A slight tenseness passed over the gathering. Beale laughed again.
“Really, commissioner, I wouldn’t make an issue of it, if I were you! Some of these gentlemen might suspect—”
He stopped speaking, and another general laugh sounded. Two commissioners, acquaintances of Baldwin, who had spoken to “X” when he first came in, leaned forward. One talked quickly behind his hand.
“Better go up, Baldwin! There might be some nasty gossip if you didn’t. Nothing to it, you know—just stick your fingers on that glass.”
Agent “X” nodded but he thrust his chin out stubbornly.
“I never did like to be railroaded,” he said. “Let him kid me if he wants to. I can take it. Some of these new-fangled notions get under my skin.” He added more loudly, “When you start fingerprinting the police it puts them in the same class with the crooks.”
Professor Beale laughed. “Nothing like that, commissioner. You misinterpret the purpose of this test. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”
Commissioner Foster added his word. “You’re reputed to be a wide-awake man, Baldwin. In respect to our speaker this evening I think you owe it to us all to fall in line. You’ve got us on edge now to see what your prints look like.”
For a second the Agent’s eyes swivelled around the room. There were armed cops at all exits. The projector on the platform would instantly give proof of the fact that he was an imposter. Once the fingerprints had been compared he could not bluff his way out. He would be held, questioned, jailed. He could not expect any one to come to his defense.
“I refuse, gentlemen,” he said. “Just put it down to a stubborn temperament. If you think I’m a crook, get out a warrant for my arrest.”
The meeting grew tense. No one was laughing now. Professor Beale spoke with sudden biting vehemence.
“I said in the beginning that criminals have been known to impersonate men in high positions. So that no suspicion will fall on your head, Commissioner Baldwin, I suggest that you come up here at once and get this matter over with so that we can proceed with the conference.”
Agent “X” leaped to his feet to begin an angry retort. This seemed the best way of stalling for time. But he paused and turned his head instead.
From outside the headquarters building which housed the auditorium they were in, a sudden racket had come. A dull, jarring explosion, that shook the windows and made the floor under their feet vibrate. There was a second of silence. Then the noise of distant shouting; and a spiteful crackling. Agent “X” was the first to recognize that second sound.
“Gun fire!” he said suddenly.
The eyes of Professor Beale were upon him. Beale’s voice snapped out as Agent “X” turned toward the door.
“Don’t make your actions more suspicious than they already are, commissioner. If there’s a disturbance outside, patrolmen and detectives are amply able to take care of it. We are here to attend a commissioners’ conference—and I might add that you haven’t shown us your fingerprints yet. Your attitude is making it rather trying for us all—putting Commissioner Foster and myself in a difficult position.”
“Why not drop the whole business, then?” said “X” sharply.
“Because, commissioner, I am frank to admit that I think you have some reason for not wanting to match your prints with those I have here on file. It sounds incredible—but I have made a study of human psychology—and your actions—”
The shrill, unmistakable blast of a police whistle cut across Beale’s words. Another series of sputtering explosions came. These were unquestionably shots.
Half the members of the conference had risen excitedly to their feet. Commissioner Foster was looking anxiously toward the door. The Agent’s eyes clashed for a moment with Professor Beale’s. The shrewd criminologist undoubtedly suspected him of being an imposter. But “X” had bluffed it out so far. He made a last, vehement gesture.
“While we stand quibbling here, professor, criminals are active under our very noses. I suggest that we stop our child’s play and do some practical work.”
BEALE made an impatient, irritated exclamation. But Agent “X’s” words, backed up by the noise outside, started a movement toward the door. Commissioner Foster strode excitedly through the assemblage, into the corridor. A dozen other commissioners from various cities crowded after him. An inspector of a detective division came running up the stairs, shouting excitedly.
“There’s a robbery being pulled off right on this block, commissioner. Those diamond brokers on the corner—there’s a bunch of bandits in an armored car parked outside. They’ve cracked the safe. They’ve got a Tommy-gun.”
