“Yeah!” the woman said.
“Whereabouts is he?”
“Here in the restaurant. He was asking for you. I said I’d call you up.”
“What’s his name?”
“He won’t give it. He says you’ll know him.”
Agent “X” pondered tensely. He didn’t know where the restaurant was. If he asked the girl it would give his ignorance away, excite her suspicions. And “X” wanted to make sure who this man was who had called for him. It might be a police detective or a Government operative looking for Renfew. It might even be a trap.
“Tell him to go to Garfleld Park,” “X” said suddenly. “Tell him to take a bench in the west end. I’ll meet him there in twenty minutes. I’d like to look him over first, you understand?”
“Yes, boss.”
Risking police detection, Agent “X” slipped out of the house. The roadster he had hired was still parked down the block. He got in and drove to the east end of Garfield Park, where he stopped again.
His movements became as cautious as a stalking cat. He lighted a cigarette, turned his collar up and his hat brim down and shuffled slowly along imitating a weary down-and-outer. His eyes were piercingly alert.
Then, as he approached the west end of the park, his pulses quickened like suddenly released triphammers. There was a figure on one of the benches—a well-dressed man, wearing spats and carrying a stick. He was big, blond, and he had coldly penetrating blue eyes. Agent “X” recognized him at once.
The man was Otto von Helvig, embassy attaché and ex-Prussian spy.
Chapter XI
Ambushed!
FOR the moment Agent “X” continued his role of down-and-outer. Half of his face was hidden by the collar of his coat. He moved toward von Helvig at the same slow shuffle. When he came opposite the attaché he spoke in a husky croak.
“A few pennies for a cup of coffee, mister?”
Agent “X” thrust out one hand, shaking it as though he were afflicted with palsy.
Von Helvig cursed under his breath and waved him away. But “X” stood his ground, staring at the attaché fixedly. The Prussian lifted his head angrily, glaring at the man he took for a panhandler. Then his expression changed. He leaned forward, smiled suddenly, showing gleaming white teeth.
“You old fox, Renfew! You fooled me—even though I was expecting you.”
“Herr von Helvig,” said the Agent respectfully. “This is a great pleasure!”
The attaché eyed “X” sharply.
“You’ve changed very little since I saw you two years ago, Renfew! And you’re still up to your old tricks.”
Agent “X” bowed. “A man must make a living, Herr von Helvig.”
Von Helvlg touched “X’s” arm. “I am due at the legation now,” he said. “My time is brief. But there’s something I want to ask you, Renfew. You are a man who keeps his ear to the ground. You are a fox who listens at the rabbit holes. You don’t miss much. Have you heard recently of any great theft from the United States Government?”
It was a surprising question coming from von Helvig. “X” knew that the man’s clean-featured blondness and the babylike candor in his blue eyes hid a cunning, crooked brain. He hedged.
“Perhaps,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“Just a matter of curiosity,” said von Helvig evasively. He opened his wallet, took out two century notes, folded them, and held out his hand.
“Here is the price of your cup of coffee, Renfew. Now come on—loosen up and tell a fellow what you know.”
“X,” playing the role of Renfew, waved the money away.
“I have changed, my dear von Helvig, since we last met. My business, if I may say so, has grown. I no longer accept—ah—small gratuities.”
Anger reddened von Helvig’s blond face. He hastily pocketed the money.
“My mistake,” he said. “I’ll be frank with you. A lovely woman has come to me with a certain proposition. She claims to know where something of singular importance, stolen from the Government, may be recovered. She has asked my cooperation in securing it. Do you know to what she is alluding, Renfew?”
There was an odd, avaricious glitter in von Helvig’s eyes. “X” was puzzled. Was von Helvig really seeking information; or was he trying to lay a trap? “X” must watch his step, impress von Helvig with his knowledge. He bowed very low and spoke softly.
“If the lady in question is very lovely, she has done well to ask the cooperation of the gallant—Karl Hummel.”
It was as though “X” had struck von Helvig a blow. Every muscle in the man’s body tensed. His eyes narrowed to points of steel. His hand moved across his face where a miracle of plastic surgery had been performed. Only the tiny scars in his cheek were reminders of it.
