Only for a moment did that powerful face remain under the glare of the daylight bulb. The long skillful fingers worked surely, efficiently, and shortly there appeared the face of John Harder—the fugitive from justice, the friend of Gilly, the gunman.
AN hour later of that same evening a man might have been seen making his way west across Times Square, hat brim pulled down and coat collar turned up against the steady drizzle that was slanting downward out of a pitch-black sky. Any policeman in New York would have recognized the features of that man if he had looked into his face; for they were the features of the notorious John Harder, wanted for murder in three states, whose picture had been broadcast in every newspaper in the country.
But Secret Agent “X” passed unmolested across the world’s busiest thoroughfare, proving once more the truth of the old adage that the best hiding place is generally in the most conspicuous spot.
The clock on the Paramount Building said ten o’clock. Electric signs flashed all along Forty-second Street, announcing burlesque, movies, legitimate drama, penny arcades, restaurants, special sales, announcing, in fact, every possible attraction to lure pennies, quarters, halves and dollars from the pockets of the amusement seekers who thronged the streets. None of those amusement seekers was aware that here, almost at their very elbows, was being staged a greater, tenser drama than any they could pay their good money to see in the gaudily lit theatres.
Secret Agent “X” made his way over to Eighth Avenue. The rain was increasing in intensity, and he lowered his head to allow the water to slide off his hat brim. But he kept his eyes ever watchful, eyeing passers-by and loiterers, appraising them swiftly, certainly. The unknown foes that he was setting out to pit himself against were diabolically clever. They might even be shadowing him already. At the corner of Eighth Avenue and Forty-second, a man stood looking into the window of a cheap clothing store.
The Agent came up beside this man, but did not look at him. Instead, he glanced in the window, appeared to be interested in the display. After a moment, “X” began to run his forefinger along the front of the window, tracing an idle pattern. He noted that the man was watching now, out of the corner of one eye, and the Agent swiftly wrote the word, “Bates” on the wet pane. The man saw it, but made no motion to indicate that he understood. After a moment, though, he turned and walked unconcernedly around the corner and up Eighth Avenue.
He stopped in the middle of the block before the brightly lit window of Haley’s Bar and Grill. There was a colorful display of bottles in the window, accompanied by the sign, “Licensed to serve wines and liquors.”
The man who had led “X” around the corner stopped for a moment, nodded almost imperceptibly in the direction of a second man who stood close to the doorway of Haley’s, and continued on his walk.
The Secret Agent turned toward the entrance, drawing a cigarette from his pocket. At the door he stopped, asked the man standing there for a light. The man obligingly produced a book of matches, lit one and cupped the flame from the rain while “X” lit his cigarette. He murmured, “Teagle is in the rear room in the third booth on the left. Stegman and I picked him up easy. He’s all alone; seems to be waiting for some one.”
“X” said, “Good work, Oliver. You and Stegman are relieved for the night. Report back to Bates, then you can go home.”
Oliver said, “Right, sir,” and left, walking in the direction Stegman had taken. If he recognized the face of the man he had just spoken to, he gave no sign of it. Those who were in the employ of Secret Agent “X” were trained never to ask questions, never to wonder at the sometimes curious things they were ordered to do.
THE Secret Agent, meanwhile, entered the barroom, walked through, past the long bar lined with drinkers, and into the rear room. This was equipped with tables set into booths along both walls.
Linky Teagle sat in the third booth, as Oliver had said. He was glowering moodily at a glass of beer, half empty, on the table before him. Teagle was a man of medium size, with a thin, pinched face, small eyes that never rested and never looked directly at anyone. Sparse, muddy-colored hair was combed back from a low forehead in an effort to conceal the fact that he was almost bald. He was dressed in a tight fitting double-breasted blue serge suit, and the automatic holstered under his left armpit made a visible bulge under his coat.
He looked up with a start as the Agent slid into the seat opposite him, and frowned when he found it was not the person he apparently expected. His frown changed to a look of consternation as “X” removed his hat, and he recognized the widely advertised features of John Harder. He glanced around furtively, made sure that no one had noticed, and muttered without moving his lips, “Put that hat on, quick! You nuts?”
