“The cops wouldn’t tell you anything, eh—so you come back to me?”
“That’s right. I thought you looked like a good guy.”
“Well you can high-tail it back where you came from! Let the cops hand out their own dirt. I ain’t spillin’ anything tonight. I’m busy.”
Banton didn’t look busy, but there was malignant hostility in his shrewd, piglike eyes.
“That guy Darlington that the dicks just took down to headquarters says you’re a friend of his,” said the Agent. “I thought you could give me a little dope on him.”
Banton burst into raucous and jeering laughter. Then his face clouded.
“Friend, my eye! He’s just an old coot with some money and a lot of crazy ideas.”
“What sort of ideas?” asked “X” softly.
For a moment a look of fury blazed in Banton’s eyes. His face muscles twitched. He gripped the arms of his chair as though holding himself down.
“Find out for yourself, mug,” he rasped. “What the hell do you think I am—an information bureau? If you want to hire a detective, let’s see you come across with the fee—half down and half when the case is finished is my way. Now shut up and get out.”
Agent “X” drew a cigarette from his pocket. He lighted it, sat down on Banton’s desk, and flourished his notebook.
“It won’t hurt you to give me a little dope,” he said stubbornly.
Cords in Banton’s neck stood out. He rose suddenly, made a threatening movement toward Secret Agent “X.” Then he paused. His eyes turned toward the door, and Agent “X” turned, too.
The door of the outer office had opened and closed quickly. A girl stood just outside. She was a strikingly pretty girl with hair as black as jet, eyes like agate, and a smooth, olive complexion.
She moved forward on exaggeratedly high heels, swinging her lithe hips with the smooth, easy grace of a dancer. She was a girl who would have attracted attention anywhere. The paleness of her face seemed accentuated now by some deep, hidden emotion. There was emotion in her black eyes, too, making them snap and sparkle like fire seen through dark glass. Her hands were white and tense on the smart beaded bag she carried.
She looked from the agency detective to Secret Agent “X” and back again.
“I would like to see Mr. Banton,” she said, “alone.”
Agent “X” hesitated for only a moment. In that moment he was filled with wonder as to why the girl was here at all. And his gaze lingered an instant on her exotic, brooding face. Then Banton’s voice sounded harshly.
“Can’t you see I got a client? Didn’t you hear what she said? Scram!”
Agent “X” shrugged and rose. He jammed his notebook in his pocket, pulled his slouch hat down with a vicious tug, manifested all the mannerisms of a disgruntled reporter. With his cigarette dangling from his lips he went out the door and slammed it after him; then took pains to make a noise in the corridor as he walked away toward the stairs. But, as he looked back, he saw Banton’s shadow on the frosted glass and heard the click of metal. The agency detective had taken no chances. He had locked the door.
IT was then that Agent “X” paused and retraced his steps a second time. Banton and Banton’s client interested him strangely. How had the mysterious-looking dark-faced girl known that Banton was in his office so late at night? Who was she? Had she, too, been waiting outside and seen Banton enter? If so, what was her business with the ex-police lieutenant turned sleuth? Had it any connection with the hideous bank murders?
No one was in the corridor. Coming close on tiptoe to the door of Banton’s office, Agent “X” pressed his ear against the frosted glass. But he heard nothing, not even the low buzz of voices. The two inside had retired to the inner room.
Agent “X” might have picked the lock. But he didn’t want to be discovered prowling by Banton. If there was any reason to suspect Banton it would not do to arouse the detective’s own suspicions. There were other ways in which the Agent could work.
He took from his coat an article which looked at first glance like a small pocket Kodak. Opened up, the illusion was still maintained. But there were nearly twelve feet of what appeared to be the camera’s black cable release. On the end of this was a circular disc.
Agent “X” unwound the cable, opened the instrument’s back, and placed it to his ear. Then, standing on tiptoe, he thrust the end of the black cord up over the door through the ventilating transom. The instrument he held in his hand was not a camera, but an electric amplifying device, sensitive and delicate as a watch. He turned a rheostat control which corresponded to the film wind of a camera.
