am also offering you the service of my plane. They know that, approve of that. You may have not met the Major, Mr. Holt. I have met him. He came to me with a great deal of money and a threat. He wanted government information that I alone could give him. I laughed at him, laughed at his threats.” His face twisted into a skeleton-like grimace. “Believe me, Mr. Holt, when I tell you I have never laughed since.”

Clay liked to talk, but he could remain silent. He was silent now.

Colonel Stone went on. “We started here with an easy assurance of victory, Mr. Holt; now there is panic. If I even showed my face upon the street, I would be killed. I move places in the night, move my plane in the night at a speed that no man could follow. Men such as Wilburt and the Judge suggest that you might kill. That is nonsense. We must be sensible people. The Major should be returned to the country from which he came.”

“I imagine they thought of that.”

“I told them of it. That is why my mystery plane has not crossed the ocean yet. That is why I am not flying alone. I am waiting to take a passenger back to his native land. A passenger, Mr. Holt, whom you will bring me. Major Ernest Hoff.”

Clay said suddenly, “That’s not a bad idea.”

“Bad?” Eyes burned far back like deep, live coals. “It’s good, Mr. Holt, very good. I can take the plane any place, day or night, twenty-four hours a day.”

Twenty-four hours a day. The words rang in Clay’s ears as he stepped out into the hall, took the freight elevator down, and, crossing to a drug store, telephoned Agatha at her apartment in New York.

She was there and she was stunned. Hard-boiled Clay had considered her and now she couldn’t talk from crying.

“Clay, Clay!” she kept saying over and over. “I can’t believe it’s you. I thought the plane blew up.”

“Sure, Princess,” Clay said, “but it’s me. And it’s a racket so big that the government can’t handle it without me. I’m coming right back and I want you to meet me at Benny’s Sea Food House.”

Clay walked to the street and flagged a passing taxi. “The airport,” he said. “Yeah, I know about the blow-up. But you only got to drive me to the field, not go up in the plane with me.”

Agatha was waiting for Clay when he strode into the brightly lighted Sea Food House. He said as he slid into the booth beside her: “It’s horrible, Awful. You might have dressed up and been the Princess. It’s Major Hoff and he’s been the cause of most of our plane disasters. I suppose he has some purpose besides the horrible death of innocent people.”

“You were not an innocent person to the Major, Clay.” And as he made a wry face at her, “Benny’s Sea Food House doesn’t call for a big dress up.”

“It’s my stomach, Awful. I thought it could stand most anything. Now, you — thick glasses, hair drawn back and parted in the middle, that little nose of yours that can be an asset now standing up as a liability.”

The man behind the counter pushed a waiter aside and came to Clay’s table. “Hello, Benny,” Clay said. “Oyster stew for me.” After Awful had ordered, he told her everything that had happened, finished with: “Personal enemies may have been on the planes, of course, but it’s beginning to make air travelers shy. The Major will probably be at the Walden tonight.”

“And just what do you intend to do?”

“Hell, Awful, I don’t know. But I’m going to see him.”

“You can’t simply walk into the Walden Grill and shoot him to death.”

“It’s a temptation, Awful. There were women on that plane, and a kid, too.”

“The law won’t protect you. Those two big men can’t protect you. It’ll just be a case of Clay Holt shooting a respectable visitor to death. It’ll be murder, and they’ll roast you for it. You’ve thought other things out. There must be some other way.”

Clay Holt shook his head. “The side of my office blown in this morning; a plane blasted to pieces in mid-air. Hoff’s afraid of me, Awful, and he has cause to be while I’m alive. He isn’t a man to wait or care how it’s done. So why should I care? Don’t you see, Awful, it’s for a hundred and thirty million people. What do I amount to? Who needs me alive?”

“I do,” she said.

“Against one hundred and thirty million? You’re not that important, Awful. Ah, Benny, that looks great!” He sipped from the bowl with his spoon.

Benny gone, Awful said, “If you can ship him on that mystery plane—”

“That Colonel Esmond Stone looked half cocked. There’s a mystery about the guy who is backing him — some big banker, or something. And this Major means business. Judge Van Eden and Carlton Wilburt are ready to blow up. I’m their last chance. What of the Major then if he knocks me over?”

Agatha laid her bag on the table, drew the zipper. A gun showed. She said, “He’d never suspect me, Clay. If you don’t come out on top, why I’ll walk straight up to him in the Walden and empty it into his chest.”

“Awful! I believe you mean it!”

“I do,” she told him solemnly. “When you talk as if you have to die to win, it turns things over way down inside of me.”

Clay looked at her. “I talk like a nut, Awful, and you, too. If I should meet the Major up a dark alley some night I’d forget the high ideal you’ve inspired in me.” He grinned boyishly. “But down to work. There’s Una, the lady in white. Then there’s Muriel Van Eden.”

“The weak girl.”

