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

“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?”