A flight of iron stairs led to a skylight. He climbed them quietly, examined the skylight. This, too, was unfastened and he pushed it slowly up.
A blast of cold night air struck his face. Overhead he saw the clear, brilliant twinkle of the stars.
He closed the skylight, stepped out on the tarred roof. It was broad and flat with a strip of coping around it that made a border of shadow black as jet. The roof seemed as big as a field. Two or three ventilators thrust up starkly, standing like still, watching figures.
Agent “X” stared alertly about him, but could see no movement. All seemed quiet.
Like a man unsure of his ground, he stole forward. His feet made no noise on the black tarred surface. He came to the edge of the coping, looking over.
Far below he could see the spot on the sidewalk that was a man’s body. Darlington! The guard was still there, too, and other figures were moving up.
Rising through the walled canyon of the street in a weird and mournful moan came the siren of an ambulance.
Agent “X” turned away. His eyes were like steel points. There were uneasy prickles along his spine, a warning of danger.
He had his flash out. With its pencil-thin beam he began searching the roof. Then he stooped and picked something up.
It was a small brass screw head, knurled at the edges. It was polished, uncorroded—showing that it had been freshly dropped. Even one night of dew would have given it a thin coating of verdigris.
A little thing, but to Agent “X” it was concrete evidence that he had been right. The thing in his hand was the screw of a camera’s focusing adjustment.
Darlington hadn’t fallen from his window. He had been up here. His researches had led him to the building’s roof. And from this height his body had rocketed down.
Agent “X” recalled that empty case he had seen in Darlington’s office—the case he had felt certain belonged to some sort of camera. The camera wasn’t on the sidewalk. It was nowhere on the roof. It had disappeared completely—and this, coupled with the small brass screw in his hand was significant to the Agent’s alert mind. It was evidence that Darlington hadn’t fallen or committed suicide—evidence that the man had been pushed off the roof—murdered!
Breathless over his discovery, every nerve alert, Agent “X” probed farther with the beam of his flash light.
Foot by foot Agent “X” continued to search. Then he paused abruptly again. His toe had struck against something. He flashed on his light.
Screwed into the surface of the roof was some sort of socket. It was dark-colored, inconspicuous, almost flush with the tarred covering.
HE searched and found others. They seemed to form a mysterious pattern. They were strung along at intervals of ten feet or more.
Under the inner edge of the coping he made another discovery. A wire ran the length of it. At intervals along this wire electric lamp sockets were fastened to the boarding. Every six feet he found one of them. All were empty.
Down in the street the siren of the ambulance rose again as it bore Darlington’s body away. Echoes reverberated like ghoulish laughter, mocking those whom mystery baffled.
Were these sockets more of the slain crank’s handiwork? Was he in the habit of setting his strange equipment up here and gazing at the stars by night?
Somewhere in that string of sockets showing under “X’s” flash like challenging, unwinking eyes was the answer—the solution perhaps of the terrible Flammenwerfer murders. For the death of A. J. Darlington seemed to link up with those other horrible killings at the bank.
But Agent “X’s” investigations were suddenly, rudely interrupted. He was following the coping, heading toward the spot where it angled away along the west side of the building. The two sides formed a dark corner.
So quickly that “X” was caught off guard, a shadow detached itself from this pool of blackness, bounded toward him. He tried to swing his flash as he heard the scrape of feet on the tarred roof, but a balled fist knocked it from his hand. A man tried to dash by him, and Agent “X” leaped in and grappled. He realized then that someone with a coat drawn up to hide the whiteness of his face had been squatting in that corner all the time.
The man was big, powerful. He fought with savage ferocity to break away. The Agent couldn’t see his features—the roof was too dark—but Agent “X” had an uncanny sense that he knew who it was.
Locked like boxers in a clinch they fought desperately, exchanging short, swift body blows, swaying and panting. The movement of their feet made a dry scuffing on the roof. They lurched to the right, edged nearer the coping.