“Weak, nothing; she’s the Judge’s daughter. I got a hint from Wilburt to protect her. He had a nerve to put the Judge’s daughter into the thing. If the Major ever suspected—”

“Maybe Wilburt didn’t put her in.”

“Good Lord, Awful, her own father wouldn’t do that. It’s incredible. Though the Judge did seem almost fanatic about it. You think Wilburt, through one of his agents, discovered that Muriel Van Eden was a secret agent of her father — so hinted to me to take care of her.”

Awful moved her expressive shoulders, said: “I’ve been busy, Clay. I got Jimmy Hudson, one of the Government boys, and saw a picture of the Woman in White. The lady is Una Duncan. No country has ever pinned anything on her, but they’ve pushed her out many times. She’s supposed to be one of the cleverest international spys in Europe. And the highest paid.”

“International, eh? Works for the best money. It would be like the Major to hire her. He’d know of her, of course. And Muriel Van Eden.” Clay suddenly straightened. “Why, that woman would make a monkey out of the Van Eden girl. I hadn’t thought of that. Of course Muriel Van Eden is simply a dupe.”

“Or a dope.” Agatha came to her feet with Clay. “Don’t you see, Clay? It’s impossible to believe that the Major doesn’t know who’s behind the whole thing and he must suspect Van Eden’s daughter and plays her along.”

“You do all the thinking, Awful.” Clay threw down a bill and led her to the street.

“And you do all the action, Clay,” she said.

“Come on, I’ll do some action now. I’m going to the Walden Grill and see the Major.”

“You’re not going to do anything foolish, Clay?”

“No,” Clay told her, “I’m just going to ask the Major a question. I’m thinking of the plane, of other planes. Of the Judge’s kid trying to be helpful to her country, of her chances in the hands of that experienced woman, in the hands of the Major. Yeah, I’m going to ask the Major one question. I’m going to ask him how he’d like to be blown apart.”

Clay stopped the taxi and left Awful at her apartment. She said: “I want to go with you, Clay.”

Clay shook his head, closed his eyes, leaned down quickly and kissed her. “Some day,” he said, “I’ll go blind and be crazy about you.”

Holt swung into the Walden Grill. Major Ernest Hoff was sitting at a table in the center of the room. A bull-necked man sat beside him. He was talking and the Major was nodding and smiling. At a table close to the wall sat the tall, good looking Mr. Davis with two men and a woman. His eyes were constantly on the Major.

A man suddenly crossed the room from the bar entrance, beat Clay to the Major’s table, slipped a card into the Major’s hand. The Major was reading it when Clay steamed up, snatched the white bit of paste-board from his hand, read quickly: “The lad has been properly taken care of.”

The bull-necked man turned his head and stared at Clay. There was not much expression in his eyes. But the Major’s colorless little eyes snapped, veins darkened on his face. He had difficulty in getting the words out. “Holt!” he said. “This ends my patience. I have only to raise a hand to have you—”

Clay slammed his words in. “If there’s to be melodrama I’m going to provide it. Come on, Major, order this lug away from the table, or this time I’ll pick the table up and fling it on your chest.”

Clay was surprised at the power of the man. He would have smacked a man down any place who made that threat to him. The Major’s anger subsided. The muscles that bulged in his neck receded. He took the hand of the man who stood beside him, said calmly: “It was very kind of you to come and speak to me. I welcome all those who take an interest in my accomplishments in cementing the friendship of two great countries. You’ll excuse me, of course.”

The bull-necked man looked slightly bewildered, bowed stiffly, turned and left the table.

“Now!” The Major tapped the table. “You surprised me, Mr. Holt. Actually you are the first man who ever surprised me.” He paused a long time, letting his little eyes fasten directly on Clay’s angry blue ones. “I thought that you had died in the plane wreck. In studying you, Mr. Holt, I know that it was simply, do you Americans say, dumb luck that you are alive.”

“Major,” Clay said slowly, “you had better turn on your best manner. You will cause me to break a promise to a young lady.”

“And that promise, Mr. Holt?”

“That I would not shoot you to death in cold blood at this table tonight.”

“Really.” The Major’s voice was light, but his eyes were troubled. “Cold blood, eh? You snatched that note from my hand, called my visitor a lug. You wished to excite me to anger, cause a common brawl, then shoot me in hot blood. Was that it, Mr. Holt?”

“Perhaps,” said Clay. “Don’t tempt me, Major. I would be unable to resist.”

“Well put, indeed, Mr. Holt. It’s a pity you can’t be bought.”

“You recognize that fact?”

“Certainly. Stupid and conceited men are that way. You have probably unconsciously discovered my one weakness. Having no background, you would probably not understand. A man of my culture would naturally abhor common brawls.”

“You’d rather blow a plane to pieces, kill innocent women and children.”

