Agent “X” did not join this. He stood tensely, trying to pierce the gloom. Then a streak of flame lanced the darkness suddenly. The Agent heard no gunshot, yet an agonized cry followed the streak of burning powder. Something thudded to the floor and thrashed about.
Panic gripped the guests of Whitney Blake. They began stumbling over furniture, crashing against the walls. Some one hurled a chair through the French doors leading to the front terrace. There was a clatter, as a tray of liquor glasses was upset. Persons were colliding with one another in a mad endeavor to reach safety.
Then, as mysteriously as they’d gone off, the lights came on again.
Agent “X” surveyed the room. Sprawled on the floor was the wild eyed man, his tousled head encircled by a crimson pool. His knife had dropped from still fingers.
“X” leaned over the body. He didn’t disturb it, but he was able to see instantly that the man was dead. A bullet had caught the stranger in the head.
Excitement gave way to a nervous let-down in the room. A woman laughed hysterically. Another fainted in the arms of her escort. “X” glanced at Silas Howe. The man was trembling with excitement. Beside him, debonair and unruffled, stood Remy de Ronfort, trying to comfort Paula Rockwell, who was crying noisily. Old Whitney Blake still held his cigar, but his face showed lines of strain, like wrinkles on parchment.
De Ronfort’s suave voice sounded in the room, “Most excellent work, M’sieu Howe,” he said. “You saved us from a crazy man. He would have carved us up assuredly. You showed preat presence of mind in administering the coup de grace, as it were—in shooting him.”
Silas Howe looked bewildered, “But—but—” he stuttered, “I didn’t shoot him. I’d have killed him willing—if I could have. He was a homicidal, drug-crazed man—and you saw yourselves that he intended to murder me. But I’m not much of a shot and wouldn’t have taken the chance—especially in the dark. You’re mistaken, Count de Ronfort, it was someone else who slew the vermin.”
De Ronfort laughed and shrugged. “You are a modest man, M’sieu Howe. I myself saw you reaching for a gun just before the lights went out. You should take full credit to yourself instead of giving it to another.”
Howe started to protest when Whitney Blake’s voice sounded.
“Whatever the circumstance we must call the police,” he said. “And I must ask that none of you leave this apartment until a check-up has been made.”
He sent his man, Rivers, to call headquarters. And as this was being done Agent “X” moved through the crowd, brushing against men and deftly touching them to see who was carrying concealed weapons. But the one man who seemed to have a gun was Silas Howe, and yet the reformer had vehemently denied the killing. The agent’s eyes were bright. Betty Dale sensed that there was strange drama in the air.
“Why doesn’t Howe admit the killing?” she whispered. “He could claim self-defense. He has nothing to fear.”
The Agent shook his head. “Perhaps he’s telling the truth. We’ll find out soon.”
IN a few minutes the police arrived. There were several officers in uniform, the medical examiner, and three men in plainclothes. The sight of one of them made Betty Dale exclaim under her breath and clutch the Agent’s arm nervously. This was a pale, sharp-featured man who surveyed the room with a coldly impersonal gaze from piercing gray eyes that gleamed beneath jutting black eyebrows.
One of his men addressed him as “inspector,” and with the medical examiner at his side he looked at the dead man for a moment, then went over and glanced at the French windows.
De Ronfort, poised and talkative, took it upon himself to describe the stranger’s entry and the killing. Inspector Burks listened, making notes in a small black book, then spoke in the flat, hard tone that was habitual with him.
“Nobody admits killing him, eh? That doesn’t look so hot. There must be more to it than self-defense. If a man broke into my house and got fresh with a knife I wouldn’t hesitate to drop him. But if nobody’s going to own up to this job, we’ll have to find out who did it and why he isn’t telling.”
Count de Ronfort laughed. “We have a very modest man with us,” he said. “M’sieu Howe here is the hero of the occasion. But he is too retiring to claim the credit. I think, however, if you will question him—”
The Count ceased speaking. Inspector Burks had already turned on the reformer and fixed him with an eagle eye.
