The man touched an elaborate lock mechanism which had recently been riveted into the iron, drew back the big gate.
“Drive in, Miss Dale. The lady’s expecting you. She said you’d phoned her you was coming.”
The pock-marked guard gave Agent “X” a sharp glance which “X” returned.
The Agent drove slowly up the long driveway toward the house. He heard the iron gates clank behind them. Around the lawn, acting as gardeners, were several other sharp-eyed men. It was plain that several of Carney’s old mobsters had found a quiet refuge on this estate, guarding Carney’s fiancée. Were there, he wondered, any DOAC spies among them?
White columns held up a large carriage porch. The front doorsteps led up beneath it. Agent “X” drove under this. Betty Dale leaped lightly out.
Then suddenly she gave a piercing scream. Agent “X” whirled. He heard the scratching of claws on gravel and a chorus of low growls. Then he, too, leaped out and stood close to Betty.
Like streaks of tawny lightning a half dozen gigantic mastiffs came around the corner of the house. They stood in a semi-circle around “X” and Betty, hackles stiffly erect, fangs showing, and slowly, with menace in their greenish, heavy-lidded eyes, they crept closer.
Chapter IX
The Menace Spreads!
BETTY DALE screamed again. At almost the same instant the door of the house burst open. A woman stood framed in the threshold—a woman of thirty, chestnut haired, slim figured, delicately beautiful.
For an instant only she was still, then she took three quick strides in her slippered feet, moving out onto the top step. In her right hand was a small plaited whip of red-and-white rawhide.
“Mogul, Prince, Captain—get back!” she cried.
Her voice came with brittle precision as she spoke to the dogs. She stamped a slippered foot.
The animals did not move quite fast enough to suit her. Her hand nicked out like the hissing dart of a snake’s tongue. The lash curled around the nearest dog’s neck. The big animal gave a sudden yelp and leaped away. The others vanished with him, padding off softly on their huge paws. The woman on the steps smiled down at her visitors, showing white teeth between lips that were touched with crimson.
“I’m sorry to welcome you like this, Miss Dale. The dogs weren’t here when you came before. Michael made me get them—after that threat against him in prison. They’re a nuisance, but a protection. Won’t you and your friend come in?”
There was the gracious poise of the perfect hostess in the manner of Greta St. Clair. Looking at her stunning figure and soft features, hearing the refined modulation of her voice, Agent “X” marveled that such a woman had ever fallen for Mike Carney.
He studied her covertly, recalling how quickly she had brought the lash down on the dog’s neck. Perhaps for all her delicate beauty and apparent refinement there was a strain of cruelty, hardness, in her make-up. Perhaps she was more interested in Carney’s money than in the man himself. Whatever her motive for sticking close to Carney the risk she was running was real enough. The wall with its barbed wire, the armed guards, the dogs, could hardly protect her from the fiends who used the might of disintegrating, mangling bombs.
At the top of the steps, Betty Dale, still pale from her fright, introduced Secret Agent “X.”
“My friend, Claude Erskine,” she said. “He’s a reporter, too. He has it in mind to do an article about you for a movie magazine.”
Greta St. Clair laughed, brushing a strand of hair from her high, white forehead.
“But I am no longer in the movies,” she said.
Agent “X” leaned forward, looking into the woman’s eyes, his own bright and intent.
“Writing an article about you was only an excuse I gave Miss Dale in order to get an introduction,” he said. “My real purpose in coming here was to warn you—and question your servants.”
“Warn me?”
“Yes. The whole world knows that you love Michael Carney, Miss St. Clair. And since the whole world knows it, certain enemies of his know it, too. You are running a great risk in staying so close to him at the present time. Do you know it?”
Greta St. Clair drew herself up a little stiffly. An edge crept into her voice.
“I am no fool,” she said. “I know what I’m up against. You needn’t have come to warn me. Carney has told me enough—and I have taken every precaution. You saw those dogs. You may have seen the wire I’ve put around the wall. Among the barbed wires is another part of an alarm system. This place is like a fortress.”