“Of a certainty, Mr. Holt.” The Major slid his chair back suddenly as Clay’s face flushed and his right hand moved up beneath his jacket. “There, there, Mr. Holt, I am not placing temptation in your way. I rather admire you.”

“And fear me?”

“Let us use the word annoy in place of fear. Your predecessors have been many.” The Major laughed pleasantly. “One, slinking behind a palm in the lounge. One, a steward on my yacht. Another a ‘wealthy’ business man who wished to invest money in one of my enterprises. But enough about them. Never in my many years of diplomatic accomplishments have I had an adversary big or small who pounded upon the table, shouted me down, threatened to throw a table into my chest. Amusing, perhaps, except for the fact that back, far back in your eyes, is a lust that I have recognized. You call it temper, or perhaps with pride point it out as a reckless courage. To me it is the lust to kill.”

Clay’s impulse was to lean suddenly across that table and clutch the Major by his thick neck and close strong fingers upon it until no life remained in his body. But the Major was right. Clay thought of the innocent victims of that plane. Maybe not the lust to kill was there, but certainly the desire to kill.

“Major,” Clay said slowly, “do you ever visit high buildings?”

The Major laughed. “Come, come, my boy. You are into a business far above your intelligence. Shooting bandits on the street is your business. This is a world game, great powers against great powers, far too big for you. Your country and my country. But tell me why you came. You have a message to deliver, a threat perhaps?”

“Perhaps.” Clay’s blue eyes knitted. “You’re right, Major, one country against another country. The game’s too big for me to play.” And when the Major nodded his satisfaction: “So let’s forget that and bring the game down to my size — one man against one man. If your next attempt to kill me fails, I’ll shoot you down like any common thug, anywhere, any time, any place.”

“You mean that?”

“Mean it? Take a look into my eyes now, and if that great brain of yours can’t turn the trick, you’ll have to die to find out.”

It was a full minute before the Major spoke. “Very well, Mr. Holt. I believe you. There’s a chance yet to save your life. There’s Judge Van Eden. You remember meeting his daughter with me only this afternoon?”

“What of her?”

“What of her?” The Major’s eyelid contracted. “Like you, Clay Holt, she might die at any moment.” There was no softness in the Major’s voice. “If anything happens to me, Muriel Van Eden dies.”

Davis and his table mate moved from their seats and the bull-necked man, and another were walking leisurely toward him. He knew that the Major’s eyes watched his, and he didn’t know what the Major saw there. But he knew what he saw in the Major’s face, and he wondered, did the other men see it, too?

He saw fear in those little, round eyes. Yes, even terror. The Major seemed to shrink down in his seat as Clay’s hand snapped under his arm and clutched at his gun.

Yes, the Major feared one thing. He feared death. Death that was about to strike. A death that neither the Major nor Clay Holt could control. It was beyond Clay now. A bursting plane in mid-air, women and children, other planes, other women, other children. They were bursting in Clay’s head — a kaleidoscope of twisting, turning bodies, and twisting and turning with them were the contorted, horrible features of the Major.

Time, place were forgotten. The consequences not even thought of. Four men approaching — a split second, and there might never be another opportunity.

And a voice called out: “Mr. Holt, paging Mr. Holt.”

Clay raised his eyes, and they rested fully upon a pair of sandy eyes behind glasses, unpleasantly old fashioned and stiffly arranged hair.

Clay Holt spun around and nearly knocked down Mr. Davis. “Out of my way, heel,” he said as he walked straight toward Agatha, whose reflection he had seen so plainly in the long mirror as the page boy called his name.

Clay Holt strode out, Agatha Cummings hanging to his arm.

“All right, Clay,” Agatha said when they reached the street, “bawl me out.”

He leaned over and patted the hand that clung to his arm. “No, kid,” he said. “I’d have killed him, shot him to death. Let’s go across the street and have a drink.”

At the table in the little place across the street Agatha said, “He got you, Clay. I saw your face. I had the page boy by the door ready.”

“It would have been murder, I suppose.” Clay’s hand was trembling when he put down his glass. “I never understood it before. He talked about seeing things in my eyes.” He gripped Awful’s hand. “It isn’t just rot, kid, for I saw things in his eyes. I saw his dirty, rotten soul. I could have killed him like that.”

“That would have been some floor show,” Agatha said lightly.

“Damn it, kid, I’m mad like he is.” Clay tossed off the rest of his drink and told Agatha what had happened. “He’s holding Muriel Van Eden prisoner. I can’t let him go through with it. And I can’t—”

“You can’t stop him,” she finished. “She’s cute and she’s young, but she’s weak. He’ll use her to trap you. Let us go to your apartment and wait there for word from the Major.”

“But he might keep us waiting while—”

Clay stopped talking. He and Agatha both looked up together. The Woman in White was now in black. She said, “I don’t admire your taste in women tonight, Mr. Holt. May I sit down? And will you dismiss your country cousin?”