The voices of the man and woman now came to his ears as a confused buzz. They were talking evidently in the closed inner office. Through the thickness of a doorway and through many feet of air the vibrations of their voices came to him. But not even the ingenious amplifier in the Secret Agent’s hand could reduce their conversation to perfect clarity.
He listened tensely, ready to snatch the amplifier away if steps should sound along the corridor. His fingers moved the tiny control lever, reaching the most delicate adjustment possible, making the girl’s voice more distinct.
“—to help me,” she said. “I know what I’m talking about.”
The girl was silent. Banton’s voice came, confused, rumbling, making the diaphragm of the amplifier tremble so that words were blurred. Banton seemed to be arguing.
As Agent “X” worked with his control, the girl spoke again. The first part of her sentence was lost, but the last four words were arresting, making the Agent’s eyes brighten, glad that he had taken pains to come.
“—Davis was my friend.”
Davis—that was the name of one of the bankers who had been killed. Other words, caught here and there, verified this—words such as “murder,” “dead,” “robbery.”
The girl’s visit to Banton then had some direct connection with the raid tonight on the Merchants’ and Manufacturers’ Bank. Her agitation was an outgrowth of that terrible crime. Here was a steer that any detective would have followed. To Agent “X” it was a path that might lead to almost any unexpected thing. The girl hadn’t gone to the police. She had gone to Banton. This meant that she had something to hide. Agent “X” pondered tensely.
Darlington with his strange laboratory. Banton, combative, shrewd and suspiciously prosperous. This girl who had known Davis.
They formed a trio worth watching—and one of them might well lead him closer to that trail of hideous murder.
Chapter VIII
Wings of Mystery
THE girl and man inside sank their voices to even lower pitches. Twice more “X” caught the name Davis. But the sentences were disconnected and confusing.
When talk ceased, when he heard the stir and scrape of chairs inside, he drew his microphone from the transom, coiled it up, and stepped back.
Quickly he moved to the angle of the corridor and waited there, crouching in a dark doorway, till the girl came out of Banton’s office and hurried to the stairs. He got one glimpse of her face. There were crimson spots of excitement in her olive cheeks. Her dark eyes were snapping like fire. He heard the click of her high heels as she moved down the stairs, and, like a shadow, he followed.
Banton he could locate any time. But who was the dark-eyed girl, and what was her interest in the dead banker, Davis? It was this that Agent “X” wished to find out.
When he reached the street floor, moving silently down the stairs, he saw the girl standing in the shadow of the building’s vestibule. He saw her look along the street in both directions before moving out, saw her slink into the shadows and walk like a person who does not want to be observed. He followed, taking care that she should not see him. Four blocks away, he saw her summon a cruising taxi.
The crowd around the bank, still tense, talking excitedly, was beginning to disperse. Cabs were hovering about, anxious to pick up a few late fares. Even death had its profits. Agent “X” signaled one of the circling
taxis.
“Follow the cab ahead,” he said. “Keep it in sight.”
The driver cast a frightened look at his fare, then nodded. There was nothing sinister about “X” in his present role. His appearance was that of an intent young newspaperman.
The cab lurched away along the dark street. It was after twelve. Much had happened in the past two hours. The period had been a veritable cyclone of danger, death, and mystery. And the excitement was not over. The pieces of the ghastly murder puzzle lay scattered on the face of the darkness. Agent “X” was trying to gather them up.
The cab bearing the strange black-eyed girl turned into an uptown avenue. It sped quickly, as though its passenger were impatient. In ten minutes it turned east, followed a cross-town street, and entered upon the plaza of a big interborough bridge.
Its red tail-light winked up the long slope of the bridge, reached the summit and went down the other side. It left the bridge and entered a wide thoroughfare. They were in a different borough now. The chase had led away from the scene of murder. But Agent “X” had learned that the ramifications of murder lead far.
