Secret Agent X : The Complete Series Volume 3

by Emile C. Tepperman

  “You!” breathed Betty Dale. “I didn’t understand—I thought—Of course I’d like you as an escort. You know—”

  Confusion made the girl stop; yet there had been warmth, pleasure, expectancy in her reply. Often before she had given the Secret Agent aid in his desperate work. Often they had shared stark dangers together and walked in the Valley of the Shadow side by side. Never knowingly had she seen the Agent undisguised. His identity was a mystery to her as to the rest of the world. Yet she had felt his power, honesty, courage and unswerving purpose. Beside him others whom she knew seemed tame, commonplace.

  “Tomorrow evening,” she added quickly. “Eight-thirty at my apartment. I’ll be—waiting.”

  THE next night a sleek, high-powered limousine with a chauffeur at the wheel drew up before a big apartment building. Whitney Blake’s penthouse was on the top.

  In the vestibule below, a liveried doorman helped from the car a girl of decisive, glamorous beauty. She wore a shimmering evening gown of white satin. A black velvet wrap trimmed with fur fell from gleamingly white shoulders. The golden, lustrous hair that was like imprisoned sunlight was set off by a tiara of sparkling brilliants. In spite of her career as a newspaper woman there was an unspoiled freshness about Betty Dale. The strength in her firm little chin and clear eyes only heightened her appeal.

  The man who escorted her was broad-shouldered. His formal black-and-white garb was tailored to bring out the lines of a muscular, tapering body. The tan on his face suggested the polo field and the hunting trail. He had the easy poise of a man who had devoted his life to graceful, luxurious, selfish existence. The poise of a clubman, and wealthy sportsman at home in the city’s most exclusive drawing rooms. Again Secret Agent “X” was playing a masterly role.

  As Ben Buchanan, society gallant, he was just the sort to be welcomed into the gay, sophisticated circle of Paula Rockwell’s friends.

  A private elevator whisked them to the twenty-second floor. A door clicked open, and they stepped into an anteroom of the lavish, spacious penthouse of Whitney Blake.

  The party was already in noisy progress when “X” and Betty Dale were ushered into the large drawing-room. The Secret Agent looked about him. Beneath this atmosphere of luxury and gaiety, it was possible that he might find the sinister footprints of crime.

  The lights were subdued. The music was lilting. In the air was a blend of many soft perfumes, from flowers that stood in tall vases, and from the gowns and bodies of the lovely, glamorously dressed women present. Couples were dancing on the front terrace. In the rear, adding a touch of unconventionality to appeal to the younger set, was a swimming pool, made gay with colored lights. Guests in bathing suits were making use of this. Short swims were being mixed with long drinks.

  Many times the Secret Agent had mingled with false and boisterous gaiety of this sort. He knew how to appear to be a part of it. Yet in his heart he felt contempt for it. To one who had known the closeness of death in the pursuit of master criminals, to one who had had adventures in the shadowy underworlds of crime, the false thrills and inanities of drunken wit and alcoholic capers were insipid. Betty Dale spoke softly in his ear.

  “There’s always a mixed crowd at Paula Rockwell’s. She’s an excitement seeker and social lion hunter, too.”

  “I rather think she is,” said the Agent significantly.

  A tall, dark man was coming in from Whitney Blake’s private bar. “X” recognized him as Count Remy de Ronfort. A girl ran in from the terrace and grabbed the count’s arm. She was a fluffy-haired, doll-faced debutante dressed in blue chiffon.

  “There’s Paula now,” said Betty. “They make a picture, don’t they?”

  The Agent did not answer. His eyes were upon de Ronfort. The count’s smile was ingratiating. “X” could see at a glance that the man had mastered all the social tricks and graces that pass for charm. He had a slight look of dissipation, a slight air of boredom. The small mustache that graced his upper lip was trimmed and trained elegantly. He cut a dashing figure in his evening clothes. Despite his former criminal activities, Remy de Ronfort, in appearance and manner, was as correct as some fashion plate.

  Paula Rockwell saw Betty and ran forward, tugging the Count with her.