Clay made a motion with his thumb. Agatha came to her feet. She was about to speak, but Clay spoke first. “On your way,” he said. “Sit down, Lady Una.”

Una turned, watched the girl leave the restaurant, ordered a liquor, then said to Clay: “Lady Una — are you facetious or have you been looking up my pedigree?”

“Twelve people were killed today,” Clay said bluntly.

“I was in the Walden.” The woman raised her eyes. “I was surprised it was not thirteen.”

“You saw?”

“No — heard. You are quite a young man, Mr. Holt. I have known the Major on and off for five years. It was his first fright.”

“You think nothing of those deaths?”

“You should have said, Mr. Holt, that I show nothing of what I think. Soldiers and doctors and nurses see worse every day. The ordinary person reads them without emotion in the papers. You know my profession, you must know I shut my mind to certain things. You forget that I asked you to see me safely from the dining room, that I might leave without hindrance from the Major. Does that tell you anything?”

“Plenty,” Clay nodded. “It tells me first that the Major wanted you to worm your way into my confidence. Why not begin?”

“You disappoint me, Mr. Holt. I saw in you the honest, fearless he-man, who fights only with the most feared weapon to all criminals and spies alike — physical force, violence, and sudden death. Surely you are not suddenly going to produce brains. All the others have that, but so few have a reckless physical courage. If you had wished to practice the fine arts you should have pretended to believe me, lead me on. You have that something women fall for to a remarkable degree. It’s the boyish honesty in your face.”

“You’re an eyeful yourself,” Clay admitted. “But it’s the filthiest piece of business I have ever been in, and I’ve been mixed up in some pretty dirty work. Tonight I nearly murdered a man. I don’t wish to invite a beautiful woman to my apartment and knock her around in the hope of gaining information.”

“There are countries,” she said, “where men and governments are not so considerate. I have been knocked around.” She came to her feet. “I have brought you a message. You are to wait in your apartment for a call — about Muriel Van Eden.”

“A trap of course.”

“Of course.”

“And you think I’ll fall for that?”

“I don’t know if you’ll fall, but I think you’ll come. You’re built that way.”

“I’ll come,” Clay told her.

“How interesting,” she smiled at him. “Gun play, and all that.”

“And all that,” he said.

The woman looked at his hard, cold, determined face. The sparkle went out of her eyes. Very carefully she removed her glove and extended her hand. “If you’ll forget the filth,” she said, “I’d like to shake hands with you.”

Clay extended his hand. The woman gripped it once tightly, then drew her fingers slowly away.

“Good-by,” Clay said.

“Good night,” said the woman. “I hope, just good night.”

Clay went straight to his apartment, slammed the door, and stood rigid in the hall. The hair bristled on the back of his neck like an animal’s. His gun was in his hand as a voice called: “Don’t mess up your own apartment with loose gunplay, Clay. I’m waiting for you.”

Clay stalked in and looked at Awful. She was reclining on his couch, just replacing her glasses. He told her of his conversation with the woman, Una, then finally said: “I should have killed Hoff. If you had rushed in as the Princess, pointed him out as the man who ruined your young life, we would have had a case.” He stared at her. “Come on, Awful, turn on the brains.”

“There are no brains to turn on. You are simply to wait for a call.”

“Funny about this Una. She came right out and told me it would be a trap.”

“Naturally.” Agatha moved her shoulders. “You wouldn’t expect the Major to ask you for tea — that is, without poisoning the tea.”

“Wait until when? I put fear into the Major. I should follow it up at once. I mustn’t let him think I give a damn about the girl, Muriel Van Eden.”

“You won’t be able to find him.” Both swung as the phone rang. Awful smiled. “That will be the Major now.”

Clay lifted the phone. His voice was not pleasant. Before any voice came over the wire to him he said: “I don’t give a damn about any girl. Now what do you want?”

Agatha nodded her approval. She listened attentively. Clay’s voice had changed. She could only hear his words. He was saying: “I didn’t know it was you. How could I guess? Yeah, I know exactly how you feel. You can’t get in touch with her.” And after a long pause this time, “Why, you should know that better than I do. You didn’t. It was Carlton Wilburt then. All right, Judge, I do know. Be prepared for a shock. I believe she is a prisoner. I believe the Major suspected her all along, and I most certainly do know that your daughter has been working against the Major and has been in his company. Yes, yes—” Clay clicked the phone. “Judge — Judge Van Eden, I... I—”

Clay Holt smacked the instrument back in its cradle, turned to Awful.

“The Major called the Judge at his private number in Washington. And the price of her life is — my death. Broken and aged and desperate, thrown deeper into the depths of despair by the horrible death promised his only child, he called me, Awful. Called me to warn me that my life was in danger. Wilburt was a fool and a despicable friend to work a game like that.”

“I can’t believe it,” Agatha said. “I can’t believe a man of Carlton Wilburt’s standing, his character, his high position, would do such a thing.”

