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.