His excited flow of words was punctuated by the vicious rat-tat-tat of a machine gun. The conference disbanded in an uproar. Commissioners and subordinates alike ran to the front entrance of the headquarters building. One of them gave a hoarse cry.
A cop, his blue uniform sodden with crimson came reeling across the sidewalk and collapsed at the commissioners’ feet. Down the block, Agent “X” saw a long, low armored car. From a slit in its side a winking pin-point of flame showed intermittently. A dozen cops had taken refuge in doorways and vestibules along the street, service revolvers snapping. As “X” watched, one cop threw up his hands and pitched sidewise into the street The bandits were ruthlessly slaughtering the police.
Curses, excited orders, took the place of Professor Beale’s calm, scientific tones. Commissioner Foster, white-faced, bawled orders to an inspector. The inspector marshaled a squad-of plain-clothes men with an arsenal of riot and machine guns. They poured into the street; were met by a withering blast of bullets from the car at the end of the block.
This was warfare—warfare between the dread, organized forces of the underworld and the valiant defenders of the law.
A cop with a riot gun cursed, groaned, fell to the pavement, his weapon clattering from his hands. One leg had been shattered under him. He tried to hunch forward to pick up his gun again, leaving a smear of crimson behind him. Another blast of bullets ricocheted against the curb beside him, ripped into his body with the sickening spat of flattened lead. He jerked for a moment as though in the contortions of some weird dance, lay still.
AGENT “X,” white with fury at the ruthlessness of this killing, heedless of his own danger, darted across the pavement and picked up the slain cop’s weapon. The other police had taken refuge in doorways.
Not often did the Agent use a lethal weapon. When he did he could shoot with expert marksmanship. He crouched, braced the curved butt of the rapid-firer against his shoulder, pressed the steel trigger, slammed bullets down the block at that sinister black car. A masked figure came running out of the diamond brokerage office; leaped into the car before “X” could swing the cumbersome muzzle of the gun. His bullets played a tattoo over the side of the car. But its armor plate prevented them from doing any damage.
The flame that was the bandit’s machine gun showed again. Leaden death hissed in the night air around “X.” He flung himself flat on the pavement, gun snuggled in the crook of his elbow, steady eyes trained along the barrel. He aimed as close to the other flame as he could; pumped more bullets into the darkness.
The firing stopped. The big car leaped away with whining gears. Cops came out from under cover and the wailing, hysterical note of police sirens began to shrill along the street The car with the bandits in it spurted away.
The street was a bedlam of excitement now. The fierce shouts went up. In the second story windows of the diamond brokerage office a glow showed. Smoke began to plume out. A flame appeared like a greedy red tongue. Agent “X” started to drop the machine gun he had snatched up, then hastily cleaned off the finger prints he had made. He put the gun down, ran forward with a crowd of police and commissioners.
The fire in the brokerage office was gaining headway, showing that the raiders had left some highly inflammable material there, adding arson to safe-blowing. The blood-red glo
w of the fire spread along the street, adding to the horror.
At least six cops lay dead on the pavement. The firelight glistened on their spilled blood. The criminals had left terror and destruction behind them. And this spectacular crime, in the very shadow of police headquarters, staged at a time when the commissioners’ conference was in session, seemed a mocking gesture—a bloody challenge to the forces of the law.
Chapter XIII
The Sky Attack
SECRET AGENT “X” slipped away into the darkness. No use looking for clues around the brokerage office where the raid had taken place. Seething flames were consuming the entire interior of the building. All evidence would be destroyed—even the method used in blowing the big safe.
And “X” wanted to escape further contact with the members of the commissioners’ conference. Neither Foster nor Professor Beale would forget that he had refused to show his fingerprints. As Baldwin he was a marked man now.
He looked at his watch. Ten o’clock. Signaling a cab, he drove to within a few blocks of his nearest hideout and once again changed his disguise to that of A.J. Martin.