“The Judge didn’t do it. No one else could have — unless — the flyer, Colonel Esmond Stone. But he never leaves his plane — just that once to see me. But he’s mad, Awful. Even the papers have quit writing about his six-hour flight to London. He hasn’t made even an attempt to start.”

The phone rang again. This time Clay beckoned Agatha to listen in. He said, “Hello,” and recognized the soft purring of the Major’s voice.

“You and I acted like a couple of spoiled children, Holt. Perhaps I, too, tried to dramatize our positions in life. Let us be real business men. You do not approve of my actions in your so great democracy. You don’t approve of my freedom of speech and action.”

“And you, Major, don’t approve of my method of ending your freedom. You fear death.”

“Don’t we all, Mr. Holt? Now I am ready to call off hostilities. I ask but six weeks to arrange my personal affairs for my departure. You will, therefore, forget me for six weeks. Am I clear?”

“And you offer just what in return?”

“Your life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness. Also that a young lady will be able to join her father.”

Clay said, “I’ll think it over.”

“How long?”

“Oh, a day or so.”

“Dead men don’t think, Mr. Holt. I’m not trying to frighten you. You are too conceited to admit of personal danger. You must think of another — a distracted father who has paid you money, a young girl whose death may be very slow and painful.”

“Major,” Clay snarled, “only a miracle saved you tonight. But from now on your number’s up.”

“And you have no interest in a distracted father, a desperate, horror-stricken girl?”

Clay set his teeth grimly as the lie crossed his lips. “None whatever!”

This time he replaced the phone himself. There was a grim determination in his face when he turned to Agatha. “I had to do it. Had to say it. It would be my death and her death. The man is without a conscience, without a soul... Poor little kid.”

Awful said: “Besides the trouble it would cause, what good could the Major’s death do? Someone else would take his place.”

“No.” Clay turned and faced her. “Wilburt and the Judge assured me that the whole structure would topple with him. I believe them. No country will ever produce such a man again, and if there was such a man, twenty years could not equip him as the Major is equipped. He was spawned in hell and—”

“Clay,” she cut in, “no histrionics. We have a cold, calculating man. We must be cold and calculating, too. The girl’s death will mean nothing to him. You have given him something new. You have given him fear.”

“I’ll give him a bellyful of lead,” Clay said viciously. “I’m going straight to the Walden, straight to the Major’s suite. Damn it, Awful, don’t argue with me. I know it’s foolhardy. I know it’s crazy as hell, but I’ve made my reputation by doing things crazy as hell. I’m no government. I’m no diplomat. Don’t you see, the Major can’t harm anyone if he’s dead.”

“Wait.” Agatha tried to push him back on the couch. “You must be here, near the phone. The Judge, Wilburt, the Major, or the Woman in White might call. Don’t you see, Clay, there will be something, some trap? Force the Major’s hand. He’s forcing yours by making you move first.”

“All right! Telephone the Walden.”

One quick stride, one grasp of the phone — and a few minutes later the crash of it as he pronged it back viciously.

“The Major’s gone,” he said.

They talked. Once Clay told Agatha that she had better go home, and quickly added: “You can’t, of course. There must be killers in the street.”

One, two, three o’clock came and passed — and at three o’clock exactly the phone rang.

Clay scooped it up in his hand. And this time when he looked at Agatha his eyes smiled. She knew what those eyes were saying to her, as she slipped toward the phone and listened. They were saying, “You’re always right, always.”

The voice in the ear piece was very low. A girl was talking. She was saying: “Don’t speak, Clay. Don’t question me. This is Muriel Van Eden. I am a prisoner in Newark, 194 Elmford Lane. I am not supposed to know I am a prisoner yet but I overheard the talk. It is terrible, Clay. The Major is going to take me into a room in the cellar and kill me, and then dispose of my body. There is a window in that little room. I will be tied, but you can get in.”

Then came a detailed description of the grounds and the little window. “There is a house on the left, but it is unoccupied, so enter the empty lots on the right as you face the house. One man will stand guard by the stone wall. You can dispose of him. And you must come alone!”

“How many in the house?”

“The Major and a woman. They call her Una. I am not supposed to even suspect yet. This will make things clear to you! I have a friend who — Clay, come! I must hang up.”

Agatha was trying to get a word in as Clay flung his arms into his topcoat and, thrusting an extra gun into the pocket, jammed on his hat.

“You’re wrong once, kid,” he said. “Every word clear and concise, no fear in her voice. Just a trust and a faith in me. No, that girl isn’t weak.” Clay took Agatha by the shoulders, shook her playfully, said: “Our troubles are over. Oh, I know you’re thinking about men hiding across the street. But I’ll use this apartment for the reason I hired it — two floors to the roof, over the apartment to the corner, and exit on the side street. Watch for a call. And good-by.”