The big man whose face was hidden gave a harsh cry of fear. Agent “X” tensed and pressed his body back. For, in a fleeting instant of horror, he saw the lighted streets below him. They were battling close to the coping, their torsos hanging over.
Repeating his cry “X’s” assailant jerked away. Terror gave him frenzied strength. Agent “X” was unbalanced, pulled forward away from the coping. He toppled through the air, crashed to the dark roof, and the black upright finger of a steam-escape pipe struck against the side of his head. For a moment his body went limp and it seemed that the sky was settling upon him, dropping with a rush and a roar that threatened oblivion.
Chapter XIII
A Detective Thief
FOR painful seconds he seemingly battled to hold the sky at bay, to keep the stars from burning him. He struck at them, felt them burst and fly off like sparks from an emery wheel. Then he came to his senses.
He was lying on his back on the cold roof. Something slammed somewhere. It was the skylight cover. He tried to rise, fell back, then got groggily to his feet. For the first time he became conscious that he was gripping something. It was small and round and hard.
He saw his flash light case gleaming ten feet away, staggered over and recovered it. He clicked it on and looked at the thing in his hand.
The muscles along his hunched shoulders grew rigid. His eyes became bright. For the thing he held was a pencil with a metal clip. It was painted blue and red. There were no initials on it—nothing extraordinary about it—but the Agent knew he had seen it before. He had an uncanny memory for details, seldom forgot anything that had once registered.
The pencil belonged to Agency Detective George Banton.
Leaving the roof he descended the building’s many stairs rapidly. He saw nothing of Banton, and the fourth-floor offices of the detective agency were dark. Agent “X” hurried to the street.
For an instant his gaze swivelled along the sidewalk. There was still a dark, ghastly stain where Darlington’s body had fallen. He shuddered and the lights in his eyes became bright as polished steel.
At a pace rapid for a man of the apparent age and dignity of Andrew Balfour, he set off up the street. Three blocks away his roadster was parked. He got in, drove to the nearest of his hideouts, and made a rapid change of disguise. When he reappeared this time he was dressed as a young and dapper man—derby hat, trim dark suit, topcoat—a man who would be presentable anywhere without attracting particular attention to himself.
He sped to Detective Banton’s home address listed in the telephone book. It was a luxurious apartment in an expensive section of the city. There, confident of his disguise, Agent “X” asked bluntly to see the detective, ready with a pretext for his visit that would allay Banton’s suspicions. But an attendant in the foyer informed him that Banton hadn’t been back all evening.
Agent “X” turned away abruptly. Banton was the hottest lead along that trail of death and terror. But there were other channels of investigation open. To burrow in from all angles until the crimson edges of the crime picture were complete was the Agent’s method. And time was precious. He would return to Banton later.
His next point of investigation was the home of Jerome Davis, murdered banker. With Davis dead and Mrs. Davis still in Europe, there should be no one there but the servants.
A daring plan came into Agent “X’s” mind. It was imperative t
hat he learn more if possible of the banker’s connection with Rosa Carpita. Then he might discover why Rosa had engaged Banton.
Agent “X” parked his car a full block away from the Davis home, approaching the house from the opposite side of the street. Caution had become instinctive with him.
He crossed the pavement, slipped through a hedge, and circled the house. A dog growled somewhere. Agent “X” paused. Then he sounded his strange, melodious whistle. It was faint now, too faint to reach those inside. It was meant for the dog’s ears alone. The dog’s growling, which had been about to burst into a bark, ceased. Agent “X” saw the twin phosphorescences of the animal’s eyes. The dog was coming toward him stiff-legged, inquiring.
Agent “X” made a clucking sound in his throat. He stood waiting for the dog, then gave his low, strange whistle again. The animal approached, sniffed, wagged its tail. In a moment he was patting the dog’s head and the two of them were on the best of terms.
There was a dim light in the vestibule of the house, another in the kitchen. Coming close to a window, Agent “X” saw a middle-aged couple sitting forlornly at a table. These appeared to be the only servants.