“You are crazy, Renfew,” he said harshly. “What do you mean by calling me that name—Hummel?”
“Nothing,” said the Agent blandly. “Just a whimsy of mine. Perhaps it was a mistake.”
For a moment von Helvig sat in tense silence, his eyes probing those of the Agent’s. Then he took out his wallet again, adding three more century notes to the two he had offered the Agent before, and held them out.
“I must insist that you take this small token of my good faith,” he said. “I am going to take you completely into my confidence, Renfew. I want you to meet the lady in question tonight. I want you to hear her story—and be my adviser. You are a man of even more remarkable talents than I had estimated, but—“ Von Helvig suddenly leaned forward and laid steely fingers on the Agent’s arm. His blond face became a mask of cruelty. His eyes were pin points of murderous light. “If you value your life, Herr Renfew, you will keep faith with me. I am no man to trifle with.”
“Nor I,” said the Agent. “I think we understand each other.”
“This evening then,” said von Helvig. “We shall have dinner together—you and I and the lady I spoke of. Be in this same spot at six-thirty. I will drive by and pick you up.”
“Very good, Herr von Helvig.”
Conscious that the man’s eyes were still boring into him, Agent “X” turned and shuffled off. His pulses were racing. The lead that the murdered Peters had brought him had apparently been false. This one promised results. Unless von Helvig was setting a trap for him, he might learn, within the next twelve hours, the location of the stolen plans.
BACK in Renfew’s house, Agent “X” gave instructions to Shank and Zeb.
“I’ve got a job for you,” he said. “Go to the German embassy. Wait outside and watch for the attaché, Otto von Helvig. He is tall, blond, blue-eyed. There is a slight scar on each cheek. If he leaves the building at any time during the day, follow him. Check up on every movement he makes—and report back here at six this evening.”
The two men rose from their listless card game.
“We got you, boss,” they said.
When they had gone “X” paced the floor a moment. His nerves tingled for action. He seemed to be getting closer to what he sought. His disguise as Renfew had been a wise move. It had brought him in contact with von Helvig. Was it possible that the lovely lady he mentioned was—
“X” smiled grimly to himself. Then he looked at his watch. Ten o’clock. At twelve the plane he had asked Betty to come in would land at Washington Airport. He’d had no answer to his telegram. He’d expected none. But he wanted to make sure of her arrival. He could not meet her openly; could not, at this time, run the risk of being seen with her, but he could see whether she was on the plane.
At a little before twelve, his disguise changed to that of a sallow-faced young man, Agent “X” crossed the Potomac on the Highway Bridge and turned into Military Road. Arlington was beyond. The Hoover Airport was at his left. The Washington at his right. The deep-throated hum of airplane motors filled the sky. Out-of-town tourists were going up from Hoover Airport on short sight-seeing hops over Washington.
The sky had cleared. The sun was shining. But to “X,” who knew the strange even
ts of the past twenty-four hours, a sinister menace hung over the city. It wasn’t dispelled by the bright sky nor the sunshine.
He found where the tri-motored E.A.T. plane bearing Betty Dale was to land. He waited at the edge of the field, saw the huge ship appear, a great dark bird on the horizon. He saw it come down to a stately landing, taxi up to the field office.
An attendant unrolled a carpet. Steps were set in front of the big plane’s metal door. A laughing group waited for the arrival of friends and loved ones.
In this group Agent “X” saw Suzanne Blackwell. It meant that Betty had sent her a wire. It meant that Suzanne was here to meet the Agent’s blonde ally.
His pulses quickened as the plane’s door opened and the passengers piled out. The loveliest of them all was the trim-figured little blonde who stepped to the turf of the field and ran toward the spot where Suzanne Blackwell was waiting. Hair the color of imprisoned sunlight peeped from under her blue cloche hat. Her fresh young lips were softly red. Her blue eyes were dancing. This flying trip to Washington was a lark to Betty Dale.