“Clay, Clay!” She cried out as she heard the entrance door close. But no shot came and she heard his feet beating a light tattoo to the roof. She shook her head as she locked the door.

What worried her so? She had heard that girl’s voice once before. She was an expert on voices. Indeed, she had trained herself in every detail necessary in Clay’s work. She felt she had helped to make him. Felt that she would yet make his name the best known in the entire country.

Fear? Yes. Somehow she was struck with fear. A fear she couldn’t understand. She had been wrong about the character, the weakness in Muriel Van Eden’s face. Why, the girl’s voice didn’t even tremble. And yet — Agatha shook her head. Muriel Van Eden must have known that she was helpless in the hands of a butcher, a man who would blow women and children to pieces.

The phone rang again. “Clay,” she thought. But it couldn’t be Clay. He could hardly have reached the street, and it was not yet four o’clock. She lifted the phone.

A minute later all subterfuge had changed. Agatha was begging, pleading for the man on the telephone to tell her the message he had for Clay. “I’m Agatha Cummings, Mr. Holt’s secretary, Mr. Wilburt,” she pleaded. “He’s gone to Muriel Van Eden’s aid now. You must trust me. It may mean— Oh, God — you didn’t send her in the beginning to spy on the Major, and the Judge didn’t send her to the Major?”

Agatha dropped the phone, heard the click. She ran to the door, flung it open, was on the roof calling, crying out to Clay. She clenched her hands then, looked wildly about her. No one had heard. She returned quickly to the apartment, found her coat, her bag. She opened her bag, took out the gun in it, examined it carefully and replaced it.

Then she was out the door again, up the roof, following in Clay’s steps.

Yes, the message she had received from Mr. Wilburt had been a terrible one, a horrible one. Muriel Van Eden had not been sent to help destroy the Major. One of Carlton Wilburt’s spies had reported the truth to him. A truth Wilburt dare not tell the Judge, dare not tell Clay, though he had hinted that Clay was to protect Muriel. Agatha had been correct about the girl’s weakness. Muriel Van Eden was working for the Major. Muriel Van Eden was working against her own country, against her own father. Muriel Van Eden was the wife of Arnold Davis — and now she had trapped Clay to his death.

For once in her life Agatha understood the feeling — the desire to kill.

Major Ernest Hoff sat behind the black table which he was using as a desk. He clasped his pudgy hands together, he looked toward the wide, folding doors of the old house, at the thick curtain before them. Finally he said to the tall, lean, broad-shouldered man who stood almost at military attention:

“Davis, I wish to commend you for all that you’ve done. You remind me very much of another man — of Clay Holt. I mean your attractiveness to women. It must have been hard for you to marry this brainless Van Eden girl.”

Davis pulled at his little mustache. He was rather flattered at the Major’s compliments, but he also took advantage of them.

“It’s been hard making love to her. It has been hard convincing her that her interests are mine, and that you, Major, are doing a great good. I must turn her pretty head with talks of romance, of my imaginary estates abroad.”

“And this Clay Holt? You listened to her telephone call to him. These American women, my boy — at any minute they renounce their convictions, betray the trust of their husbands.”

“I know,” Davis agreed emphatically. “But Muriel suspects nothing of the plane crashes. Understand, Major, I am not trying to get rid of her before you wish. But something is on her mind. She believes that we are to hold Clay Holt a prisoner here. She made me swear that I would not harm him.”

The Major smiled. “You won’t harm Clay Holt, my boy. I will take care of him. Muriel Van Eden is tied up in the cellar under a dim light. The two men are in the dark. Clay will see her from the window, drop in — and that is all. Close the steel shutters by the windows, Davis. No sound must go outside this room. And, Davis, after tonight you may take your delayed honeymoon. Your wife is young and healthy. I might suggest the Italian Alps. Even the young and the strong could not survive a thousand-foot drop.”

Davis pulled over the shutters, turned and looked at the Major. “No sound outside, eh? I was right about Lady Una Duncan. I got a lot of information from my wife, things she didn’t realize. This Una asked her enough questions. Yet, I could not believe Una would betray you because of her fear of retribution.”

The Major shook his head. “An international spy of such standing as Lady Una Duncan has no fear of retribution.”

“But her record has been never to betray those who first hired her. Was that you?”

“No, not me. She is not betraying her trust, Davis. She is the most clever of all espionage workers in the world. It was natural that I seek her, but I see now how she arranged for me to seek her out. No, she did not betray her trust. Carlton Wilburt hired her first.”

“And—”

The Major said simply: “She is very clever. I bear her no malice. She will be here in a minute, Davis.” He lowered his voice. “You will stand with your back to the curtains before the door after she comes in.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“Nothing terrible, my dear boy. She has no information that I wish.” He opened the table drawer, took out a long-barreled revolver and laid it on the table. “She might have information that others would want. She started in business at the age of seventeen. Ten years is a long time to live as a free-lance. I think she will understand. I want you by the door, though I do not think she will run screaming from the room. I am going to shoot her to death.”

