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.