Black Mask (Vol. 33, No. 3 — September 1949)

“Soupy looking crate,” he said appreciatively.

But I knew he was stalling, eyes trying to pierce the shadows for any shape that might be lurking. I swallowed, looking up at the stars, thankful that I had a man like Mace at my side.

“Let’s go,” he said.

I led off to the car, handing him the keys. “You better drive.”

He shrugged, unlocked the door and climbed in first. As I slid in and closed the door, he found the starter, and the lights, backed us around in a tight circle. “We’ll hit a couple of roadhouses I know, Sprague. Ten to one they’d spot a place on the outskirts of town; the same route you came in from Jacksonville — the coast, I suppose?”

“That’s right.”

“My guess is, they’d use a joint out there somewhere for headquarters.”

He fell silent, and we wound through the boulevard traffic. It began to thin out finally. I recognized a super gas station. “It’s a slim chance, isn’t it?” I broke the silence at last. “They could be almost anywhere.” It was then I glanced into the double, rear-vision mirror and noticed the headlights following us. Those lights had been with us all the time and surely Mace was aware of it? Of course they’d be spotting the hotel when we came out, but playing it smart, keeping well hidden. Maybe Mace didn’t want to alarm me, but had figured all along that it would happen this way?

His eyes were on me. The light from the dash reflected flinty chips in those cold depths, then his gaze shifted back to the road. We were flying like a greased bow-string, wrapping up each turn of the highway neat and tight. Flying into the blank darkness of nowhere while a chill crept up my legs that wasn’t caused by the rushing wind.

The suspicion insinuated itself into my aching brain — exploded to full-blown warning. Was Mace really

a policeman? I had never asked for any credentials, just assumed it because he had blustered up to me there in the phone booth — because he wanted me to think that perhaps? I thought he had exchanged official words with that cop by the door, but — he could have asked the time — anything! There in the room I had almost told Mace where I had hidden the money! Was Lyria — alive?

He was insisting that she was, trying to prove to me that she was behind all this. But was she? And here I was being rushed to an appointment — with those in the car behind — an appointment with — death?

My fingers encountered the gun in my right coat pocket. Why had he given it to me? My new-found distrust wavered. I told myself that I was simply worked up, so unstrung that it was too easy to imagine anything. To hand a man a loaded gun— Loaded? I felt it over with my fingers. How did I break it open to find out? It had been a long time since I’d handled a gun, but I remembered the trick of the catch on the top of the frame.

Presently, in that roomy pocket, I managed it. With my forefinger I discovered that the cylinder was devoid of shells. He had removed the bullets before handing it to me. Simple. Probably while I was still unconscious in that room.

I didn’t dare close the gun again, afraid he’d hear the slight click. My head was throbbing, but I managed to keep my face calm.

He was slowing, peering ahead. I saw that those lights stayed a good distance behind; were even now dropping farther back. A blue, neon sign flickered off to the right: “Jack’s Place.”

“I’ll pull in,” Mace said. “Liable to find anybody here. Usually some pretty tough boys. They run a game upstairs. We’ll have a quick drink and see what goes.”

Cars were parked before the door at haphazard angles and I noticed a big space behind the building, when our lights flashed over it, that held a few more. Watching Mace from the corner of my eye, I saw him glance that way, then into the rear mirror. Did he know they’d be here soon, perhaps in the next few moments, waiting out back?

He coasted up silently, shooting between two sleek looking sedans; motioned me out. We headed for the door, Mace taking the lead. “Don’t tip your hand if you see him,” he cautioned. “I’ll know by your face. Better jerk your hat over your eyes. And don’t pull that gun on anybody. That’s my end of the deal.”

“All right,” I agreed quietly. My teeth drew back from my lips when he turned. Somehow I’d give him the slip...

Eyes swung toward us when we entered and I kept my head lowered, following Mace to the bar. There were tables and booths, partially filled, the usual juke-box pitching an assortment of jive. The man behind the bar had a towel wrapped around his bull-neck. He nodded at Mace coldly, ignoring me altogether.

Over our drinks, such as they were, we gazed into a long mirror, eyeing the crowd. I saw a dapper little man edge toward a rear hallway and disappear. Mace looked at me questioningly.

“Don’t see him,” I mumbled to him quietly.

He nodded.

I saw his gaze shift toward the front door; linger there. His coat bulged out at the hip and I was convinced he had another gun hidden there. Our eyes met in the mirror above the bar.