“And Clay Holt?”

“One body or two, what difference does it make?”

“And me?”

“You will wait until it is over. Your passport, vise, steamship tickets are all ready for you. After you have finished with your honeymoon, go to Paris. You have a way with women, Davis. You will meet Francine Le Seur. Money is no object. She must come to me.”

“And you?”

“My work is not finished, but Van Eden and Wilburt’s work is finished. There will be no more money for them, and this great democracy which I love so dearly must put up with me. In my own country—” He paused, listened, and when the gentle knock was repeated, called softly, “Come in.”

The door opened silently. The curtains parted. Lady Una stood there a moment, then came into the room. Her eyes raised slightly as she saw Davis walk to the door, turn and stand there almost beside her. Her eyes turned to the Major, lowered and fastened upon the table, the long-nosed revolver that lay there. She took three quick steps backward, her shoulders pressed against the wall.

Arnold Davis’ mouth hung open as he stood before those curtains. To his right was the Major, the gun steady in his hand. To his left the woman, charming, beautiful, poised, even now, but for the fact that her left hand stretched back flat against the wall. Davis could have taken a step and been between them, but he didn’t move.

The Major said, “It had to come, Una. You knew it had to come. In any other country but this they would take me and hang me.” Then, his voice growing hard: “Don’t move! Don’t speak. I am under ordinary conditions a fair shot.”

His gun jerked up. The woman tightened her back against the wall. The fingers of her right hand clawed convulsively against the wall paper. There was the single roar of the gun. The splash of flame and a sudden cry from the Major. Arnold Davis had crashed suddenly forward, directly in the path of the Major’s bullet! Plainly the Major saw the tiny blue mark in the side of Davis’ face, saw it widening and growing red before Davis sank slowly to the floor.

For the first time in his life the Major knew panic. For the first time in his life the muscles of his arms and hands did not respond to the orders of his brain. He cried out and saved his life. For the next moment six feet of muscle sprang from behind those curtains.

The Major fired again. At least he thought that he did. Then the gun fell from his hand as something thudded upon his head. His little eyes grew dim. But he spoke before he slid from the chair.

“Holt! Clay Holt,” was all that he said before he fell unconscious.

Clay stood, legs far apart, above the unconscious man. Then he pulled handcuffs from his pocket, jerked the Major’s arms behind his back, and snapped the irons upon his wrists. One look at Davis — and he turned to Una. “Davis is dead,” he said. “And you, in a way, I suppose, helped save my life. He was going to kill you. Why?”

“I work for Wilburt.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I could like you, Clay. I would have telephoned Wilburt, but I knew the Major suspected me.”

“These men here in this room made my entrance through the second-story window possible. I thrust Davis forward just in time to save you.”

She nodded. “They were here to take my life. I am most deeply grateful for your saving me — by accident or design. As for me, I work for my living. I have been close to death before, but never so close as this time.” And suddenly, “But you were to come by the basement. Muriel Van Eden was to trap you there.”

“I know. But I imagined Muriel was forced to make the call, so I didn’t come as she told me. Her instructions were too precise.”

“She’s worse than you think, Clay. You will forgive her and let her go free because she is a woman and weak. I will forgive her and let her go free because it will please those who hire me. But the men below, the two who were to overpower or kill you, must have heard the Major’s shot. I am in authority now. They know nothing of the Major’s suspicion of me. I will order them to leave. Listen! There are voices beyond the dining-room. Stay here.”

But Clay did not stay there. He kept back in darkness and heard her speak to the men. They mumbled back to her from cellar steps but he heard her clearly.

She was saying: “You say a woman came instead of a man. But it doesn’t matter. Your orders are to leave. Clay Holt has been disposed of. Good night. Leave the girl as she is.”

Three minutes later Clay, gun in hand, followed Una to the cellar. They crossed in the dim light of his pocket flash to a plain wooden door. Una opened the door, said: “Look.”

In the corner was Muriel Van Eden. She was tied in a chair. Una whispered: “Muriel was to tear a hand free and grab you when you leaned over to free her. Then those men were to overpower you.”

Muriel cried out: “No, Clay! No. They’re going to kill you.”

“I wonder,” said Una, “if her change of heart is an honest change or does she — but, no, she’s not bright enough for that.”

But Clay wasn’t paying any attention. His pocket-flash had swept about that little store room. In the dimness of a corner another girl was strapped in a chair — a girl with a gag in her mouth.

“Awful!” Clay was across the room, jerked free the gag. “You suspected and came for me!”

Agatha gasped as Clay cut loose the ropes. “Suspect? I knew and I came. They grabbed me and bound me, but not before I told Muriel Van Eden they intended to kill you. Don’t you see, Clay? She’s just weak.”

