He was now inside the Summerville estate. Looking through screening trees, he could see the house. Most of it was dark, but here and there a window glowed with light.
He stopped suddenly as his sensitive ears heard footsteps. A man, burly as the two servants inside, moved across the lawn. His silhouette showed against a downstairs window for an instant. He carried a heavy knobbed stick in his right hand and, on a leather leash, a big police dog strained.
The Agent heard the animal’s low growl. It swerved, pulling the man directly toward the spot where “X” stood. The man stopped, unsnapped the dog’s leash and spoke gutturally.
“Go get ’im, boy!”
The next second “X” sensed rather than saw the dog bounding forward. “X” drew his strange gas gun from an inner pocket. There wasn’t time now with the man urging him on, to try his usual trick with animals.
He crouched, so as to see the dog’s silhouette also against the illumination of the window. Then, at the last minute, “X” fired his gun full into the animal’s snarling mouth and leaped aside.
With a barely audible growl the big animal continued straight forward but his legs grew weaker and weaker, he stumbled, flopped to the grass and lay still; out peacefully for the next half hour.
The man was obviously puzzled. He stood listening, head cocked on one side, unable to see “X” among the shadows.
“X” STOLE forward, making a sudden, silent rush out of the darkness. The scream of fright that rose to the watchman’s lips was silenced by another charge of gas. Almost instantly, he, too, staggered and toppled.
The Agent’s face was grim. He hadn’t injured either man or dog; but he didn’t intend to be balked in his plan to see Summerville. If Summerville were connected with the DOACs, “X” wanted to know it.
He replaced his gas gun, took a ring of delicate skeleton keys from his pocket and continued on toward the house. Two windows interested him at once. Old-fashioned blinds had been drawn across them. Through the shutters faint light was streaming.
Coming closer, Agent “X” raised himself on tiptoe. There was a shade drawn inside, also, but he found a place at last where he could look between the shutters of the blinds and under the bottom of the shade.
Here was a lighted room with shelves of books around the walls. A man was sitting at a roll-top desk, bent over some papers. His gaunt, deeply lined face was intent. “X” moved quietly along the house, looking for a convenient door. He found one leading to a sun porch, with a room behind the porch that was dark and apparently deserted.
He used his keys to unlock the outer door and gain entry to the porch. Tiptoeing across it, he tackled the inner door next. This opened also, and in a moment he was in the darkened room.
Risking detection by one of the strong-arm servants, he pushed ajar the door of the chamber he was in and stepped out into a hallway. Two doors were visible here. One appeared to lead to the room with the light in it—Summerville’s study.
The Agent made for this, ears alert for the sound of approaching footsteps.
So slowly and quietly that the man before the roll-top desk didn’t hear him, “X” opened the door and entered.
A heavy rug muffled his footsteps as he moved into the room. Besides the door into the corridor, another showed at his left, leading apparently into some chamber beyond. The Agent took quick note of this, then spoke with calm precision.
“Summerville—I’d like a word with you.”
The man at the desk started as violently as though he had been struck. He whirled in his chair, his gaunt face draining of color. Then, slowly, as his eyes focused on “X,” scrutinizing him from head to toe, fury mottled his cheeks. His hand darted toward a signal button, but Agent “X” spoke abruptly.
“Don’t, Summerville. Before calling your servants you’d better hear what I have to say.”
“And who might you be? Who let you in?”
The ex-senator’s voice was thick with rage.
“Nobody let me in! I came—after your servants had thrown me out. I’m the newspaper man who wanted to see you.”
Summerville’s lips twisted into a bitter snarl. “By God, I’ll have you jailed for this! You can’t break into a man’s house with impunity.”
Agent “X” studied the face before him carefully.
“You probably know,” he said, “that ugly rumors are circulating about you, Summerville. You’ve antagonized your own party. It’s being whispered that you’re a DOAC sympathizer. Is that true?”
Summerville struck his desk with one bony fist. “How dare you catechize me about my political beliefs after entering my house like some burglar?”
“Not so loud, Summerville! I’d prefer—and it might be better for you, too—if we kept this talk strictly between ourselves. I came here to learn the truth—not to embarrass you. Are you, I ask, a DOAC sympathizer?”
Summerville was silent, his face still contorted with anger. Agent “X” came closer. In his own gaze was that strangely magnetic quality that had a tangible, almost hypnotic effect on those whom he looked at.
“It may interest you to know,” he continued, “that there are rumors of your being under surveillance by the Department of Justice at this very moment. Unless you want to deepen the stigma of suspicion upon you, now is the time to make clear your position concerning the DOACs.”