For a half-hour more the chase continued. Agent “X” was getting uneasy. What if the girl in the cab ahead got on to the fact that she was being followed? He wished he were driving one of his own cars. There would have been less chance of his being seen.
They came to the suburbs, at last, followed a long concourse. The Agent breathed easier. There were many cars here despite the lateness of the hour. Romantic couples out for a night drive. Theatergoers returning from shows in town.
He ordered the cab to creep closer.
Then the taxi ahead swung off the boulevard, plunged down a smoothly paved side street between wooden suburban houses. “X” knew where he was now. A sudden premonition came. He sat forward tensely in his seat.
Against the night sky, the great beam of a searchlight swept back and forth with rhythmic monotony. It was like a huge waving arm. It was an airbeacon. Ahead of them lay the newly equipped municipal flying field, the field where night mail planes landed and took off, where there was always alertness and a bustle of activity. The great hangars housed many small planes. Agent “X” had visited the field often, flown from it himself.
Was the girl going there now?
There could be no doubt about it. Her taxi turned into the wire enclosure, headed into the parking space, with the black bulk of the hangars beyond. Landing lights were on. The deep-throated roar of an airplane motor sounded.
Rutted mud made the Agent’s taxi jounce like a ship in a stormy sea. “X” ordered the driver to stop. He glanced at the meter, leaped out. It had run into several dollars, but he paid the driver twice the amount. Then in the semigloom surrounding the big, lighted field, he strode after the other cab with the girl in it. It had stopped, too. The girl was getting out.
The swinging, persistent arm of the air beacon lighted Agent “X’s” face. The bright, excited glow in his eyes wasn’t entirely the reflection of the searchlight’s radiance. The cab which had brought the girl moved off, swung around, bumped by in the darkness. It was headed back toward the city. The girl strode on.
“X” got a silhouetted glimpse of her figure. It seemed to express determination, hurry. He saw her go into the field’s operations office and speak to the man at the desk. Night planes were coming in and leaving on regular schedule. But the field’s sightseeing, joy-riding ships were shut in their hangars, housed for the night.
THE man in the operations office shook his head as Agent “X” watched through the window. Then “X” saw the girl display a roll of bills. He saw her toss them down on the desk. The man in the operations office smiled and finally nodded. He motioned the girl to a seat, picked up a telephone. The girl sat smoking, holding a cigarette between her long, carmine-tipped fingers. Her slimly shod foot tapped impatiently. There was worry in the dark, heavily lashed eyes.
A half-hour went by and a pilot came into the office. He looked sleepy, sullen. There was a helmet with goggles on it hanging carelessly over his arm. His sleepy eyes brightened as he saw the waiting girl. The droop left his shoulders. He had been waked from sound sleep, apparently, to take a passenger up. Now he showed interest.
Agent “X” stiffened. There was no doubt as to what the girl was going to do. She had hired a plane and was going up. Why?
Only the dark night, sky or the girl herself could answer that question. But he didn’t wait to ask it.
He turned, looked out across the wide field. A mail plane was on a dolly, being wheeled out and loaded. Mechanics were swarming around its engine. His eyes went beyond it.
A private hangar was open. Lights showed inside. Two planes were out on the dead line, one was warming up. It was a small, two-seated ship, a sport plane belonging to some rich playboy. No doubt he was going to take his girl for a night ride.
Agent “X” struck out at a run toward it. Employees of the flying company were wheeling another plane from a hangar, one of the regular company ships. Orders had gone out from the operations office. A mechanic turned the handle of the inertia starter. The motor coughed, sputtered, broke into a roar.
It was almost warm by the time Agent “X” reached the vicinity of the smaller plane. The pilot was helping the girl in. She had on a helmet and goggles provided by the company.
Agent “X” looked toward the open door of the hangar before which the smaller plane squatted. He saw figures inside; the playboy who owned the plane was adjusting his helmet.
The motor of the small plane was humming sweetly now. And behind “X,” down the field, the company ship leaped away to taxi into the wind.