THE upper floor of the house was dark. A porch roof on one side of a rose trellis leading up to it offered a way of access. But, with the couple preoccupied in the kitchen, Agent “X” took an easier course. He quietly and swiftly ascended the front steps, produced one of his delicate pass-keys, and in a moment was inside the house,
The dog, whining softly, tried to follow him. Agent “X” smiling shook his head and motioned the animal back. He left the beast squatting on its haunches puzzled as to why it couldn’t enter the house with its new-found friend.
On rubber-soled shoes Agent “X” crossed the front hall of the house and climbed the stairs.
Investigation of the five bedrooms on the second floor soon revealed the one Davis had occupied. There was a set of golf clubs in a man’s clothes closet. Just off the bedroom was a den. The probing beam of the Agent’s flash light went eagerly into this, disclosed an easy chair and a heavy mahogany desk.
He began examining the desk drawers. Would Davis keep letters from another woman in the house where his wife might find them? Possibly, considering that Mrs. Davis was away now. Then “X” stooped eagerly. Built directly into the heavy desk was a small safe.
He got down on one knee, put his ear to the safe, and moved the dial gently. His ability to discover the combination of a safe by hearing and touch alone was uncanny. In less than five minutes the small door of the safe swung open.
There were letters inside and confidential reports. He went through them quickly, selected two letters with feminine handwriting on them. They were brief notes from Rosa Carpita, accepting luncheon dates. A third, written several weeks later, showed that her friendship with Davis had progressed. He had invited her to take a ride in a plane with him.
Agent “X” put the letters in his pocket. Then suddenly he started. His ears had detected a sound outside. It was the abrupt, low growling of a dog. He closed the safe quickly, strode to the window. The growling stopped as he listened, ending in a strange little yelp of pain. Then all was quiet.
But the Agent, staring out of the dark room, saw a flitting shape cross the lawn below. He saw the figure pause, stare up at the house. It was a man.
Agent “X” waited. The man suddenly and surprisingly began to climb the rose trellis under Davis’s window. A bleak look came into the Agent’s eyes. His pulse beat faster. He tip-toed out of the den, went behind a screen in the farthest corner of the bedroom, and waited there, gas gun in hand.
Seconds of tenseness passed. Something moved by the window. There was a faint scrape, a squeak of wood, then a snap. The window was raised, and a bulky form stepped into the room.
Agent “X” could hear the man breathing heavily after his exertions. All was silent in the house. The man turned on a flash, swivelled it around the room. Then he walked cautiously toward the door of the den.
As the light from the man’s flash fell on the wall ahead of him, Agent “X” got a glimpse of his silhouette. He tensed and held his breath. The man was no ordinary burglar. He was a gross, thick-necked figure. He was Private Detective Banton!
THE Secret Agent watched to see what Banton would do next.
In a moment he found out. The detective, too, made the discovery of the safe in Davis’s desk. He twirled the dial for a moment, then drew something from inside his overcoat. It was a leather kit of safe-breaking tools. Banton put a pair of gloves on, selected a diamond-pointed drill, and bored a series of holes around the lock. He probed and pushed with a metal pick through these holes.
At the end of half an hour, with prodigious sweating and labor, he succeeded by main strength in doing what the Agent had done by skill and knowledge.
With the safe finally open, Banton seemed shaken and nervous. He stopped to listen, fearful apparently that he would be caught in his act of safe-breaking. He didn’t wait to go through the papers in the safe. He began stuffing its entire contents in the deep pocket of his overcoat.
Agent “X” catted silently from behind his screen, crossed to the corridor door, and slipped out. Swiftly he descended the stairs, crossed the front hall, and left the house as he had come.
He moved around it toward the rose trellis, stopped. His foot had touched something. For a brief moment he bent down and flicked on his flash. Then he scowled and muttered harshly.