Next he called the rooming house occupied by McCarthy, the old ex-dick who was watching the airport from which “X” had been kidnaped the night previous. But the wheeling, crack-voiced landlady told the Agent she had not seen McCarthy all day. A slight frown of worry between his eyes, “X” drove to the rooming house. Perhaps McCarthy had left a message for him.
The landlady admitted him and he went straight to McCarthy’s room. But there was no message, no sign that McCarthy had been in that evening. The ash tray was empty, just as the landlady had left it. The bed had not been slept in. McCarthy was evidently making good his promise, giving the man he knew as A.J. Martin his money’s worth. He had been on the job of watching the air-field for twenty-four hours. He was still on the job, unless—
Agent “X” sent the V-shaped nose of his roadster plunging toward the suburbs. It was strange that McCarthy should have stayed on the job so long without sending him any word.
He came to within a quarter of a mile of the lot from which he had taken off in the tri-motor, a prisoner of the criminals. He passed by a row of run-down houses, came to the edge of the lot itself. It was a desolate place of refuse and junk. A lean, green-eyed cat slunk out of his path. Somewhere a loose piece of roofing on one of the buildings around the lot squeaked mournfully in the wind. This was the only sound. The cat was the only living thing.
A sense of definite foreboding gripped the Secret Agent. He moved forward cautiously, wraithlike in the gloom, coming at last to the spot where he had stationed McCarthy.
Flashing a tiny light with a bulb no larger than a grain of wheat he stared at the ground. In one spot his sharp eyes detected McCarthy’s footprints. Here were the wide heavy soles that the old dick wore. Agent “X” gave a low whistle, listened. If McCarthy were about he would come to investigate. Expert and silent shadower as the ex-detective was, he would make a noise that the Agent would hear. But there was no sound.
The Secret Agent’s sense of uneasiness grew. He moved along the edge of the lot toward the old building which might conceivably have housed the big plane. Once again he flashed his light and spotted McCarthy’s footprints. Then suddenly he stooped and tensed. Something dark showed against the brownish dustiness of the earth.
The Agent bent down, cupping his hand over the end of his small light, examining the spot on the ground. It was a circle, its coloring gruesomely suggestive.
He moved his light, found another spot a few feet farther along. His eyes were grim now. These spots were unmistakable to his experienced eyes. They were drops of blood, sunk into the ground, dried. They seemed to be about twelve hours old.
He bent all his efforts to following them now. Once he lost them among sparse turf. In patient, ever widening circles he located them again. A chill ran across his skin. Here were not only the drops but parallel grooves in the dirt; plainly discernible. His movements quickened as he followed these. They led in the direction of a cluster of sheds. The human body had been dragged there.
The grooves ceased, but drops of crimson marked the trail. Some one had picked the body up, carried it. The spots on the ground led to a pile of old boarding between the two sheds. There they ended.
Lips compressed in a tight grim line Agent “X” began shifting the boards. He swore at last, and bent sharply. The last board he had picked up disclosed the head and shoulders of a man.
White hair gleamed like silver under the thin rays of his flash. The still features of a white face showed. It and the hair were streaked with crimson. It was McCarthy—dead.
SOME one had sneaked up out of the darkness and bashed in the detective’s skull with a vicious blow. Some one had dragged the old dick here, buried him like carrion under a pile of boarding.
The Agent’s fist clenched. Out there under the dim light of the stars he made a silent pledge. Then he stopped, searched McCarthy’s pockets. The fifty dollars that he had given McCarthy was still intact. No robbery had taken place. McCarthy had been killed merely because some one wanted him out of the way. Again Agent “X” saw the hand of the man whose mark was a loathsome Octopus.
Carefully he gathered the old man up, carried him to his parked car. His eyes and ears were alert for any movement in the darkness. But there was none. The lurking criminal, or criminals, who had done the detective to death might be miles away now. Knowing the field was under suspicion there would probably be no more activity from it.
