With burning, intent eyes he descended the steps and moved along the street. Again he had the uncanny sense that he was being followed. He paused with a cigarette in his hand, and, before lighting it, stared back through his cupped fingers.
A dark, flitting shadow moved into an areaway behind him.
As though he had seen nothing, the Agent turned and continued his way along the street. But at the next corner he ducked out of sight into a doorway. Skilled himself in all the arts of shadowing, he planned to turn the tricks on his shadower.
Standing in the blackness of the doorway, he looked back. A small man came around the corner, moving with quick, furtive steps. The man stopped suddenly as he saw that the block ahead of him was empty.
For a moment the street light fell upon his face. His features had a vicious, pallid cast. He looked as though drugs had ravaged his body, made him a depraved and inhuman wreck. His eyes were glittering with feverish brightness, his face muscles twitching. Suddenly he retraced his steps, seeming to sense that he had been tricked.
The Secret Agent waited a moment, then came out of his hiding place. Walking close to the side of the buildings he followed the small man ahead. So deft and sure were his movements that he seemed no more than a blending shadow.
He caught sight of the small man again as he rounded the corner. From then on it was the other’s turn to try and shake off pursuit.
He seemed to think he had. Six blocks from the square, he came out into the light, walked across the street, and entered a telephone booth. The Agent, watching from the other side, could see him making a call.
Then the utterly unpredictable happened. A movie house next to the drug store disgorged its audience abruptly. The street became clogged and choked with jostling people. The hophead slipped out of the booth. His small height made it impossible for any man to see him.
The Secret Agent elbowed his way quickly through the crowd. But, when he reached the other side of it, the small man was gone.
Agent “X” frowned grimly, bitterly. Twice tonight the law of averages had been against him. Twice he had been disappointed. His search of the room in the house at Bradley Square had yielded nothing but the discovery of the concealed microphone and loudspeaker. Now circumstances beyond his control had made him lose the man he was shadowing. It was a thing that happened to the most skilled man hunters in the world. But the Agent refused to accept defeat.
A swift plan came to his mind. The investigation of Nick Baroni and Piere DuBrong would take time, days even. But perhaps Greenford could tell him something about the latter, give him a quick lead.
SWIFTLY he returned to the St. James apartments on Jefferson Avenue. Greenford was still there. With the spy unconscious in the closet, Secret Agent “X” removed the make-up that impersonated him and again resumed his disguise of a middle-aged man. It was almost time for the effects of the anesthetic he had administered to wear off. But in any event he would have found means of bringing Greenford back to full consciousness.
He injected a liquid containing extracts of adrenaline, strychnine and digitalis into Greenford’s arm. A large dose of it would have been fatal. But the Secret Agent was a master of pharmacology.
The hypo injection acted immediately on Greenford’s heart It brought him out of the quiet of artificial sleep with the abruptness of an electric shock. He sat up, twitching and glaring about. His eyes fell on the Agent and for a moment he tried unsuccessfully to talk. It was some seconds before he found the power of speech.
“You can’t hold me like this,” he said harshly. “I’ve got an appointment tonight.”
The Agent smiled. Greenford’s appointment was already more than twenty-four hours overdue. The man didn’t know he had been sleeping a day and a night.
“What time was it scheduled?” the Agent asked.
“Twelve o’clock.”
“It’s nearly one now!”
Greenford rose to his feet. Fear had come back into his eyes. He looked at Agent “X” strangely.
“Who are you?” he demanded again.
The Agent shook his head. He was staring at Greenford, and he saw Greeaford’s hand go to the pocket where he had placed the telegram of the Black Master. A startled, worried look came over Greenford’s face.
“You stole it,” he hissed.
The Agent bowed.
“I saved you from an unpleasant interview with a dangerous man,” he said.
Greenford made a snarling sound and clenched his fist.
“You’re going to tell me who you are and why you are meddling in my affairs.”
The lightness left Agent “X’s” voice.
He gazed at Greenford in a way that made the other man tremble. There was burning power in Agent “X’s” eyes. They seemed to have foresight, uncanny magnetism. They seemed to bore into Greenford’s very soul.
“Perhaps you’ll tell me why you bribed Cora Stenstrom to betray her employer?”
“I didn’t—I didn’t,” said Greenford in a sudden frenzy of excitement.
“She was in your pay. Do you deny it?”
Greenford’s face twitched, his eyes wavered. It was plain that he had been lying. Suddenly he burst forth in a torrent of denials, even before the Agent had accused him.
“I didn’t murder her,” he shrieked. “She was going to tell me what I wanted. She was going to phone me when all was ready.”
“You mean you paid her to leave the window open!”
“Yes—yes, I did, but it wasn’t I who killed her.”
“No,” said Agent “X” sternly. “Another and greater scoundrel preceded you. He took advantage of the path that you had made easy.”
“I know it,” said Greenford. “My God—who was it?”
“The Black Master,” said Agent “X” softly.
He watched Greenford. He could see by the spy’s expression that the name meant nothing to him. That telegram calling him to Bradley Square was the first time apparently he had had any dealings with the master murderer.
