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

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.