Fondly the Agent watched as Betty and Suzanne embraced. For a fleeting second he saw Betty’s eyes rove over the crowd, lingering on each face. He knew she was looking for him, knew also that his disguise had fooled her. He would not make himself known till the time prearranged for their meeting. The time when furtive, crafty eyes which might be watching would be least suspecting.
With her arm linked in Suzanne Blackwell’s, Betty walked toward Suzanne’s waiting roadster. “X” wouldn’t see Betty again until night fell. But he knew now that she was in Washington. He knew that she was ready to help him.
He frowned a moment, a shadow in his eyes. Her fresh, blonde beauty seemed a contrast to the dark forces now in motion. A strange sense of uneasiness filled him, a foreboding, as though some secret voice were warning him. He regretted at that instant that he had asked Betty to come.
Then he remembered that he was Secret Agent “X,” pledged to aid his country. He must put all fear aside, even fear for others, as he had fear for himself. He turned and strode back to his own waiting car.
At six that evening, disguised again as Renfew, he received the report of Shank and Zeb.
“We spotted von Helvig, boss,” Shank said. “We didn’t lose him all day. He had lunch with two guys, one from the Mexican embassy, another who was a newspaper gent. He left the embassy on Massachusetts Avenue, and stopped for a half-hour in a joint on Thirteenth Street. There he talked to a guy in a back room. It was screwy, boss! This guy looked like von Helvig’s twin. He left by the back way and von Helvig went to the Wilmott Hotel. He’s there now!”
“Good work,” said Agent “X” softly. “Thanks.”
AT shortly after six that evening a closed car slid to a stop at the curb near Garfield Park. A tall man was driving. He was dressed in the height of style, a soft gray hat on his head, spats on his ankles, yellow pigskins on his hands.
He was a man who bore a marked resemblance to Otto von Helvig of the German embassy. But there was a hardness about him, a wolfishness, that the more polished von Helvig managed most of the time to conceal. This man was definitely a member of the underworld.
There were three others with him, harsh-faced, flat-chested young men, overly dressed. As the car stopped, the driver asked a question.
“Everything ready, boys?”
The three men with him were busy for a moment. They took wicked-looking automatics from their pockets. Over the ugly snouts of these they slipped awkward cylinders that made the guns seem grotesquely long—silencers.
“All O.K., Al,” one of them said.
“You can handle ’em all right that way?”
“Say—you oughta know us.” There was a note of evil pride in the voice of the man who spoke. “We’ve knocked off bigger mugs than this.”
“O.K. But any slip—and there won’t be a pay-off. The big shot behind this is a hard bird to please. Wait till I give the signal—then do your stuff!”
The blond and dapper man who looked like von Helvig showed his teeth for a moment in a wicked smile. He motioned with his hand for the others to get out.
They left the car and vanished into the shadows along the square like slinking gray wolves.
The man in the car glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was now a quarter past six. He took a cigarette from his pocket, lighted it. Inhaling luxuriously, he, too, got out of the car and sauntered toward the west end of the park.
Now more than ever he looked like the Prussian attaché. Anyone seeing him from a distance would be fooled. When he arrived at the park’s west end, his sharp eyes swiveled. He seemed to be counting the benches.
He turned, walked up to one and sat down—the very bench that von Helvig had occupied that morning. He crossed his legs, blew smoke from his nostrils, leaned back comfortably. The three men he had brought with him crept noiselessly closer, the silenced automatics in their hands. They were awaiting his signal. The stage was set for murder.
A bell across the park struck a single booming note. Six-thirty.
Even as the stroke died away on the night air, a man’s shuffling figure appeared. He came from the direction of the park’s east end. Hat brim turned down, collar turned up, the man had the wrinkled features of Michael Renfew, dealer in espionage. The man was Secret Agent “X.”
FIVE hundred feet away, he saw the figure on the bench. Piercingly bright eyes stabbed out from under the Agent’s hat brim. The figure ahead looked like von Helvig. The German attaché had apparently kept the appointment. Tonight, it seemed, “X” was going to meet the “lovely lady” who knew where the Browning plans could be discovered.