“Who is he?” asked Greenford trembling.
THE Agent was silent. For seconds his burning gaze rested on the man before him, until Greenford could stand it no longer.
“What are you going to do with me?” he demanded.
“Ask you a question,” said the Agent. “Who is Piere DuBrong, friend of the Countess Rocazy—the woman you once called Nina?”
Utter amazement overspread Greenford’s face.
“Nina! She is not in this country! She can’t be!”
“She is,” said the Agent sternly. “Answer my question.”
“I know nothing about DuBrong—I swear it! I haven’t heard of the man. Nina Rocazy is a dangerous woman—a viper. She is not a countess, but an adventuress—a woman seeking always to prey on men.”
The Agent’s eyes bored into Greenford’s. The spy seemed to be telling the truth. He spoke again.
“I’ve told you all I know. Now let me go.”
“I will,” said the Agent, “but on one condition only. It is that you leave the country at once. You made a mistake coming in the first place. Nothing awaits you here—except death.”
“You are threatening me!” said Greenford harshly.
“Not threatening—warning you. Will you leave or not?”
The Agent’s eyes held inexorable command. Greenford could not meet them.
“You have stolen my money,” he said. “My belt is gone.”
The Agent took out his wallet, extracted five hundred dollars, and handed it to Greenford.
“It is enough,” “X” said. “There’s a night plane to Canada. It takes off from the municipal field in half an hour. Your papers are in order—I have seen them. Take the plane and go before death prevents you.”
“My luggage!” said Greenford.
“It is too late now to recover it. The American Secret Service is on your trail. Operatives have unquestionably searched your room at the Sherwood. Menace hangs over your head. Your only chance of life
is to leave instantly.”
Greenford shrugged resignedly.
“I will do as you say,” he promised.
But Secret Agent “X” took no chances. If Greenford tried to communicate with the Black Master all would be lost. He wanted to make sure that the spy kept his promise and left. When Greenford went to the street, Agent “X” stealthily followed. Then he frowned in anger and annoyance.
Instead of going to the flying field, Greenford took a taxi to the neighborhood of the Hotel Sherwood. He got out two blocks from it, walked toward it cautiously. Agent “X” followed, keeping on the other side of the street.
He saw Greenford walk furtively along the front of the hotel, passing the entrance three times without getting up enough courage to enter. There was a watchful man reading a newspaper far back in a corner of the lobby—a government operative. The Secret Agent recognized him; but it appeared that Greenford did not.
He lighted a cigarette, pulled his hat brim down, and started toward the main entrance a fourth time.
But he was destined never to enter.
He crossed the open space of sidewalk before the hotel, and it seemed that a noose was suddenly flung around his neck. He staggered on the pavement, clawed at his throat. Agent “X” heard one horrible choking cry and stared aghast at the drama that was taking place.
Greenford’s face was becoming purple—the fatal, livid hue that meant death at the hands of the Spectral Strangler.
Chapter XIII
Guns of Death
AGENT “X” saw a stealthy figure moving across the face of the building. The figure was going away from, not toward Greenford, as would have been the case if it had been a casual passerby. It was the sinister hophead whom “X” had lost sight of in the theater crowd less than an hour before.
By disregarding Agent “X’s” warning, by failing to keep the promise he had given, Greenford had walked straight to his death. The emissary of the Black Master had slain him, thinking Greenford was the man who had shadowed him. He had been lurking in the vicinity of the hotel to destroy the life of a man he thought had tried to pry into the Black Master’s secrets.
The Agent darted in pursuit of the killer, resolved this time that he would not fail. He would shadow the hophead to his hideout and through him learn the identity of the fiend who employed him; for “X” felt certain that this drug addict was no more than a tool in the hands of the master murderer. As a criminal, he wasn’t of sufficient caliber to have plotted and carried out such a campaign of terror.
There was no chance of the hophead being lost in a crowd now. It was late. The streets were deserted. But because of this it was a difficult task to follow him without being suspected. The Agent depended somewhat on his make-up.
Behind him he heard someone come from the hotel entrance attracted by Greenford’s dying cry. He couldn’t help Greenford now. The man was beyond human aid, destroyed by his own greed and willfulness. He was the ninth victim in the terrible series of murders.
The Agent’s eyes were glowing with the light of intense concentration.
The hophead was walking purposefully now like a person who has accomplished an appointed task. He dived into a subway entrance, rode uptown, and got off in a section cluttered with theaters and cafés. Once again the Agent got a look at the man’s face. He saw that he had the features of a rat. There was cruelty in the feverish glitter of his eyes and the twist of his thin mouth.
The chase ended when the man disappeared into the servants’ entrance of a notorious night club—the Club Mephistopheles.
This club, the windows of which were curtained night and day, was known to the Agent. It was a place of evil repute, a place where gangsters hung out and where many criminals had made their headquarters. It was a place of vice and debauchery where “slummers” came also, social registerites who wanted to spend money freely and taste the city’s wild night life.