  “Miss Dale,” she cooed. “I’m so glad you’re here! It’s the party of the season. Everybody’s come. All the worth-while people. You must give it a big splurge in tomorrow’s Herald. And don’t forget my fiancé—the Count. His favorite reading is the news stories about himself. And you won’t find me dodging any cameras.”

  Paula Rockwell had beauty of a sort; red lips, dancing eyes. But there was an exaggerated coyness about her. Her face mirrored a shallow, empty mind. She drove twelve-cylinder cars and had a one-cylinder brain.

  Studying de Ronfort, “X” saw that the man was playing a part. His treatment of Paula Rockwell was the last word in tact. He laughed at her commonplace sallies, baited her into feeling clever, and made her the center of attraction. Behind his actions was the scheming cunning of a man set to get a rich wife. But what did the Count do for money now? That interested “X.”

  DE RONFORT murmured polite nothings to Betty. In a moment Paula Rockwell led him away proprietarily to meet some other newly arrived guests. She guided them and the count toward the end of the room. Agent “X” looked in the direction where the engaged couple were headed.

  “The old chap in the arm-chair over there in the corner is Whitney Blake,” said Betty. “He had a paralytic stroke after the stock market crash in ’29. The sight of two million going up in smoke was too much for him; but he still has enough left to buy polo ponies and yachts, for Paula and her Count.”

  For a moment the Agent’s eyes became fixed on the ex-financier, a white-haired, craggy-faced man. Then they switched from him to another man close by and he asked a sudden question.

  “Isn’t that Silas Howe talking to Blake, Betty? How did he crash a party like this?”

  Betty Bale stared, then nodded.

  “It’s Howe all right. They were talking about him at the Herald office this afternoon. He’s already campaigning against narcotics. He wants to lead a crusade and grab a lot of publicity for himself. I suspect he’s here to make Whitney Blake contribute. He has an apartment in this building and must have crashed the party.”

  The Agent’s eyes narrowed. Even here at this gay party the drug menace was making itself felt. Howe, a famous reformer and temperance man, with a rawboned body and a long nose that seemed especially made to be thrust into other people’s affairs, had seen fit to come. The Demon Rum was no longer in the limelight. Howe saw his chance to win notoriety by battling the Demon Drugs.

  He began haranguing Whitney Blake now, and the Agent became instantly alert. He moved closer, to overhear the conversation and see what opinions Howe held. The reformer’s voice rose blatantly.

  “I tell you, Blake, the big-stick policy must be used against the underworld. Catch all the crooks—make ’em tell what they know—and you’ll run this thing to the ground. I intend to form vigilance committees and—” Howe paused to wipe his gaunt, perspiring face “—I appeal to you as a man of wealth to aid me. I have seen the light again. I’ve come out of retirement. I intend to wipe out the drug evil in America. Contribute ten thousand dollars, Blake, and your fellow citizens will be eternally grateful.”

  Blake said nothing. He chewed his cigar thoughtfully. Count de Ronfort, standing near-by with a contemptuous smile on his face, addressed Howe.

  “You wouldn’t take the work of the police away from them, would you, my frien’?”

  “The police?” sneered Howe. “What have they done? Nothing, nothing, except bungle. Their feet are bogged down in politics. Graft is a festering sore in their midst. A non-partisan organization must fight this thing. That’s why I’m collecting contributions from men like Blake. And I won’t take no for an answer. I know that Blake and others like him will back me up when they learn the facts. I know I can depend on them.”

&
nbsp; Silas Howe had the fire of a fanatic and an egotist. He pictured himself as a knight in armor leading a crusade against evil. His voice rose to the hoarse note of a frenzied orator. People gathered about. Whitney Blake listened patiently for a while, then began to show irritation in the tapping of his black cane. He spoke at last, ignoring Howe’s eloquence.

  “If the police have bungled,” he said, “I don’t think you and your vigilance committees will get organized enough to do even that. You’re theorists—all of you. Talk can’t win against organized crime. I’ve no desire to contribute money that will be given over in fat salaries to speech-makers. If you want to see some action, Howe, get yourself sworn in as a deputy and join the police or the narcotics bureau. Maybe when hopheads start shooting at you, you won’t be so anxious to lead the crusade.”