SUMMERVILLE’S cheeks paled, but he continued to glare at “X,” pursing his thin lips. The Agent drove home his advantage, studying Summerville, hoping for some shade of expression that might betray to him the man’s inner feelings.
“Your attitude has already ruined your reputation as a political leader, Summerville. Be careful you don’t also ruin your chances of remaining a free citizen. Those suspected of DOAC leanings are liable to arrest from now on.”
Summerville rose slowly in his chair, knuckles resting on the desk, nostrils quivering.
“It’s well known that I’m a reactionary,” he said. “I’m not in sympathy with any of the present-day political trends. I advocate a third party. But if I’ve been impetuous in announcing sympathy with an organization which has overstepped the bounds, I’ll now make a statement which you can publish if you want to. I have no connections whatsoever with the DOACs. Certain things in their attitude appealed to me at first. I made some rash statements. Now I am withdrawing those statements.”
Agent “X” bowed, an ironic twist to his lips. “And how does your guest feel about the DOACs, Summerville?” he asked.
“My guest!” Summerville’s face twitched nervously. “What the devil do you mean?”
“Nothing to get excited about, Summerville! I’m told that you have a guest, a Doctor Lorenzo, staying with you. The doctor, I also understand, is interested in politics. His opinion in regard to the DOAC organization would be of interest, too. I’d like to meet him.”
As Agent “X” said this, his eyes bored into those of the man before him. He was playing boldly, risking death in his efforts to learn the truth; but the expression he saw on Summerville’s face now seemed solely one of fear.
“I begin to understand,” he said. “You’re not a newspaper man at all. You’re a detective, here to pry into my private affairs. It means, I suppose, that the government has taken it upon itself to persecute me and my friends.”
Agent “X” started to reply to this, then abruptly tensed. For Summerville’s face had set into sudden, mask-like rigidity. The man was no longer looking at him. Instead, he was staring over “X’s” shoulder as though at an unpleasant ghost.
“X” turned slowly, an inner voice warning him of danger. He’d heard no sound of footsteps, but he saw now from the corner of his eye that the other door he had noticed on entering was open.
Framed in the threshold of it was a man with enormously broad shoulders, snapping eyes and a black beard shot with streaks of gray. The man was hunched forward in an apelike posture. His piercing eyes were fixed fiercely on Agent “X.” In the stubby fingers of his right hand was a
n automatic with its blued muzzle pointed straight at the Agent.
Chapter XI
Stalking Terror
SUMMERVILLE made a gurgling sound in his throat.
“Doctor—for God’s sake don’t shoot!”
The black-bearded man with the gun came slowly into the room. There was murder in his eyes. Summerville cried out as the bearded one’s finger seemed tensed to send a bullet crashing into the Agent’s body.
Looking at the bearded man, Agent “X” saw that Lorenzo, or Di Lauro, had the face of a fanatic. His eyes blazed with an unholy light. He had rugged features, thin, cruel lips, and a high sloping forehead, speaking of brain power above the average. Di Lauro remained silent, ignoring Summerville’a plea. He was trembling, racked by some frenzy that possessed him.
The air in the room seemed to grow more electric each second. Without warning, Summerville made a dive toward the wall, pressing his finger on the button controlling the overhead lights. The room was plunged into instant darkness. And, as the mantle of gloom fell, the bearded man’s automatic gave a choking report. But Agent “X” had lunged sidewise, away from the spot where he had been standing. The bullet meant for him screamed past his head, burying itself in the wall.
He made a leap toward the man with the gun. But something tripped him. He sprawled for a moment, got up immediately. As he rose, he heard a door slam shut.
He flung toward the spot thrusting his shoulder against the panels, only to find that the door had been locked. He started to grope for his skeleton keys, but there came the sound of running footsteps and another door swiftly closing. “X” saw the folly of pursuit. Leon Di Lauro had rushed out of the house into the darkness, making good his escape. To look for him in the shrubbery around the black lawn would be futile.
Somewhere in the study quick breathing sounded. The Agent moved quietly to the spot where the light switch was located. He pressed the button, flooding the room with illumination.
Summerville was standing near his desk, his face ashen. He stared at the Agent and spoke slowly.
“He didn’t kill you then! I’m glad. I didn’t want a murder in this house.”
The relief in the man’s tone was unmistakable. Agent “X’s” eyes were bleak as he stared at Summerville.
“You aided him to escape, didn’t you?”
“You mean I saved your life.” There was a sneer on Summerville’s lips.
As the two men faced each other, quick footsteps came along the hall outside. The door opened and a girl entered the room. She was followed by the two strong-arm servants who now stared at the Agent in open-mouthed amazement. The girl spoke hoarsely.