“X” drove McCarthy back to the rooming house, told the landlady in a few words what had happened. While she went to notify McCarthy’s nearest relative, Agent “X” drew his wallet from his pocket. He took out a sheaf of bills totaling nearly two thousand dollars. Lifting McCarthy’s keys from his pocket, “X” unlocked the old detective’s battered strong box.
Inside were a few yellowed letters written by his dead wife. A tarnished badge he’d worn for years as a cop; an old police whistle hallowed by association.
Agent “X” stuffed the bills in here, locked the box again. This money would go to his beloved grand-children. McCarthy would be pleased if he could know it.
“X” did not wait for the arrival of McCarthy’s relatives. There would be a police investigation into the man’s death. He couldn’t afford to have the name of A.J. Martin mixed up in that. And the death of McCarthy had made him think at once of Sloan, his agent in Boston.
He hurried to a telephone booth, put in a long distance call. The heavy voice of his Boston operative answered and “X” gave a sigh of relief. The responsibility of one man’s death rested on his shoulders tonight. He was glad it was not two.
“What’s the report, Sloan?” he demanded.
“Nothing much, boss,” Sloan answered. “It don’t look like there’s anything phoney about this bird Van Camp. He’s got an office down on Tremont Street. He spent most of the day there, lunched at his club. He was in court a while this afternoon. Tomorrow he’s flying out to Chi. He booked his passage today.”
Agent “X” was careful to hide the excitement he felt. Van Camp flying out to Chicago. With crimes being perpetrated in every state of the Union, it was plausible to think that the evil genius who directed them would have some central headquarters. Chicago would be a logical place—and now Van Camp, on the heels of his significant phone call to Tasha Merlo, was going there. Here was a hot lead.
“Thanks, Sloan,” “X” said. “I guess I was wrong about that bird.”
“You want me to trail him some more when he gets back?”
“No, not unless I give you the high sign. What time is he leaving tomorrow?”
“The plane takes off at eight thirty, boss.”
AGENT “X” hung up. Sloan was a good shadower; but he was too slow moving and slow thinking to be of much help against such men as the Agent was going up against. Yet if “X” went to Chicago he’d need aid perhaps; and it would be better to import a helper unknown to the Ch
icago underworld.
“X” took from his pocket a notebook in which he kept the names of several possibilities, flipped the pages intently, then paused and nodded. James Hobart was the man he wanted. Young, alert, fearless, Agent “X” knew Hobart to be honest, even though a black cloud of disgrace now hung over his name. Hobart had been dishonorably discharged from the police force after it was proved he had accepted bribes in a famous racketeering case.
Because he knew Hobart’s calibre, the Agent had made secret investigations. These had revealed that Hobart had been framed by a notorious gangster. His dismissal had been accomplished because he was becoming a source of danger to the gangster in question.
“X” got into his roadster. At Hobart’s address, a pleasant-faced, gray-haired woman let him into a small neat apartment. A raw-boned young man sat slouched in a chair, reading a paper. A stiff crest of reddish hair surmounted his forehead. Clear blue eyes lighted at sight of Agent “X.” He thrust out a freckled, big-knuckled hand, gripped the Agent’s.
“Hello, Mr. Martin…. Mom, this is Mr. Martin, the big newspaper guy I told you tried to pull strings and clear me when I was framed by Madder.”
Agent “X” smiled at the ex-detective’s mother. He gazed approvingly at the young man. He’d thrown a couple of small jobs Hobart’s way. The job he had in mind now might call for everything the boy had. But before Hobart’s career with the police had been abruptly ended, his promotions had come quickly because of his bravery and energy. Here was a man who could be depended upon in any emergency.
When the young man’s mother had gone into the kitchen Agent “X” spoke quickly.
“How are things going, Jim?”
“Not so good, Mr. Martin. No job. I was cut out to be a dick, I guess. I don’t seem to fit in anywhere else.”
“You wouldn’t turn down a job then, I take it?”
Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2 Page 35