“X” obeyed, smiling grimly. His ruse was thus far successful. Everything depended now upon whether Linky Teagle was really in possession of any information about those escaped convicts, as Leane Manners had suggested in the hint she had dropped.
Teagle said, “You’re Harder. What the hell you doin’ in this town? You’ll get spotted inside of half an hour!”
“X” said slowly, his voice assuming a toughness that went well with the character he was impersonating, “That’s my lookout, Teagle. I got to talk to you.”
“Not here, damn it. Wouldn’t I look swell, bein’ found with you? The cops would ride me for ten years. There’s a law in this state about consortin’ with known criminals. Who sent you to me?”
“I’ve heard o’ you,” said “X.” “I got to get in touch with an old pal o’ mine by the name o’ Gilly—” he watched the other keenly as he mentioned Gilly’s name, and detected a quickly suppressed start of alarm. “He broke outta jail a while ago with some more guys, an’ I gotta see him. I’ve been told you know where he is. How about it?”
Teagle made to rise. “We can’t talk about that here. Let’s get out some place—”
“X” put out a hand, restrained him. He was close to victory. By his very attitude, Teagle had half admitted that he knew where Gilly was. Taken by surprise, his mind had failed to react quickly enough so that he could make immediate denial. By failing to make that denial, he had implied that he knew what “X” wanted to know.
“X” spoke tensely. “We don’t need to talk about it. You know me. You know I’m one of the boys. Take me to Gilly.”
Teagle’s face was pale, but there was a crafty gleam in his eyes. “Forget it. I don’t know a thing about it; ain’t heard from Gilly since he broke outta State Prison with the rest of the boys. Whoever told you I know where he is was givin’ you a sleigh ride.” He glanced around the place nervously, and gulped the rest of his beer. “Better scram, big boy. 1 can’t help you, an’ you’ll only make it bad for me if I’m found wit’ you. Besides,” he added urgently, “I’m expectin’ some one here any minute now—an’ it wouldn’t be so good for you to meet—that person.”
The Agent made no move to leave. His eyes bored into the other’s as he said slowly, very low, “Teagle, I know you can put me wise where Gilly is. I need to see him bad. If you hold out on me, I’ll figure you for a wrong guy. And, Teagle, you know how I handle wrong guys!” He waited a moment, watched Linky Teagle’s hands move aimlessly, nervously on the table. The go-between knew Harder’s reputation, knew that Harder had killed often in the past on very little provocation.
The Agent went on gently, “On the other hand, I’m a great guy to my pals. Anybody who treats me right don’t suffer by it. I got plenty of dough, Teagle, an’ I’m willing to pay for favors!”
Teagle’s hands stopped moving on the table. There was a greedy, appraising look in his eyes. He wet his lips. “How—how much would it be worth to you—supposin’ I could dig up the dope on Gilly?”
“How does a couple of grand sound to you, Teagle?”
The Agent saw the light of avarice dissipate the sullenness from the other’s face.
Teagle hesitated a moment, then said, “I—I think maybe it could be managed. I’d have to get in touch
with some people, an’ maybe it would take a couple of hours. Tell you what—” he was almost eager now “—you meet me in front of this place at twelve tonight, an’ I’ll tell you if it’s okay. Better go now, before my friend that I’m expectin’ gets here.”
The Secret Agent rose. “I’ll be here at twelve,” he said shortly.
Teagle looked up at him, said, “I ain’t tryin’ to give you advice or nothin’, but you better put on some work clothes, an’ grease up your face. You’re takin’ an awful chance walkin’ the streets this way.”
“I’ll worry about that,” the Agent told him. He leaned over the table, acting out the character of the tough John Harder. “You wouldn’t be thinkin’ of any kind of a double-cross, would you, Teagle?”
Linky Teagle stared back into the hard face above him. “I got a reputation,” he exclaimed indignantly, keeping his voice low with an effort. “Nobody can say that Linky Teagle ever squealed!”