  HOWE’S lean face turned crimson with fury. He choked down his anger, tried a wheedling tone on Blake. The ex-financier made an impatient gesture and drew out a fresh cigar which de Ronfort courteously lighted for him. Betty Dale laughed in the Secret Agent’s ear.

  “Howe has met his match,” she said. “He’s a publicity hound and Blake knows it.”

  Agent “X” nodded. He led Betty onto the dance floor. For five minutes they were engaged in the intricate steps of a new tango; then the alert eyes of “X,” trained to miss nothing, began to notice a queer change in the guests. His fingers tightened on his dancing partner’s arm. His voice was tense.

  “Look, Betty, there’s something going on here!”

  What the Secret Agent had seen was this. Members of the party, who a short time before appeared fatigued with dancing and sodden with drink, now began to show signs of feverish activity. Their eyes were brighter. Their conversation more noisy, their laughter shrill and metallic. A couple bumped into them and made a vulgar sally. Betty Dale grew tense.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  “X” had a theory of his own, but he said nothing. He led Betty off the dance floor and they watched and waited. A youth, strangely restless, and circulating through the room, teetered up to them. He had a box of fancy Turkish blend cigarettes in his hand. With a brittle laugh he held this out to the Agent.

  “Try one, pal ol’ pal!” he invited. “They’re good for that tired feeling. They pep you up in a jiffy. See for yourself!”

  Calmly the Agent took one; but there was a smoldering light in his own eyes. He touched a match to the cigarette, inhaled deeply, while the youth nodded and smiled.

  “Makes you feel good, doesn’t it, pal?” he said.

  Still Agent “X” said nothing, but at the third breath a sudden sense of exhilaration filled him. He held the cigarette in his hand, said quietly:

  “Where did you get these?”

  The youth tittered. “A chap in the dressing room gave them to me. Said they were a sort of rejuvenator. And he hit the nail on the head. They’re just what’s needed at a dumb jamboree like this. Here!”

  He held the box out for Betty Dale.

  “Pardon me, lady, should have offered them to you first—but they make a fellow forget his manners.”

  At a sudden warning glance from Agent “X” Betty Dale refused. The Agent had become hawk-eyed now. He did not puff the cigarette again, but he watched the youth closely. The fellow, still in his teens, was obviously a guileless sort. Pleased with the effect of the cigarettes on himself, he was sharing his find with others. He offered a smoke to Paula Rockwell next, and with a coy glance at him she accepted.

  The youth struck a match gallantly and held it out for her. But before Paula could get a light Count de Ronfort stepped in suavely. His long hand reached out, drew the cigarette from her fingers. He snapped it in two, dropped it.

  “Come, ma cherie,” he said. “That is Turkish and too exotic for your American taste. One of my own would be better—the kind you have been smoking all evening. One must be consistent in these things.”

  Paula Rockwell made an annoyed moue with her red lips, but she accepted the Count’s cigarette.

  “You are so masterful, Remy,” she said.

  Agent “X” had seen this small byplay. His heartbeat had quickened. De Ronfort had known that there was something queer about the cigarettes the youth was offering. Either he had previously tried one himself, or—

  “X” did not question him now. He was casually trailing the youth across the penthouse floor. Many guests accepted the smokes he offered. His supply was diminishing. He lit another himself, inhaled hungrily, and came to the side of Silas Howe.

  “Have one on me, grandpa,” he said flippantly.

  THE reformer’s rawboned figure stiffened. His face quivered with the righteous indignation of his profession.

  “Young man,” he said, “your manners are conspicuous by their absence. Treat your elders with respect—and take those filthy weeds away. I never have and never will touch tobacco in any form.”

  The youth tittered again, and gave a burlesque salute.

  “Then I’ll keep the rest of these for myself,” he said. “Thanks, ol’ man, thanks.”

  He started to slip the box into his pocket; but Agent “X” laid a sudden hand on his arm.

  “Tell me about this chap who gave those to you!” he said. “He was in the dressing room, you say. Suppose you introduce me to him.”