“But the servants,” said “X,” dropping his voice. “You have no assurance that there are not spies among them.”
“You are wrong there. Most of them are Carney’s old friends, here to protect me. Come, I will show you.”
She led her visitors around the big house. She rang a bell and two men appeared. They, too, had the pale, poker faces of gangsters.
Greta St. Clair conducted Betty and the Agent down a flight of steps to a big cellar room. There were heavy iron shutters across the windows of this basement chamber. At the far end of it, under an electric light, was a target made of white pasteboard and marked in black circles. A number of bullet holes showed in it. Greta spoke to her two men who had followed her into the cellar.
“Show my friends what you can do,” she said sharply.
The two men’s faces remained impassive. Simultaneously they drew automatics from armpit holsters. So rapidly that the shots seemed to form a continuous stream of sound, they fired—and a dozen more bullet holes appeared in the target, some directly in the center of the bull’s-eye.
“You see,” said Greta. “They are perfect marksmen, and,” she added hastily, “they have permits to carry their guns. They guard me night and day. That is why I am not afraid.”
Agent “X” drew the woman aside.
“Those men,” he said, “who raided the prison last night had bombs and machine guns. Even your alarm system, your dogs and your armed guards could hardly withstand raiders who use wartime tactics.”
“You have not seen everything,” she said. “There are other precautions I have taken.”
SHE led them to the second floor of the large house next. As they ascended the stairs she pointed back to a huge square of boarding like a hatch cover. It was hinged and arranged so that it could be lowered over the top of the stairs, then bolted into place. Its under side was sheathed with steel plating.
She took them next into her bedroom. This had the rich furnishings of a woman who loves luxury. A canopied bed with hand-embroidered coverlets; a rosewood dresser littered with expensive knickknacks; soft rugs on the floor. But the windows of the room were crossed with stout iron bars. Greta St. Clair closed the door. That, too, was sheathed in sheet steel, painted to look like the walls.
“I could shut myself in here,” she said. “Long before the DOACs or any one else could get me, the police would come in answer to my alarm. If a single one of those wires is touched along the fence an electric siren on the roof will sound. It can even be heard in the prison across the river.”
“All this is clever,” said “X,” “but I’ve told you the DOACs use bombs. Just how terrible those bombs are I can hardly tell you. I hope you never will see. But men were killed before my eyes. An auto was crunched like a child’s toy. If they come after you they would blast through your armor plate and your barred windows.”
Greta St. Clair drew herself to her full height and spoke coldly.
“Whatever the risk, nothing can make me change my mind. Warden Johnson told me something over the phone that perhaps you do not know. Michael, for my sake, wants to serve his sentence until he is pardoned, so that he can become a respectable citizen again. He voluntarily came back to his cell last night after he had escaped from the DOACs. He might have left the country, but he did not. He isn’t afraid to run any risk for me. Neither am I afraid to run any risk to be near him. I shall continue to live here and visit him daily. It is the least I can do.�
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Agent “X” hid the sardonic gleam in his eyes, wondering what version of last night’s activities Carney had given to Warden Johnson.
Greta St. Clair served them cocktails, then they left. But not before the woman had given Betty Dale an invitation to dinner soon. She smiled upon Betty, but Agent “X” fancied that she was slightly cold to him.
HE drove Betty Dale back to the city, lost in deep thought. He was anxious now to get back to his office, anxious to extend the range of his operatives’ influence. Greta St. Clair’s house must be watched day and night to see that death and destruction did not creep upon her. And Betty had given him a valuable clue. He would post another operative near the residence of Benjamin Summerville, embittered industrialist who had voiced sympathy for the DOAC organization.
He said good-by to Betty, changed his disguise to E.E. Winstead, hurried to his office. In this campaign against the DOACs, the most serious menace to his country he had ever done battle with, he was moving with patience and strategy. One man, no matter how clever and versatile, could not be everywhere at once. Yet, through it all. Agent “X” was still playing a lone hand.