The Agent nodded. “See that you keep that reputation.”
HE walked through the front bar, with his hat brim turned low. Outside, the rain was coming down fast. But the Agent did not hurry away. Instead, he turned into a nearby doorway, and with swift fingers he remodeled the lines of his face. John Harder, the fugitive from justice, disappeared. Working in the dark, by the sense of touch only, the Agent smoothed away the lines of dissipation that had marked the features of Harder, removed the plate from his teeth, inserting another. He discarded the slouch hat, replacing it with a cap which he produced from an inside pocket, and took off the brilliant-hued necktie he had worn, donned, instead, a staid green tie. He reversed his topcoat. The inside became the outside now, and being of waterproofed tweed, gave the appearance of a raincoat.
When he emerged from the doorway, he was no longer John Harder, but a pale, anaemic looking clerk in search of a drink.
Once more he entered Haley’s Grill, made his way to the rear, and seated himself in a booth commanding a view of Linky Teagle’s table. Teagle’s expected guest had already arrived. “X” tensed as he recognized the broad shoulders, the bull neck, and the dominating features of “Duke” Marcy!
Marcy was talking very low, almost inaudibly, and Teagle was bent forward, ears straining to catch his words. When Teagle spoke in reply, his voice was just as low. It was impossible to overhear their conversation, impossible to get any closer without arousing suspicion. The subject of their talk would have to remain their secret for the present.
The Agent ate a few bites of the sandwich he had ordered, drank part of the coffee, and left. He would have given much to know what Marcy and Teagle were discussing, but there were many things he had to do yet tonight. He felt somehow that he was drawing closer to the heart of the mystery surrounding that ruthless jail break. If Teagle kept his appointment at midnight, he might reach to the very core of it. He might, too, be walking into a trap—especially in view of the fact that Teagle was intimate with Marcy. But that was a risk that Secret Agent “X” was always prepared to take. If “X” had continued to shadow Linky Teagle, he might have heard a very illuminating conversation. For Teagle, after a short talk with Marcy, arose, while the ex-gangster waited for him, and went outside, crossed the street to a phone booth in a drug store. The rumble of the subway drowned most of his conversation, but some fragmentary phrases were audible. “—wants to join up... not a chance?—how’ll I stall him?... what! You sure Harder died last month? Then this guy must be phony... I’m meetin’ him at twelve... will you have some men around?... I don’t know who he can be—say! There’s only one guy I ever heard of who could pull a make-up like that to fool me! I bet it’s...”
When Teagle returned to the booth where Marcy awaited him, his cunning little eyes were shining with excitement. He could not repress his news. He leaned over the table, whispered confidentially to the big ex-gangster...
Chapter IV
IN THE NAME OF CHARITY
SECRET AGENT “X” was also making a telephone call at a booth not a block away from the drug store where Teagle was talking. “X’s” call was to another of his lieutenants, perhaps the most trusted—Betty Dale.
She was always glad to help him, eager to hear his voice.
Often weeks passed during which she did not hear from him, during which she lived in an agony of uncertainty as to whether or not he still lived; for she knew that his chosen career carried him ever into the byways of danger where a man’s life is, more often than not, measured by the speed of a lethal bullet or the flashing arc of a sharp-edged knife.
Only when she heard his voice on the wire after such a period did she breathe a sigh of relief, only to give way once more to concern over his safety—for she also knew that when he called her he was again engaged in some stupendous battle with crime and required her services.
She wasted no time in banalities now, for she knew what matter the Agent was working on, recognized the urgency in his voice.
“I haven’t been able to dig up a thing on the jail break,” she told him regretfully. “My paper is going to increase its offer of a reward to ten thousand dollars; but I’m afraid it won’t do any good. If there are people in the underworld who have information, they are too much in fear of their lives to try to sell it.”
“I know, Betty,” the Agent said. “But there is another angle I want to look into, and I think you can help.”
“What is that?” she asked eagerly.
“Didn’t you do some publicity work last year for a Broadway show?”