“Well, what about it, Howe? You’ve been holding the lid down on this city for a good many years. But I didn’t know you’d taken over the job of executioner, too. Tell us how you killed this guy.”
Howe shook his head, and his eyes snapped. “I told the Count that I did not do the shooting. He chooses to call me a liar. I have got a gun, but—”
“Ah!” said Burks. He held out his hand. With a sour scowl, Silas Howe fished in his pocket and drew out a small revolver. He gave this to the inspector.
Burks broke open the gun, examined the shells, then squinted through the barrel. Still unsatisfied, he pulled out his handkerchief, thrust it into the gun and twisted it around. Then he examined the cambric intently and shook his head.
“Clean as a whistle. No smoke here, and all the cartridges new! This gun hasn’t been fired tonight. You didn’t kill this man, that’s plain, but you’ll have to take a trip to headquarters anyway, and likely pay a fine. There’s a law in this state that says—”
Silas Howe interrupted angrily. “I have a permit,” he said. “You can’t annoy me like that, inspector, though I know you’d like to—after the expose of police graft I made some years ago; but, see here—” he produced a piece of paper, a pistol permit, and waved it triumphantly in the inspector’s face. “In the reform work I do my life is in constant peril. What happened here tonight shows that this is true. That man came to murder me, and I want to offer thanks to whoever shot him.”
Burks grunted in irritation. His pale face looked still paler. He was in a mood to make trouble for some one. He turned on his assistants.
“I’m going to get to the bottom of this. We’ll search every man and woman in this room. This fellow may have been a dopy, but I want to know who killed him. Porter, and you, Kendal, round the folks up. Hunt for a gun, and don’t stop till you find it!”
The two detectives snapped into action instantly. Their skilled, experienced fingers went through men’s pocket and women’s bags and compacts. They were systematic about it, marshaling those who had been searched to one side of the room, keeping the others in a corner. Even Paula Rockwell and Whitney Blake himself were not excluded.
The Count de Ronfort submitted to a search smilingly. Then it was “X’s” turn, and, as the two detectives approached him, all color drained from Betty Dale’s face. Fear made shadows in her eyes. She had hoped the Agent would make a break before this. Yet “X” could not, for suspicion would have reflected back on Betty, since he was her escort.
Now it was too late—and Betty knew that Agent “X” carried various devices to assist him in his strange battle with crime. She had seen them many times, and the thought that they would be found by the police made her blood run cold.
Their presence on the person of Ben Buchanan, supposed clubman, would reveal him instantly as Secret Agent “X,” a man hunted and hounded by Burks as a criminal, and a man wanted by the police of a dozen cities for questioning in connection with crime cases that were still a mystery to them.
Betty Dale held her breath. Deep in her heart she loved this strange, mysterious man whose real face she had never seen. She had hidden her love carefully, pledging herself that it must never interfere with the career he had chosen. But when death and danger threatened him, she found it hard to suppress her emotion.
Inspector Burks stood now with his eagle eyes fastened on the Agent and a gun in an armpit holster close to his hand. And, as the two plain-clothes men reached for the man they knew as Ben Buchanan, it seemed to Betty Dale that she was going to faint.
Chapter VIII
&n
bsp; SMUGGLER’S SECRET
HOLDING her body rigid Betty Dale watched as the detectives searched him. Seconds seemed to drag as their hands went systematically through his clothing. But all they found was a key, a handkerchief and a wallet containing the identification card of Ben Buchanan. There were mocking glints in the Secret Agent’s eyes.
Betty Dale gave a little sigh of relief; but she was puzzled. “X” always carried strange instruments on his person. Now he didn’t even have his specially made chromium tools. Yet a short while before Betty herself had seen a cigarette lighter in his hand, the one with the tiny lever that released a jet of anesthetizing vapor.
When the detectives had passed on to another of Blake’s guests, Betty glanced at the Agent questioningly. He drew her aside and whispered a quick explanation.
“That bookcase over against the wall,” he said. “I’m glad the inspector isn’t interested in Greek tragedy. I pulled out a volume of Aeschylus when he wasn’t looking and hid certain things behind it.”