  The youth smiled slyly. “Want a box of ’em for yourself, eh? Well, all right. I never was one to hog a good thing. Come on!”

  He led “X” to the dressing room for men, looked about and shook his head.

  “The chap’s gone,” he said. “He must have buzzed out.”

  “Then we’ll hunt him down,” said “X” grimly.

  He escorted the youth through the various rooms, till the young man began to complain.

  “What’s this—a walking tour! He’s gone, I say. Never saw him before in my life. Now he’s breezed out. Here, I’ll divvy with you. Can’t go buzzing about like this all night.”

  He took out the box of cigarettes. Agent “X” snatched them from his fingers, watching the young man’s face. Indignation alone was expressed there.

  “I say!” he cried. “A fine pal you turned out to be. Grab ’em all for yourself. You can’t get away with that.”

  In a moment the Agent’s voice grew hard. He stepped close to the man, caught his arm and faced him.

  “Don’t be a fool,” he said, “There’s dope in these cigarettes. The tobacco’s loaded with it. That’s why they ‘pep’ you up!”

  “Dope!” the youth’s face expressed horror. “It’s rot! Paula Rockwell wouldn’t have dope at her party.”

  “You say yourself you got them from a stranger. He isn’t here now. Look, he’s passed out dozens of those cigarettes. Half the people here have been smoking them.”

  “And who are you, a dick?”

  “No, a man who recognizes dope when he comes across it.”

  The youth passed a shaky hand across his flushed face. “I guess you’re right at that,” he said. “I feel—funny. Like floating away, or getting into a fight, or something.”

  “Go over and sit down,” said “X” firmly. “Say nothing about this to anyone, but if you see that man who passed them out again tell me.”

  The youth nodded, stumbled toward a seat. Agent “X” turned back to Betty Dale. Just as he reached her side a small, self-effacing man came up. He had a paper in his hand.

  “I’m Rivers,” he said, “Mr. Blake’s secretary. You’re Miss Dale of the Herald, I’m told. Miss Rockwell said to give you this, a list of tonight’s guests. And if there’s any other information you wish I—er—will be pleased to give it to you.”

  Betty Dale thanked the man absently and took the list. There was a grim smile on the Agent’s face. Paula Rockwell was seeking publicity, seeking to feed her shallow-minded vanity—while the coils of the drug evil wound themselves about her guests, and the viperlike poison of dope bit into their hearts and minds.

  Before the Agent could speak his thoughts to Betty ther
e was a sudden startling racket outside, near one of the French windows leading to a side balcony.

  Those in the spacious drawing room stopped tensely in their tracks. Eyes turned, necks craned. Then gasps went up.

  For the French windows swung inward, banging against the wall. Glass shattered and shivered to the floor, and framed in the opening a wild-eyed, unshaven man crouched. He stood there a moment, peering at the crowd, blinking at the light. Then he stepped inside, and a woman gave a terrified shriek.

  The man had the look of a hunted beast. His eyes were savage, sunken, with a curious haunted expression. The skin of his face was as tight as a death’s head. The muscles beneath it twitched painfully. He was sniffing like an animal, with nostrils dilated. His clothing was torn, dirty and threadbare, and one hand was thrust before him rigidly. In the fingers of it was clutched a long-bladed knife.

  His eyes swiveled about the room. They focused with an insane glare on the group in the corner, where Paula Rockwell, de Ronfort, Silas Howe and others were grouped about Blake in his arm-chair.

  The stranger’s breath hissed through clenched teeth. He uttered a shrill, hate-impelled cry and pointed. The Agent started for the man. But the stranger gave a second wild, blood-curdling shout and leaped madly forward, brandishing the wicked sliver of gleaming steel overhead.

  Chapter VII

  MYSTERY MURDER

  AT that instant a swift outburst came from Silas Howe. “It’s one of them!” he cried. “One of the dope ring! They hate me, fear me—and they’d kill me if they could. But I wield a stronger weapon than they. I—”

  As he spoke, the lights in the big room abruptly winked out. His hysterical utterance was cut off by a wild confusion of screams and frenzied shouts. There was a rush to get clear of the maniac’s path.