Clay stalked in and looked at Awful. She was reclining on his couch, just replacing her glasses. He told her of his conversation with the woman, Una, then finally said: “I should have killed Hoff. If you had rushed in as the Princess, pointed him out as the man who ruined your young life, we would have had a case.” He stared at her. “Come on, Awful, turn on the brains.”
“There are no brains to turn on. You are simply to wait for a call.”
“Funny about this Una. She came right out and told me it would be a trap.”
“Naturally.” Agatha moved her shoulders. “You wouldn’t expect the Major to ask you for tea — that is, without poisoning the tea.”
“Wait until when? I put fear into the Major. I should follow it up at once. I mustn’t let him think I give a damn about the girl, Muriel Van Eden.”
“You won’t be able to find him.” Both swung as the phone rang. Awful smiled. “That will be the Major now.”
Clay lifted the phone. His voice was not pleasant. Before any voice came over the wire to him he said: “I don’t give a damn about any girl. Now what do you want?”
Agatha nodded her approval. She listened attentively. Clay’s voice had changed. She could only hear his words. He was saying: “I didn’t know it was you. How could I guess? Yeah, I know exactly how you feel. You can’t get in touch with her.” And after a long pause this time, “Why, you should know that better than I do. You didn’t. It was Carlton Wilburt then. All right, Judge, I do know. Be prepared for a shock. I believe she is a prisoner. I believe the Major suspected her all along, and I most certainly do know that your daughter has been working against the Major and has been in his company. Yes, yes—” Clay clicked the phone. “Judge — Judge Van Eden, I... I—”
Clay Holt smacked the instrument back in its cradle, turned to Awful.
“The Major called the Judge at his private number in Washington. And the price of her life is — my death. Broken and aged and desperate, thrown deeper into the depths of despair by the horrible death promised his only child, he called me, Awful. Called me to warn me that my life was in danger. Wilburt was a fool and a despicable friend to work a game like that.”
“I can’t believe it,” Agatha said. “I can’t believe a man of Carlton Wilburt’s standing, his character, his high position, would do such a thing.”
“The Judge didn’t do it. No one else could have — unless — the flyer, Colonel Esmond Stone. But he never leaves his plane — just that once to see me. But he’s mad, Awful. Even the papers have quit writing about his six-hour flight to London. He hasn’t made even an attempt to start.”
The phone rang again. This time Clay beckoned Agatha to listen in. He said, “Hello,” and recognized the soft purring of the Major’s voice.
“You and I acted like a couple of spoiled children, Holt. Perhaps I, too, tried to dramatize our positions in life. Let us be real business men. You do not approve of my actions in your so great democracy. You don’t approve of my freedom of speech and action.”
“And you, Major, don’t approve of my method of ending your freedom. You fear death.”
“Don’t we all, Mr. Holt? Now I am ready to call off hostilities. I ask but six weeks to arrange my personal affairs for my departure. You will, therefore, forget me for six weeks. Am I clear?”
“And you offer just what in return?”
“Your life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness. Also that a young lady will be able to join her father.”
Clay said, “I’ll think it over.”
“How long?”
“Oh, a day or so.”
“Dead men don’t think, Mr. Holt. I’m not trying to frighten you. You are too conceited to admit of personal danger. You must think of another — a distracted father who has paid you money, a young girl whose death may be very slow and painful.”
“Major,” Clay snarled, “only a miracle saved you tonight. But from now on your number’s up.”
“And you have no interest in a distracted father, a desperate, horror-stricken girl?”
Clay set his teeth grimly as the lie crossed his lips. “None whatever!”
This time he replaced the phone himself. There was a grim determination in his face when he turned to Agatha. “I had to do it. Had to say it. It would be my death and her death. The man is without a conscience, without a soul... Poor little kid.”
Awful said: “Besides the trouble it would cause, what good could the Major’s death do? Someone else would take his place.”
“No.” Clay turned and faced her. “Wilburt and the Judge assured me that the whole structure would topple with him. I believe them. No country will ever produce such a man again, and if there was such a man, twenty years could not equip him as the Major is equipped. He was spawned in hell and—”
“Clay,” she cut in, “no histrionics. We have a cold, calculating man. We must be cold and calculating, too. The girl’s death will mean nothing to him. You have given him something new. You have given him fear.”
“I’ll give him a bellyful of lead,” Clay said viciously. “I’m going straight to the Walden, straight to the Major’s suite. Damn it, Awful, don’t argue with me. I know it’s foolhardy. I know it’s crazy as hell, but I’ve made my reputation by doing things crazy as hell. I’m no government. I’m no diplomat. Don’t you see, the Major can’t harm anyone if he’s dead.”
“Wait.” Agatha tried to push him back on the couch. “You must be here, near the phone. The Judge, Wilburt, the Major, or the Woman in White might call. Don’t you see, Clay, there will be something, some trap? Force the Major’s hand. He’s forcing yours by making you move first.”
“All right! Telephone the Walden.”
One quick stride, one grasp of the phone — and a few minutes later the crash of it as he pronged it back viciously.
“The Major’s gone,” he said.
They talked. Once Clay told Agatha that she had better go home, and quickly added: “You can’t, of course. There must be killers in the street.”
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.”