Like a swift, silent wraith, Agent “X” darted from the shadows. He reached the small sport plane, drew the chocks from under its fat air wheels. In a moment he had vaulted into its cockpit.
He looked behind. The owner of the ship hadn’t even left the hangar.
As the company ship pivoted far down the field, nosed into the wind, and rushed forward with a song of power, Agent “X” pushed the throttle of the sport plane home.
He raised the tail off the ground, raced forward with a steady hand on the stick. The amazed shouts of the plane’s owner in the hangar behind were drowned in the engine’s blasting crescendo. The lights of the hangar rocketed away. The lights of the other ship were passing overhead.
Agent “X” taxied forward, kicked left rudder, turned.
The sting of the night wind lashed his unhelmeted head. He crouched behind the low wind cowling, fed gas to the motor. A moment more and he had drawn the stick back, drawn the plane off the ground, and was roaring up into the black night sky.
Chapter IX
The Sky Killer
THE eyes of Agent “X,” sharp as a hunting hawk’s, spotted the exhaust glow of the other ship. He began to climb. The small sport plane, built for speed and aerobatics, had the swift grace of an arrow. A connoisseur of fine planes as he was of cars, Agent “X” knew that Fate had been good to him tonight. The high-speed radial motor in front was pulling the ship up like a rocket. Already he was on a level with the sky craft ahead.
He climbed higher still, getting above it, keeping that tiny, flickering exhaust plume in sight. Where was the other ship going? What strange objective did the mystery girl have that she needed to take this midnight flight?
The two-place ship ahead didn’t even circle the field. It climbed steadily into the wind, then turned at right angles in a steep bank and bore away toward the city. This surprised Agent “X.” He didn’t know what he had expected, but it had seemed likely that the girl would fly away from town. Instead she was flying toward the heart of it.
The miles that had taken nearly an hour to traverse by land were flown in a few minutes on the wings of the wind. The altimeter of the Agent’s ship showed two thousand feet. He was mounting still. Far below, he saw the smooth ribbon of the boulevard with lights strung along it like bright pearls. The speeding cars were crawling beetles.
Wispish, low-flying clouds swept across the sky. The Agent took advantage of them, nosing up out of sight from time to time, dropping again to keep the other ship in view. It flew steadily toward the city, until the thin silver band of the river was beneath them. He saw the bridge they had crossed, with the crawling lights of motors and trolleys on it.
Then he caught his breath. The other plane, climbing now, was headed straight toward that section of town where the Merchants’ and Manufacturers’ Bank was located. Against the sky line for a moment, against the farther river which made an island of the city, he saw the flat-topped, eighteen-story skyscraper that housed the bank.
Then he drew back on his stick to keep above the other plane. Once again he rocketed up into the low-flying clouds. He swept through them, climbed on into the clear, cold starlight.
He let another thousand feet register on the altimeter, waited, and saw the hired plane burst through the layer of clouds like a monster breaking the surface of some white sea. For a moment he nosed down, shutting off his motor. He heard the engine of the plane beneath pop once, and saw the ship nose down, its motor silent, too. It swept back toward the clouds in a long, descending bank.
Agent “X” pushed the stick forward and dived. With his propeller still ticking over, but the engine silent, he shot down toward the clouds with the wind whistling a chant through the struts and flying wires. The clouds rushed up to meet him. He saw the other plane disappear.
Alert, tense-faced, he followed it. The whip of the mist around his head was like a cold plunge. Then he broke through. The other plane was below and ahead. It had flattened out now. In a long, silent glide it was headed toward the bank building.
Like a winged wraith Agent “X” followed. There was small chance that they would see him against the clouds. Little starlight came through. The lighted streets against which he could glimpse the plane below formed a better background.
But what did this strange maneuver signify? In his anxiety to find out, he steepened his glide, picked up speed, and swept closer to the ship ahead. Did the girl plan to drop something on the bank?
Secret Agent X – The Complete Series Volume 1 (Annotated) Page 32