“X” retrieved his mysterious equipment as dexterously as he had hidden it. Then he turned his attention to the work of the police. Blue-coats had been dispatched to search the apartment. They had discovered the means used by the intruder to reach the penthouse.
A rope had been thrown up over the balcony railing from a set-back ledge on the floor below. This floor held several empty apartments. The man could easily have hidden in one of them, or in a deserted corridor until he was ready to break into Blake’s penthouse.
There was no clue, however, as to who had turned off the lights. Apparently no one in the drawing room was responsible. Several switches showed along the walls. Inspector Burks tested them. Each controlled a row of lights, but no master switch could be found in the room. Agent “X” was lynx-eyed with alertness, listening, watching.
The sudden entry and shooting of the wild-appearing stranger had flung a pall of horror over the party. And the mystery of his death was deepening each second.
The medical examiner’s statement that the man had been a drug addict started Silas Howe on another harangue.
“That’s right,” he cried vehemently. “He was a hophead, and he came here to murder me. My life isn’t safe anywhere. But danger won’t stop me. My course is set. I’ll smash all barriers in my fight against the drug evil. You see now, Blake, what great need there is for funds! As a close neighbor of yours I must ask again that you contribute.”
Whitney Blake merely grunted. He ignored the reformer’s final plea. This dampened Howe’s enthusiasm for a while. But soon he singled out a pretty, wealthy debutante who had been to the bar once too often. He began picturing to her the horrors of the drug, stirring her alcoholic imagination, as an aid in soliciting funds.
Agent “X” nudged Betty, and for a time his eyes intently studied the gaunt, leathery face of the reformer.
Inspector Burks began the weary routine of questioning all those in the room at the time of the shooting. He got nowhere. A dozen people had been standing in front of the maniac when he burst through the French windows. Any one of them could have seen his silhouette against the outside glow when the lights went off. Any one with a gun could have shot him. But Silas Howe’s was the only weapon to be found, and that hadn’t been fired. Unseen, horrible death, like the spirit of evil itself, seemed to be present at the party. Men and women shuddered.
“X” was in accord with Burks’s theory that the shooting had been done by some one now in the room. But who was it? He had not forgotten that his purpose in coming had been to investigate Count Remy de Ronfort. Yet the Frenchman seemed the most unperturbed person there. And not even a pocket-knife had been found in his possession.
After the names and addresses of the guests had been taken by the police, Burks announced that they were free to go. But he warned them that any and all were subject to call as witnesses.
“And I won’t hesitate to subpoena you, either,” he added threateningly.
The inspector was in a savage mood. Some one had turned a common, self-defense shooting into a complicated affair, with possibly a hidden motive. Burks grew more ugly when his men finished searching the body and reported that there were no visible means of identification.
Agent “X,” pointing to the man’s shoes, spoke with a touch of irony, “Those are custom-made, inspector. They were good shoes once, though they are in bad shape now. Acid or something has spotted and rotted them. Even at that they provide a lead for any detective who knows his job.”
Inspector Burks grew purple with irritation. He choked, made a snarling noise in his throat and glared at the Agent.
“A brilliant observation, Mr. Buchanan, but it happens that I am conducting this investigation. I’ll thank you not to interfere.” His voice was shaky with rage. “X” had put him in an embarrassing position before the crowd, made the police appear inadequate and hurt his professional pride. Burks alibied himself quickly.
“I was coming to those shoes as a matter of routine,” he said icily. “The police I can assure you don’t need the advice of meddling bystanders to conduct a murder investigation.”
Yet in spite of his harsh response “X” knew that Burks would work on the tip. The Agent himself took special note of the shoes. The heels had been built up on the inner part, as is done to help and correct feet suffering from fallen arches. Stamped in German script on the insteps were the words “hand made.”
BLAKE’S frightened guests began to straggle out, glad to escape from his place of mystery and death, Agent “X” and Betty left also. “X” had learned all he could from watching. There were certain leads now that must be carefully followed.