Clay cut the Van Eden girl loose. He didn’t let her finish her speech. She got just as far as:

“I never suspected the whole truth. I’m married to Davis and my father—”

“Get out!” Clay jerked her to her feet and led her to the door above. “It would kill your father if he knew. Don’t tell him.” And when she turned and put beseeching eyes upon him, “Get a regular guy to fall in love with. Widows are attractive, you know. That’s right. Your husband, Arnold Davis, is dead.”

The girl tottered by the door. Agatha started toward her. But Una stepped between them, said:

“She doesn’t fully understand. I think I’ll take her home and talk with her.” She came back to Clay, whispered: “You don’t have to worry about Davis’ body. But what of the Major?”

Clay’s lips broadened. “I’m in business as you are, Una. When you report to Wilburt, tell him I want that check. It’s for ten thousand dollars.”

“You’re going to kill him, there on the floor?”

Clay stared at her. “Your job is finished. We work separately and alone. Just tell him that the Major is returning home and to send the check.”

He watched Una out the door, turned and looked at Agatha. Her hair was disheveled, her glasses hung down over her nose, her coat was torn; and suddenly her glasses fell to the floor. Clay’s eyes widened as she stood and faced him.

It was a minute later that he heard the groaning. Agatha’s feet hit the floor with a thud. Her whole body jarred. She picked up her glasses and followed Clay up into the living room. The Major was struggling to his feet. She stretched a hand toward Clay’s fist, drew it back, said nothing, even when the Major sank unconscious to the floor again.

Clay returned his gun to its holster, said as he reached over the table and lifted the phone: “The Major must have fainted, Awful. Yeah, Central,” and he gave a Jersey phone number. A minute later he said into the mouth-piece: “Clay Holt talking, Colonel Stone. You sound wide awake. Can you make your flight this morning — now, at dawn. Good! Major Ernest Hoff will be your passenger. Hell, man, I’m not mad. Can I reach the hangar by car without being seen?”

Major Hoff lay well hidden in the back of the car as the young mechanic stood on the running-board and guided Clay Holt across to the hangar. It was still dark. Colonel Esmond Stone stood in the open doorway. He helped Clay lift the Major from the car and carry him to the plane — a small cabin job for such a trip, Clay thought. But when they had stowed the Major away in the long tail, Clay asked:

“I’m not much on planes, Colonel, but it looks like an ordinary plane, no extra gas tank. I was wondering how it could fly the ocean.”

The Colonel laughed — a queer sort of laugh. He said, “The Major always wanted to know that. That’s why I’ve called it the Mystery Plane. I’ve guarded quite a few secrets for the government, things the Major would have liked to know. He used to threaten me.” He was waving a lantern down the field now. “I sent the boys away until you brought our passenger. They know I’m going to have a passenger, but not how he’d come aboard.”

Clay watched the men come, wheel the machine out, push it to the runway. Dawn was just appearing as the field lights went on. A man said to Clay:

“Ordinarily you wouldn’t think he could get over a thousand miles with that gas tank. It’s hard for an old-timer like me to believe that he has some magic chemical or something. If it wasn’t Colonel Esmond Stone, he’d never have gotten a permit. Yep, he knows his stuff; crossed the ocean twice already. And there he goes.”

The plane had taxied up the field, turned, and was roaring down toward Clay. Once, twice, the wheels left the ground. Then it was in the air.

A dozen or more white cards flickered from the cabin. Men ran wildly to get them. One landed at Clay’s feet. He held it beneath his flash. It read:

Clay avoided the reporters, which was not difficult. He got his car, pulled Awful into the seat beside him. Silently they drove from the field. At the entrance they stopped. It was Una. She squeezed into the front seat beside them.

She said, “No one will know anything about Muriel Van Eden. You’re quite a man, Clay Holt.”

“Yes.” Clay yawned. “If I were half a man, I would have killed him. I don’t understand the play. The only luck we could hope for... well, that Stone doesn’t make it. And that’s tough on Stone. The Major will be back.”

“So you don’t know, then?”

“Don’t know what?”

“That the Major offered Esmond Stone thousands of dollars for certain aviation information.”

“And didn’t get it?”

“No.” Una moved back in the seat. “The Major didn’t get it. The Colonel laughed at his threats. He has never laughed since. His wife and child died in his summer cabin at Maine...”

“And the plane doesn’t have enough gas? Won’t go five hundred miles an hour and—”

Una lowered her head, gravely said: “Yes. The plane will go five hundred miles an hour in a power dive from a great height. First one wing will rip off, then another. Then the fuselage—”

“God, how terrible!” Agatha Cummings gasped.

“Terrible?” There was a question in Una’s voice and then a sudden viciousness. “Colonel Stone will talk to the Major, I suppose, and maybe he’ll laugh again. But he’ll talk to him — talk about his wife and child until the gas gives out. No, you don’t have to worry, Clay. Major Hoff isn’t coming back, isn’t ever coming back.”