The men he had hired only collected facts for him, studied isolated evidences of DOAC activity. The whole country was “X’s” battle ground. He was prepared to rush to any state in the union at a moment’s notice. Prepared to go anywhere that the sinister lightning bolt of the DOACs might strike.
He put two more operatives on the job, selecting them from his carefully kept files.
One, a man named Chatfield, he sent to keep watch at night around Greta St. Clair’s estate. Another, Costigan, he dispatched to the town where Summerville lived. Both had orders to telephone or telegraph his office if anything should turn up. He stationed Ralph Peters, a former bellhop, now out of work, in his office to relay calls to him if he should telephone.
Then in his plane, the Blue Comet, Agent “X” took off for a tour of several states. There were many rumors to be investigated. DOAC activity was spreading like some sinister blight across the country. The Hooded Hordes were becoming more of a threat every day. Rumors were drifting in.
The papers were running scare headlines. Strikes were deliberately being fostered in many communities, it was said, with the aid of DOAC influence. Discontent was being wilfully encouraged. It was even stated that crops, in certain sections of the country, were being ruined at night by the armed and hooded terrorists.
All these reports Agent “X” weighed, investigated, sifted; landing at airport after airport. He visited farmers, industrialists, labor leaders; talked with his own operatives; planned new means of boring into the heart of the DOAC organization.
Every few hours he telephoned back to his office, and Ralph Peters gave him the information his other operatives in distant parts of the country had reported.
All this activity was costing Agent “X” thousands. For the first time in his career he was drawing heavily on the fund that had been subscribed and put at his disposal. But he was prepared to draw thousands more to fight the dread menace of DOAC activity….
It was on the afternoon of the third day of his protracted air tour that Ralph Peters relayed an exciting call to Agent “X.”
“That guy Costigan has been trying to get you for the last hour, boss,” Peters said.
Costigan was the man “X” had stationed near the home of Benjamin Summerville.
“What does he want?” the Agent asked quickly.
“I don’t know, sir. He left a number and said you could call him at four. He sounded excited.”
Agent “X” hung up, frowning. He flew to another town, looked at his watch and saw that it was just four o’clock. Then he called Costigan.
The man answered immediately, as though he had been waiting close beside the phone. His voice held a note of triumph.
“Boss, I been talking to one of Summerville’s servants. There’s something funny going on. A guy’s staying at Summerville’s house that nobody is allowed to see. One of the maids told the butler about him, the butler told the gardener, and the gardener told me. This guy calls himself Doctor Lorenzo, but he never goes out except at night. Summerville’s daughter is sweet on him, I think. She goes with him, sometimes. The maid says he’s writing a book, and she saw his real name on the manuscript. It isn’t Lorenzo at all, boss. It’s the name of a prisoner who was paroled from the big house a while back.”
“Yes—and what prisoner was that?” The Agent’s tone was vibrant as he asked the question.
“A guy named Leon Di Lauro, boss. That ought to make a good story for your paper. I remember reading that Di Lauro jumped parole, and the dicks are after him right now!”
Chapter X
Summerville’s Guest
A TINGLE of tense excitement coursed up the Secret Agent’s spine. Benjamin Summerville harboring Leon Di Lauro. Michael Carney’s suspect and Betty Dale’s suspect together. Here was a development worth investigating at once.
The Secret Agent cancelled his scheduled visits to other communities where DOAC activity had been reported. He sped to the airport in a taxi, climbed into the cockpit of the Blue Comet, and headed the cowled nose of the fast plane eastward.
Villages, cities, and open country streamed below him. He studied his map as he flew along. Summerville lived now in the town of Norwick, in southern Connecticut. A small municipal landing field was marked there on the map. The Agent made quick time across many states.