There were gambling tables inside. Here the underworld and the world of wealth and fashion rubbed shoulders. It had figured in the papers more than once. Bennie Pomarno, beer runner, had been slain here in the boom days of prohibition. In one of its luxuriously appointed rooms a well-known society matron had committed suicide after losing the last of her fortune at the roulette wheel. It was a club to which the Secret Agent had made it a point to get a card.
But dress clothes were necessary to gain admittance. Crime was hidden beneath the trappings of gentility. The Agent thought quickly, then went to an establishment near a dance hall where tuxedos could be rented. He hired one and entered the door of the Mephistopheles Club.
Though it was long after midnight, the activities inside had not begun to wane. The gambling rooms were crowded. The big dining room still held late diners. A jazz orchestra was playing sensuous music.
The Secret Agent strolled about eyeing the crowd that filled the place. He was waiting for the hophead to appear. Was he employed in this club? And if so in what capacity?
A red-headed, flashily dressed hostess came up to the Agent, but he waved her away. He recognized many faces. Here a society woman. There a crook with a police record. There a small-time politician seeking favor with the big shots of the underworld.
Then he drew back with a sudden, amazed intake of breath. He had glimpsed the fat form of Nick Baroni!
The gangster had evidently come straight here from Crandal’s party. Why? To seek solace in a familiar haunt after the terrible and nerve-racking experience at Colonel Crandel’s, or for some more sinister reason?
The pastiness of fear still showed on the big gangster’s face. The burning eyes of Secret Agent “X” studied him.
Could it be that Baroni was the man he sought—the terrible Black Master? The repeal of prohibition had made it hard for gangs to exist. Rivalry was more bitter. In the days when beer could only be had in speak-easies there had been enough money to support a score of big shots in the luxury that their gross bodies craved. But now this source of revenue had been abolished. The government and legitimate brewers were taking in what the gangsters had formerly regarded as their own. Rackets had narrowed down.
The bitter enmity of the gangs had deepened. They were ready to tear at each other’s throats like wolves; and the Mephistopheles Club was in a no man’s land between two gang territories.
THE Secret Agent stared and pondered. Baroni had his torpedoes with him now, flat-chested, pale-faced young men who talked without moving their lips and whose eyes were ever watchful; men ready to shoot at the drop of a hat. Rumors that Baroni had reformed were baseless. The fight over the city’s slot-machine racket was as fierce as ever. It was centered now between two gangs—Nick Baroni’s and Sam Dwyer’s river-front mobsters. And now Baroni was on the edge of Dwyer’s territory.
Abruptly the Agent’s eyes shifted and his body grew tense.
The murderous hophead had made his appearance. He was clad in a black jacket, a wing collar, and bow tie. The man was a waiter in this sinister club, a member of the late night shift. Secret Agent “X” was deeply struck by this.
As an employee here, the man was in a position to get orders from any one of a dozen underworld czars—but he was hovering around Nick Baroni’s table. He stepped forward once, struck a match when Baroni skinned the cellophane off a fresh cigar.
Baroni paid no attention to him; but that meant nothing. There were hundreds of prearranged signals by which secret messages and orders could be conveyed.
The Agent watched lynx-eyed. But hours passed and nothing happened. Nick Baroni drank until his face got bloated and mottled. The guests left one by one. Baroni made his exit at last followed by his sinister bodyguards. Secret Agent “X” hung around outside until the hophead emerged again. He shadowed the man to a small furnished room two blocks away.
Then Agent “X” bought all editions of the early morning papers and took them to one of his hideouts. In secrecy and silence he read all available news reports. The story of the murders in Colonel Crandal’s home was spread glaringly i
n headlines across the front pages. The police had made no headway. The famous Crandal jewels were gone. Three detectives and an old family servant had been killed strangely, horribly strangled apparently by unseen hands. There had, the paper said, been another murder outside the Hotel Sherwood. A man named Greenford, suspected of being an international spy, had met death in the same mysterious way.
Through it all a trail of black mystery ran. The police and Government operatives were baffled. There seemed to be no connection between the jewel robbery in Crandal’s home, the murder of Greenford, and the four other murders of like nature that had taken place previously.
But the Agent’s eyes were grimly alight. He saw a sinister motive, a connection running through it all. But the picture was not clear. Why had the Black Master, who asked a million dollars for the thing he had stolen from the chemist, Mark Roemer, stooped to such a crime as the theft of Crandal’s jewels? Was it merely to provide funds for himself until the big sale went through? Wouldn’t even the Black Master find it difficult to dispose of such famous gems as Crandal’s? And now that Greenford had been murdered, what would be the Black Master’s next move? What government would he attempt to negotiate with next?
These were the questions the Agent asked himself as dawn made the sky gray over the city. Milk wagons rattled in the streets outside. Men and women rose to another day of work. The black mouths of the subways became gorged with hurrying people. But the Agent, silent and alone, pondered a murder riddle.
There was one course open to him, one he planned to follow. He would haunt the Mephistopheles Club, watch developments there, shadow Nick Baroni.
WHEN night came, he was among the first arrivals. Disguised as a young man about town, he played heavily at the gambling tables to avert suspicion. He began to win. Here was more money that would go into Betty Dale’s fund for crime victims.
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