“I’m not here as an inquisitor, warden. There will be a formal investigation of the affair later. The governor, I may say, will be interested in your report on Carney’s strange return.”
Galaway smiled inwardly, then went on: “What I would like this morning is a little data on a former inmate of your prison. Did you have here at one time a convict by the name of Di Lauro?”
Galaway’s eyes gleamed as he asked this question. Warden Johnson looked relieved. At least the governor was withholding his criticism until the full details of the affair last night had been weighed. The warden became talkative at once, glad to change the subject.
“Leon Di Lauro is the man you mean. Yes, we had him here. The board saw fit to parole him over a year ago. This was done, though, over my objections. I never liked Di Lauro, never trusted him. He was a troublemaker; but outside influence was used to get him paroled. Di Lauro didn’t report to the parole board at the time required after his release, however. State detectives were employed in an effort to locate him; but he hasn’t been seen or heard of since he left my charge.”
Galaway made quick notes on a square of paper. The gleaming light in his eyes intensified. He tapped his chair with nervous fingers.
“If you please, warden, I’d like to look at Di Lauro’s record!”
“Certainly, Mr. Galaway. That’s easy!”
The warden rang for his secretary, and ordered the convict’s case history brought from the prison files at once. Galaway looked through them, made notes.
Leon Di Lauro, Roumanian origin claimed. Five feet five. Weight one hundred and sixty pounds. Black eyes. Low forehead. Broad nose. High cheek bones. Teeth uneven. Anarchist tendencies. Arrested in connection with bomb outrage, 1917. Propaganda subversive to government found in possession. Sentenced to Leavenworth, five-year stretch.
Here Galaway used his pencil to underline two words: “Bomb outrage.” Beneath the smooth-shaven contours of his face—another elaborate disguise of Secret Agent “X”— small muscles tensed. He recalled those terrible bombs of the night before. The ripping, tearing concussion. The torn bodies. The car he had seen collapse in the street as though giant, invisible fingers had crushed it.
Carney had mentioned Di Lauro as a possible leader of the DOACs. Di Lauro’s connection with terrorist bombers in the past made this possibility stronger. The Secret Agent went on taking notes from the prison record.
Charged with criminal syndicalism, 1925. Case dismissed for lack of evidence. Arrested for disorderly conduct, 1926, at conference of textile workers. Arrested for felonious assault and carrying gun, 1928. Paroled 1933. Emotional, violent type. Intelligence high.
Agent “X” pocketed his notes. The light in his eyes was steely now. As a character, Di Lauro was a good lead. Such a man might be guilty of building up a nation-wide terrorist organization like the DOACs. He had brains, he knew the power of words as proved by the charge of criminal syndicalism lodged against him. He was dangerous, fanatical.
AGENT “X” thanked the warden and rose. In saving Carney from the DOACs, he had run into a bit of evidence which might help him trace the leader of the murderous DOAC group. Warden Johnson spoke vehemently, breaking in on the Agent’s thoughts.
“The governor needn’t worry any more,” he said. “Nobody will take any prisoner out of this jail again.”
“You think Michael Carney is safe here then?” asked “X.”
“Yes. He’s yellow and whining for protection. He’d rather be in jail than out. He’s still scared stiff. But he needn’t be. We’re going to give him better protection than he ever had from his mob. We’re going to keep him in his cell from now on. The only visitor who will be allowed to see him will be that girl of his.”
“You mean his fiancée, Greta St. Clair?”
“Yes.”
“And what about her? Will she be safe—or will the DOACs try to hit at Carney through her?”
Warden Johnson shrugged.
“That’s not my affair, Galaway. If she’s fool enough to fall for a guy like Carney, and stick close by, the way she does, it’s her funeral, not mine.”
“She lives somewhere near here then?”
“Yes—there.” The warden rose from his seat, pointed out a window which gave a view over the prison wall. Agent “X” rose, too. He knew the location of Greta St. Clair’s place of residence from the newspaper story he had read. But he wanted to get the warden’s own reactions. The warden was gesturing through the window.