“Yes. The name of it was, ‘Woman in Black.’ Mabel Boling was the star.”
“Exactly. You got to know Mabel Boling pretty well, didn’t you?”
Betty sounded puzzled. “Why, yes. Mabel feels she owes me a lot; her show would have been a failure without the publicity I developed for her. But—what has she got to do with this—”
The Agent’s voice interrupted her. “Mabel Boling is very close to ‘Duke’ Marcy. And there may be a connection there with this matter I’m investigating. I’d like to meet Mabel Boling, Betty.”
“You couldn’t have called at a better time,” Betty told him. “I can arrange for you to meet her tonight if you wish!”
“How?”
“There’s a bazaar at the Grand Central Palace. It’s a society affair and is being given to raise a fund for the relief of the unemployed. Mabel Boling is going to be there.”
“Mabel Boling—at a society bazaar?” the Agent asked.
Betty laughed. “It may sound funny, but Mabel’s up in the world these days. She doesn’t see ‘Duke’ Marcy any more—at least, not in public. She hangs out a lot with young Harry Pringle, the deputy commissioner’s son—he’s crazy about her. And, since Harry is on the bazaar committee, Mabel will be there, too.
“I see,” said “X,” reflectively.
“I was just dressing to attend the bazaar myself. I am covering it for my paper. If you’ll meet me there, I’ll introduce you to Mabel.”
The Agent figured time quickly. His appointment with Linky Teagle was for midnight. It was not ten-thirty. He’d have ample time to stop in at the bazaar, meet Mabel Boling, and still keep the appointment.
“I’ll be there,” he said.
Betty’s voice was troubled. “How will I know you?”
“Don’t worry,” he chuckled. “I’ll make myself known to you!”
Betty Dale did not know at the moment that by her eager invitation she was unwittingly placing the man she admired most in the world in the greatest danger he had ever faced in his career.
THE 1934 Unemployment Bazaar was the most lavish undertaking in years. Society had subscribed heavily, men and women of wealth entered into the spirit of the affair with the greatest of enthusiasm. It was as if these favored of fortune were seeking by some means to ease their consciences of the burden of the knowledge that thousands of families went without food and clothing while they basked in the lap of luxury.
Limousines were parked down the length of Lexington Avenue and
in all the side streets. Fully five thousand people were circulating upstairs in the huge bazaar room, which had been equipped with booths all around the four walls. Manufacturers of everything under the sun had rented booths here, content to display their names, to give out samples of their merchandise, and to have it known that they supported the cause.
Other booths had wheels of chance at a dollar to five dollars a throw. And at these booths the elite of New York’s wealthy class amused themselves, winning baby dolls and trinkets of no intrinsic value.
One man, immaculate in his evening clothes, accompanied by two ladies in dresses that must have cost enough to feed a hundred families, spent fifty dollars at one of the wheels before he got a winning number and won a stuffed kewpie. He presented it to one of the ladies with him. She carried it around with her proudly. The man was Roderick Pringle, wealthy banker, who was serving as deputy police commissioner. He was the father of Harry Pringle, the young man whom Betty Dale had mentioned. The lady to whom he had presented the kewpie was his daughter, the other was his wife.
The daughter said, pouting, “It’s a wonder, dad, that Harry doesn’t pay some attention to us. He’s one of the committee here and supposed to be busy, but he does nothing except hang on to the skirts of that Boling woman!”
Roderick Pringle, frowning, followed with his eyes the glance of his daughter, across to where a handsome young man of perhaps twenty-nine or thirty stood in earnest conversation with a beautiful, hard-faced, dark-haired woman at least five years his senior.
The face of the portly deputy commissioner became choleric. “He’s at it again, in spite of what I told him! He has no consideration for his official position. The woman’s not even a good actress—and she consorts with underworld characters.” His voice became caustic. “A fine crowd for the son of the deputy police commissioner to hang out with!” He clenched his fist. “Wait till we get home—I’ll give it to that young pup. This has got to stop, once and for all!”
Secret Agent X : The Complete Series Volume 3 Page 20