He escorted Betty to her door, silent for the most part. She raised her blue eyes to his just before he left her and asked him to promise that he would call her if there was any way in which she could help him.
“I will, Betty,” he said, “but—”
He left the sentence unfinished. Before his mind rose a horrible picture of the man who had died in Karloff’s stronghold. The man who had fallen to the floor in the agonies of the green death. The hideous shadow of the narcotic ring must not be allowed to menace golden-haired Betty Dale. He took her hand, pressed it for a moment, and turned.
“I’ll be seeing you soon,” he said gaily. The smiling light in his eyes gave no indication of the inhuman dangers he would shortly face.
In one of his hideouts he changed his disguise to that of A. J. Martin, then went to the laboratory of a toxicologist and brilliant research chemist named Fenwick. Posing as Martin, “X” had made use of this man’s technical skill and complex equipment before.
Already in the present case he had made arrangements to employ Fenwick in probing the sinister secrets of the dope ring. Every scrap of evidence so far in the way of confiscated drugs had been turned over to the man.
Small, birdlike, with an almost inexhaustible energy that enabled him to work night and day, Fenwick greeted the Agent.
“How are you, Mr. Martin?”
The chemist was wearing a stained white coat. There was a dripping hydrometer in his hand. A metal pot was boiling on a small gas stove and fumes filled the close air of the laboratory. Agent “X” smiled, but wasted no time in pleasantries, He handed Fenwick the Turkish cigarettes he had obtained at Blake’s party.
“These contain a drug,” he said quietly. “I doubt if an analysis of them will be easy. There’s hardly enough of the stuff to isolate and work on. But do your best, Fenwick.”
There was an undertone of tenseness in the Agent’s low-spoken words, and Fenwick nodded at once.
“I’ll get busy immediately. There’ll be a report for you tomorrow, Mr. Martin.”
“Good!” said the Agent.
He left Fenwick’s place and hurried away. The chemist was only a small cog in the amazing crime-combating machine that Agent “X” had secretly built up. There were many other cogs.
He went to the office which he maintained as the newspaper man, Martin, and pic
ked up the phone. Once again he called Jim Hobart, but this time he asked Jim to come and see him.
The long, lanky operative arrived quickly, removing his hat and exposing his crest of flaming red hair. He had shared many dangers with “X” and had a wholesome respect for his employer, the man he thought of as A. J. Martin, representative of a great newspaper syndicate.
“What can I do for you, boss?” he said.
Agent “X” sprawled a leg over his desk, hung a cigarette on his lower lip, and assumed the manner and attitude of a hard-boiled newspaper man. Through clouds of smoke he squinted up at Hobart.
“Have you got a man on your staff, Jim, who can speak French, wear nifty clothes and mingle with the best society?”
Hobart immediately nodded. “Yes, boss. Walter Milburn’s the fellow. His mother was French and used to whale him if he didn’t talk frog. She sent him to dancing school and after he grew up he got to be the slickest bond salesman going, until folks stopped buying bonds. He can wear clothes like a fashion plate and he’s got a Park Avenue manner. On top of that he’s turned out to be a good dick.”
“Good,” said “X” quietly.
He drew a photograph of Count Remy de Ronfort from his desk, along with a brief record of the Count’s career.
“I want this man kept under surveillance day and night,” he said. “Get Milburn and whoever helps him to give you a daily report on him. Spare no expense. Use your own methods. Tip bellboys, bartenders, waiters, anybody, if necessary—but don’t lose sight of him. If you hear of his doing anything funny get in touch with me at once.”
HOBART looked at the picture and whistled, “That’s the guy who’s engaged to old Whitney Blake’s ward, Paula Rockwell! They had their mugs in the papers the other day.”
“Exactly!”
“And he’s an ex-crook and dope runner, you say?”
“Yes! He’s been shadowed before, too. See that Milburn does his stuff right.”
“Count on me, boss. If Milly pulls any boners I’ll clout him so hard he’ll think he’s a skyrocket.”
Secret Agent X : The Complete Series Volume 3 Page 39