Beyond the prison walls, over across the river that swirled at the base of the grim wall, the roof of a house showed dimly through the tree-tops. It was a half mile away, but a dormer window commanded a view of the prison.
“That’s the house she lives in,” the warden said. “She takes the ferry across every Monday and Thursday, the days we allow visitors. She’s nuts about Carney and claims he was framed.”
Agent “X” spoke quietly, watching the warden’s face.
“Wouldn’t you say she was running a great risk?”
“Perhaps! Who knows? They say she has a bunch of servants to wait on her. There may be DOAC spies among them—waiting to see if they can get a line on Carney’s money from her, or bump her if they feel like it. But, as I say—it isn’t my grief. She’s smart enough to know she’s in danger from the guys that tried to get Carney. She’s got money of her own, and she’d better clear out—take a trip to Europe or something. If she were my gal that’s what I’d make her do.”
Recalling Carney’s fear that there was no spot on earth except the prison where he was safe, “X” wondered if this didn’t apply equally to the girl. She could be traced and followed even to Europe.
Again he thanked the warden, then left through the guarded entrance and the lines of troopers as he had come. He was glad he had got away before a call from the governor’s office came. That might have put him in an embarrassing situation.
His eyes turned toward the glinting surface of the river again; toward the house of Greta St. Clair. Was that where the ruthless, hideous lightning bolt of the DOAC power would strike next?
Chapter VIII
Mastiffs of Menace
IN the busy city offices of the Herald a telephone jangled. A girl, blonde and winsome, seated before a desk covered with copy, reached out and lifted the receiver from its hook.
“Calling Betty Dale,” a masculine voice said over the wire.
“Miss Dale speaking,” the girl replied.
A shaft of sunlight from the open window fell on the girl’s head. The sunlight seemed to remain imprisoned there, as the golden hair, clustered low at the nape of her white neck, had caught some of its warmth and shimmer. The soft curve of her cheek showed a youthful, vibrant glow.
“You’re the lady who wrote a feature article about Greta St. Clair, aren’t you?’ the strange voice said.
“Yes. Who is this speaking, please?”
“A young man who’d like to meet Miss St. Clair. You had an interview with her and I thought—”
Betty Dale interrupted stiffly. There was an edge in her voice, proving that for all her gold-and-white girlishness she had a will of her own.
“You’ll have to think up a better excuse than that for an introduction. I’m very busy this morning. If you don’t mind—”
“Wait.’” The single word came low-voiced over the wire. There was a note of command in it that held Betty Dale wonderingly. Then she gave a sudden start, and the warm color in her cheeks paled.
In the receiver against her ear a strange note sounded. It was no longer a man’s voice. It was a whistle, musical yet eerie, a whistle that Betty Dale had heard before—the whistle of Secret Agent “X.”
The paleness of her cheeks was followed by a flood of rich color that suffused her whole face and neck for a moment. That strange whistle seemed to touch some responsive chord in her heart. It came from the lips of the man she admired and respected above all others in the world. For Betty Dale was one of the few persons on earth w
ho knew the amazing, mysterious character of Agent “X’s” career.
Often they had faced danger and death together. And, though Betty Dale never to her knowledge had seen his real features, she had come, deep in her heart, to love Agent “X.” His visits were the high spots in her life. When he was away, probing some sinister crime, Betty Dale plunged into her own newspaper work harder than ever, to keep worry from her mind. For she had pledged herself never to hinder the Agent’s work by letting him see how much she cared. All she asked was a chance to help him.
“You!” she breathed into the telephone, a tremor, which she couldn’t quite conceal, on her lips.
“Yes, Betty. I’m sorry if I disturbed you when you were busy.”
The girl flushed again. “I only said that because—because I thought you were some one else.”
“Then you can meet me sometime this morning?”
“Yes—any time. I want to see you anyway. I’ve got something to tell you.”
“Good, Betty! Walk along Carter Avenue, then, between Tenth and Eleventh Streets at ten-thirty. There’s a sporting goods store in the middle of the block. You’ll see a young man looking in the window at the fishing tackle. Stop and look in the window, also.”