Simulating a down-and-outer, “X” continued to shuffle forward. The man ahead, smoking on the bench, did not turn his head. He seemed to be deep in meditation.
The Agent was within a hundred feet of him now. Fifty feet—twenty-five. The Agent moved toward the bench—and not until then was the suspicion he had had confirmed. The man on the bench wasn’t Otto von Helvig. The man was a perfect stranger to “X.”
“A penny for a cup of coffee, mister?”
The Agent’s voice was the cracked, querulous voice of an old panhandler. His skinny fingers trembled. The stranger on the bench lifted cold eyes and shook his head.
“Not tonight,” he said. “Beat it.”
The panhandler dropped his skinny hand, turned and shuffled on. The man on the bench followed him with eyes that were suddenly bright. His lips skinned back in a mirthless grin.
Abruptly he took a white handkerchief from his coat pocket, opened it and blew his nose loudly. As he tucked the handkerchief back into his coat, three figures moved out of the shadows that made blotches on the park’s grass plot.
Their dark clothes blended with the shadows; their feet were noiseless. Swiftly, murderously, they crept upon the man disguised as Michael Renfew.
It was at the juncture of another asphalt path that they came close enough to fire. Simultaneously then they raised their guns.
At the last minute, as though some secret sense had warned him, the shuffling figure turned. But he appeared to be too late. The three hired killers fired.
There were no smashing explosions in the night. Only faint flickers of flame and three muffled reports. Then the sharp spat of lead striking where the guns were aimed.
Agent “X” lurched backwards as though the force of the lead had pushed him off his feet. One gurgling cry came from his lips. His knees bent under him. He sank to the asphalt, twitched a moment, and lay still. The gunmen pocketed their weapons and slunk away. The man on the bench, humming softly to himself, rose and sauntered in the opposite direction.
Chapter XII
Sinister Smoke
FOR nearly five minutes, or until the slow measured steps of a patrolling cop sounded, Agent “X” lay just as he had fallen. Then, magically it seemed, he rose to his feet, moving quickly into the shadows. His eyes were gleaming like living coals. His li
ps were harsh. There was the trembling pulse of excitement in his body.
In the semigloom beside the path he reached up with tense fingers, feeling the front of his coat. There were three holes in the cloth. He probed in one; probed down to the hard resilient material of the bullet-proof vest he wore.
Half expecting trickery, Agent “X” had come prepared. The vest, cleverly molded to his torso, covered the whole of it. It had witnessed the shock of bullets many times before. He had established one thing tonight. Otto von Helvig didn’t stop at murder.
But the Agent wasn’t sure he had played his own hand wisely. In this desperate game, with so many crosscurrents, no man could proceed in a straight course. The Agent was a gambler. A high adventurer in an underworld of terror. A man who took chances with death itself in an effort to balance the scales of justice.
He sped across the park silently, swiftly. In the darkest shadows, amid a clump of shrubbery, his fingers roved over his face. His movements in the next hour called for a new disguise. Michael Renfew, supposedly dead, must stay dead.
It was a relief to get the rubber cap, imitating baldness, off his head. It was a relief, too, to peel the transparent tissues, creating a network of wrinkles, away from his skin. He took a few other materials from the lining of his coat. He used them with the skill of a man who was master of a thousand faces.
When he emerged from the shadows, he was young again, utterly unlike the man who had gone down under a volley of murderers’ bullets.
He got in his car and drove swiftly through the night to the Wilmott Hotel, the hostelry where von Helvig was stopping. He was not an instant too soon.
Otto von Helvig, tall, immaculately dressed, suave as only a diplomat can be, was just leaving his key at the desk. No one looking at his bland blond face would have guessed that here was a man who, less than an hour before, had engaged assassins to kill a fellow human being. But “X,” posing as Renfew, had dared to bring up a ghost from von Helvig’s past—dared to call him Karl Hummel. That in itself, “X” guessed, had been reason enough for the attempted murder. Perhaps there was a still more sinister motive.
Secret Agent X – The Complete Series Volume 1 (Annotated) Page 49