It was just at dusk that he landed at Norwick; but he did not go directly to Summerville’s home. First he got in touch with Costigan, receiving a more detailed report of all that the man had learned. Costigan, formerly attached to a small detective agency, had done his part well. Posing as an unemployed man he had actually gotten work on the grounds of the Summerville estate. It was from the gardener that he had picked up his information.
“It’s a big house, boss,” Costigan said to the Agent, who came in the disguise of Winstead. “Lorenzo or Di Lauro stays somewhere in the left wing. I couldn’t see his room. And you want to be careful if you talk to Summerville. He’s got a couple of huskies working for him inside. They look like ex-pugs or bouncers in some tough joint. They gave a couple of reporters the bum’s rush yesterday.”
Agent “X” nodded. “You can take the evening off, Costigan. You have given me the information I wanted.”
Costigan looked troubled. “You don’t want me to hang around the place then in case somebody gets rough with you.”
“No. I’ll take care of myself.”
There was assurance in the Secret Agent’s tone. By one means or another he intended to interview Summerville. He would judge the man’s character for himself, and get a look at his mysterious guest.
A taxi took “X” to the suburbs where the former senator and industrialist still lived. Summerville claimed to have lost his fortune in the depression. His mills were closed down. But there were those who said it was because he was too niggardly to pay decent wages. He’d been a bitter opponent of the NRA, refusing to conform to any code. Now, shut away in his big estate, he lived a feudal-like existence, out of touch with his political party and his former friends.
Agent “X” dismissed his cab and walked boldly up the drive of the Summerville residence. At his ring a tall, beefy man opened the door. “X” remembered Costigan’s words. This man, for all his smartly cut clothes, had the ugly face of a small-time pugilist who had been battered in the ring. One eye was squinted. There was a scar across his lip. His right ear was enlarged and had cauliflower crinkles. He scowled at Agent “X.”
“Whadda you want?”
“To see Mr. Summerville. I’m certain he’ll want to talk to me. I represent the Associated Press.”
Without waiting for a reply Agent “X” shouldered his way in. He was past the big butler before the servant could stop him. But the man slammed the door and overtook “X” in three strides as he was crossing a tiled hallway.
“You gotta wait here!”
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The servant muscled “X” toward a small reception room at the left. Ungraciously he took the card “X” handed him, pointed to a chair, turned on his heel and left.
The Agent did not sit down. He started to move about the small room, stopped. Another servant had appeared as if by magic and was standing in the doorway regarding him.
The Agent took out a cigarette and smoked it as he waited.
TWO minutes passed and the servant who had been set to watch him did not move. As silent and immobile as a statue, he remained in the doorway. Then footsteps sounded. The butler returned. He held “X’s” card in his fingers. Deliberately he tore the card in fragments and flung the pieces toward an unlighted open fireplace.
“This way,” he said harshly. “You can’t see Mr. Summerville. He’s busy. He don’t want to talk to the press any more.”
Agent “X” didn’t move. Calmly he puffed on his cigarette. The big butler made a sound in his throat that might have been an order or a growl of irritation. He nodded to the smaller man. Both of them stepped forward and grabbed “X’s” arms.
“X” did not protest as they led him to the door. Faster and faster they propelled him, while a third servant, a scared-looking little man, opened the big front door. The two who held “X” tried to heave him across the front steps so that he would stumble and fall.
At this point he jerked away, then struck out deftly and quickly with both hands. His knuckles hit just above the belts of the two men, knocking the wind out of them. They staggered back, making strangling noises, clutching their middles, while the Agent sauntered nonchalantly down the drive.
Out of sight of the house, he turned quickly and walked beside the iron fence that encircled the huge estate. At a point where shadows were darkest he suddenly reached up and grasped the topmost spikes of the fence. Strands of barbed wire were twisted around these spikes. The Agent, moving cautiously as he drew himself up, was careful not to stir them. He stepped across the wires, balancing expertly, then jumped down and dropped to the lawn below.
Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2 Page 50