Betty agreed, then rose quickly and went to the managing editor’s office to obtain leave of absence. She said she’d just had a hot lead on a story and was going out after it. There was a good deal of truth in this. On almost every one of the Agent’s cases Betty Dale had been able to obtain a scoop. Her intuitive intelligence told her that the Secret Agent might be on the trail of the DOACs.
If he succeeded in tracing down the heads of the organization and having them arrested, Betty knew she’d be given inside details before anyone else. Working with the Agent, she had become invaluable to her paper.
She tried to finish correcting a sheet of copy; but the words blurred before her eyes. She continually glanced at her wrist watch. The hands seemed to crawl.
Ten o’clock came and Betty began dabbing powder on her face. She smoothed her hair, put her hat on at a saucy tilt. She wanted to look her best when she met the Man of a Thousand Faces.
A graceful, energetic figure, she left the newspaper building, took a taxi to Carter Avenue and strolled along in the early fall sunlight. Her blue eyes continually darted ahead. Her heart was beating rapidly. She got to the block between Tenth and Eleventh Streets too early, walked past it and came back.
Then her heartbeat increased still more. A young man was standing outside the window of the sporting goods store. Slouching, dressed in a suit that had a slightly collegiate cut, he was staring through the window at the fishing tackle. A limp cigarette hung from his lower lip. His hat was on the back of his head.
BETTY DALE had never to her knowledge seen this young man before. As she approached she wondered if there’d been some mistake or if she were still too early. The young man had a sleepy look. He seemed to be engrossed in the display of tackle. Surely this couldn’t be Secret Agent “X.”
But Betty Dale smiled to herself. She’d been fooled dozens of times before. The Agent had tested his genius for disguise on her. In spite of her keen powers of observation and her feminine intuition he had tricked her again and again. Staring sharply from the corners of her eyes at this young man, she was ready to swear that she did not know him. But she walked up slowly, stopping to stare in the window too.
She trembled as she bent her golden head to look at the fishing tackle, which didn’t interest her in the slightest degree.
“You fish, lady?”
The young man’s drawling voice startled her. It was as unfamiliar as his appearance. She turned, flushing. His sleepy gaze was fixed upon her. He was grinning a lazy grin. She shook her head slowly, staring at him—waiting. Doubt began to assail her as the young man continued to grin. Everything about him looked strange, unfamiliar. The young man, seeing her perplexity, took his wallet from his pocket.
“I sell fishing tackle, lady,” he said, in the same drawling voice. “Here’s my card.”
He handed her a white card on which was written the name “Claude Erskine.” Betty’s eyes widened as she looked. For, under the light of the open sky, a letter X, large and superimposed, was appearing over the name.
She needed no more proof than this. Slowly she tore the card into tiny pieces and let them trickle from her fingers. Then she raised her eyes and smiled.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Claude Erskine.”
The stranger’s eyes were no longer sleepy. They had changed in the space of a second to steely alertness. Betty knew then that some deep purpose lay behind the Agent’s request to meet her.
“That’s the name I want you to use when you introduce me to Greta St. Clair, Betty,” he said. “Tell her I’m a fellow reporter, thinking of doing an article for a movie magazine.”
Betty Dale searched the Agent’s eyes. If she hadn’t known what his strange work was, if she hadn’t guessed the deep motives that lay behind everything he did, she might have been jealous. For Greta St. Clair was an exotic woman, and Agent “X” seemed determined to meet her.
“You think she’s in danger from the DOACs, don’t you?” said Betty suddenly, speaking hardly above a whisper. “You’re working against them, I know.”
The Agent nodded. “I’m glad you’re not one of their spies. I wouldn’t stand much chance with a person of your cleverness,” he said.
Betty grew serious. “We get stories on the Herald about the terrible things the DOACs are doing. I guessed you would fight them—from the first. And yesterday I heard something I thought you’d want to hear. That’s why I said over the telephone I had something to tell you.”