The dog that he had made friends with a short time before lay stunned at his feet. Banton had silenced the animal by a cruel blow on the head with a blackjack. Gently Agent “X” stroked the dog’s silky ears and soft muzzle. He wished he had time to stay and revive the animal, but there was already a faint sound above his head. Banton was coming out the window.
Agent “X” crept into the shadows of a hedge. There he waited tensely. The bulky form of Banton appeared as a dark blotch on the roof, came down the rose trellis, crossed the lawn. Agent “X” followed.
When Banton had gotten a block away from the Davis home he moved with the confidence of a man who is satisfied with the job he has done. He walked two blocks, got into a little closed flivver, and drove off. The Agent sprinted for his own car, climbed in, and drove along a street paralleling the course Banton had taken. Then he swung toward it, saw Banton’s flivver pass, and followed it.
Banton went first to his own apartment. Agent “X” waited outside tensely. The fact that the detective had left his flivver parked at the curb directly in front of the building indicated he was not through with his nocturnal prowlings. The car, shabby like his clothes and out of keeping with his evident prosperity, was a means of remaining inconspicuous.
In twenty minutes Banton reappeared and drove off. This time Agent “X” stepped out of his hiding-place and signaled a taxi cruising past. Banton might become suspicious if he saw the same roadster behind him again.
The chase led across town and Agent “X” ordered the taxi to slow up when he saw Banton’s flivver stopping. Banton got out, looked around once, then moved off, walking on the balls of his feet with the pussyfooting gait of a professional sleuth.
He turned into a dark side street, moved more slowly. Agent “X” stayed as far behind as he dared and kept to the shadows. Banton looked uneasy. He slowed down still more. Suddenly Agent “X” tensed.
A figure stepped out of a doorway and joined Banton. It was the figure of a girl. She took Banton’s arm and they moved off together. Agent “X” crossed the street and followed them.
They continued for two blocks and entered a small Italian restaurant. Agent “X” strolled by and looked in. Then he nodded to himself and his eyes gleamed. The girl who had met Banton was Rosa Carpita.
She hadn’t left town after all. She was in hiding, and, far from her regular haunts, she had met Detective Banton by prearrangement.
Agent “X” meditated a moment. He wanted to hear what they were saying, just why the girl had engaged the professional
services of Banton, but it was important, too, that he find out where she lived. In the restaurant it would be impossible to use his microphone. They might become suspicious if he took a table too near them.
He engaged a taxi and had it wait around the corner, heading into the street the restaurant was on. Then he took up a position where he could watch the front entrance. His nerves and brain cried out for action, but this was a situation that called for patience and care.
It was a long wait, nearly an hour, before the two reappeared. They parted at the door of the restaurant, Banton going one way, the girl going the other. This meant that they had concluded their business, whatever it was.
THE girl set off on foot. Agent “X” paid off his disgruntled taxi driver for the time spent in waiting. He himself followed the girl on foot, shadowing her to a shabby, low-class hotel, five blocks from the restaurant. It was very different from her own swanky apartment, proving that the girl was taking no chances of being seen by anyone she knew.
He waited till she had passed through the lobby and had taken the old-fashioned elevator upstairs. She must have checked in here that very day.
Leaning over the desk, Agent “X” made inquiries as to rates in the hotel. As he did so he stared at the register. The only entry of a single party made that day was “Marie Rosa, Washington, D.C.” The Agent nodded with a faint, grim smile on his lips.
He thanked the clerk for his information, then turned and left. A plan had come to his mind. Now that he knew Rosa Carpita’s whereabouts and had seen her in close confab with Banton, he might go to her disguised as the private detective. But first he would have to learn from Banton himself some inkling of what their business was.
He took a taxi to the block where he had parked his own roadster, and headed back toward Banton’s apartment, devising alternate plans according to whether Banton was in or out.
Almost mechanically he sent the powerful car racing across town, his mind battling with the hideous murder mystery that was costing men’s lives.
Secret Agent X – The Complete Series Volume 1 (Annotated) Page 35