The Agent touched her arm. “I’ve got a car up the block. You can tell me as we drive along; it will be better than standing here.”
They got into the Agent’s small coupé and Betty Dale began to talk quickly.
“If you’re fighting the DOACs you’ll want to know this. There’s a man the Herald suspects now. He’s a well-known figure. You must have heard of him. His name’s Benjamin Summerville.”
Agent “X” nodded instantly. “An ex-state senator and big industrialist.”
“He was a big industrialist. But he claims the depression ruined him. He’s a bitter critic of the New Deal, too. Yesterday, he told a Herald reporter he was half in sympathy with the DOACs. He says this country needs a new party with strong-arm methods. He’s been making a lot of violent speeches, so violent that even his own party has thrown him out.”
The Agent stared at Betty for a moment, eyes filled with speculation. He remembered the propaganda pamphlet he had found in Ridley’s room. Here certainly was another hot lead.
“Thanks, Betty,” he said quietly. “The Department of Justice is probably investigating Summerville now; but I’ll put one of my own men on his trail. What you tell me checks up with something I learned myself.”
Di Lauro and Summerville—it was conceivable that either might be operating the hidden mechanism behind the DOAC organization.
“I was at the state prison last night, Betty,” the Agent went on. “I saw the DOAC raid. I flew back to the city this morning just to get you. I want to get a line on Greta St. Clair and give her a word of warning. But, without somebody she knows to introduce me, I doubt if she’d let me in. She must be terrified at what happened to Carney last night. She’ll be suspicious of every stranger. I want to save her if I can from being kidnaped or killed by the DOACs.”
“She’s as safe as any one could be,” said Betty. “You’ll be surprised. She knew when I saw her that she was in danger from the underworld just because she is in love with Carney. That’s why she took that strange old house. It’s almost like a fortress, and she has guards—former friends of Carney’s, I think. Even the DOACs would think twice before they tried to kidnap her.”
“You haven’t seen any reports of the raid on the prison, then?” asked “X.”
Betty Dale shook her head.
> “No. Two of our men are there now. But the warden won’t see them. And all the eyewitnesses are afraid to speak. I know that some guards were shot. That’s all.”
The Agent’s answer was harsh. “Not only shot, Betty—bombed! The DOACs have some kind of new explosive. What it does isn’t pretty. That’s why I say Greta St. Clair is in danger. She may not know it; but she is. Carney himself asked me to warn her.”
“Carney? Then you are the one—” Betty Dale stopped speaking. She made it a point not to inquire into the Agent’s affairs.
“Yes, Betty. I took him away from the DOACs. I knew—I saw what would happen to any man who fell into their clutches.”
Betty Dale’s face went white—white with sudden fear now for the safety of the Agent. The love that she found so hard to conceal showed in her clear blue eyes. For a moment her slim fingers pressed his arm.
“You must be careful,” she said huskily. “If they ever found out— Perhaps the DOACs are responsible for those terrible murders that have taken place all over the country—the men whose mouths have been stopped with lead.”
“Perhaps,” echoed the Agent softly.
IT was after one when Betty Dale and Agent “X” came in sight of the house at Meadow Stream where Greta St. Clair lived. The Agent got a better look at it now. He’d been across the river when he had first seen it that morning. Only the roof and that one dormer window had been visible. Now, as he left the main highway and turned into a side road, he saw the main part of the house rising above a high brick wall.
The house was of brick, too, French colonial in style, ivy grown. The wall ran around the entire estate. No ivy grew on this. It had, he saw, been carefully cleared away, and on top of the bricks were strands of barbed wire, stretched tightly erect by steel posts. A wrought iron, old-fashioned carriage gate barred their way. The place, as Betty had said, was like a fortress.
And the man who came to the gate when “X” pressed the bronze electric button, was like a fortress guard. He had sharp eyes, a pock-marked face. One side of his coat bulged slightly. He was, “X” knew at once, a former denizen of the underworld. But at sight of Betty Dale the man broke into a genial grin.
Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2 Page 49