“What’s going on here, father? Who is this man?”
“X’s” eyes traveled over the girl. She was tall, raw-boned, and bore a striking resemblance to Summerville. Unbeautiful, but intellectual, she had weak gray eyes that peered at the Agent near-sightedly.
“Nothing has happened, Bertha. Run along and don’t bother us.”
“But I heard a shot—and— Where’s Doctor Lorenzo? I called him. He’s not in his room.”
“He got excited and left,”
“It was he who fired that shot then. I knew it!”
The girl’s words came in a gasp. She clenched her hands, standing tensely, staring first at Agent “X,” then at her father. Summerville made an impatient gesture at her and the two servants.
“Go away. I want to talk to this man alone.”
THE servants, their faces heavy with scowls, shot hostile glances in the direction of “X.”
“Get out, I say!” roared Summerville again, and in a moment the two servants, shrugging, turned on their heels and left. But the girl came closer, a stubborn look on her face.
“Where’s the doctor gone?” she demanded. “Why did he shoot? You must answer me. I have a right to know.”
Her homely face was screwed into a frown of anxiety. Agent “X,” shrewd judge of human nature, saw that this raw-boned girl had a more than casual interest in the bearded Di Lauro.
“I can’t answer your question, Bertha,” said Summerville harshly. “Leave it alone now. Mind your business and go back to your room. Everything will turn out all right if you don’t meddle.”
With a venomous glance at Agent “X” she left. Immediately her father fixed the Agent with a hard stare.
“You see the trouble you’ve caused in coming here,” he said gratingly.
“You’ve got to expect a little excitement of this sort,” said the Agent dryly, “if you insist on harboring ex-convicts, Summerville.”
“By God, sir—what are you driving at now?”
Fear had leaped into Summerville’s eyes.
“Perhaps you don’t know who your guest really is, Summerville. His right name is Leon Di Lauro. He was recently paroled from the state penitentiary. Suppose you tell me why he is staying at your house?”
The look of fear on Summerville’s face increased; but he maintained stubborn silence. The Agent continued.
“What if I let the police know you’ve been harboring a man wanted by the parole board for failure to report? That wouldn’t do much to correct the bad reputation you’ve been building up for yourself lately.”
Summerville appeared suddenly to reach a decision. He thrust his jaw out aggressively.
“Tell the police any damn story you want to,” he said. “I’ve one of my own. You broke into this house. A guest of mine, Doctor Lorenzo, fired at you in self-defense. I’ve never heard of this other man you mention. I don’t believe your story. The doctor is a friend of my daughter’s. She met him some weeks ago, found he was writing a book and suggested that he stay with us in order to have a quiet place to work. That’s all I know, and—”
He stopped speaking abruptly, for there came a sudden sound at the study door. It was thrust open violently and one of the servants stuck his head in. There was a strained look on his face. He spoke with harsh excitement.
“We just found Rheinhart and that dog of his knocked out cold, Mr. Summerville! They’re out on the lawn, and that guy there must have done it”
The eyes of both men focused on the Agent. Summerville swore, then stabbed a quivering finger at “X.”
“You’ve broken into my house!” he shouted. “You’ve knocked out my servant! You’ve tried to intimidate me! Now it’s my turn for a little action. Hold him, Garrick, while I telephone for the police.”
The big servant strode into the room, and, hard on his heels, was the other smaller servant who had helped to eject “X” when he visited by the front door.
Summerville made a grab for the phone as his men stepped forward to make a prisoner of “X.” The Agent’s hand moved like a streak.
He whipped the gas gun from his pocket, waved it menacingly at the two men, then backed toward the shuttered window. With one hand groping behind him, he quickly raised the sash.
HE found and opened the catches that held the old-fashioned blind. While Summerville stood helpless, hand poised over the telephone, afraid to move, Agent “X” stepped easily through the window and dropped to the dark lawn below.
He left the grounds of the Summerville estate, climbing dexterously over the spiked and wired iron fence. He kept to the shadowed streets till he sighted a cruising taxi which took him back to the center of town.
Here he plunged into a telephone booth and called his own city office. The voice of the young man stationed there answered him.
“No reports, sir, in the past two hours.”
Agent “X” frowned and looked at his watch. The hands showed nine o’clock.
“You mean to say Chatfield didn’t call at seven?”
“No, sir. He did not.”
The Agent hung up, a furrow between his brows. Chatfield was the operative stationed by “X” outside Greta St. Clair’s establishment.
“X” put in a direct call to Greta St. Clair’s house, prepared to question her in the pose of “Claude Erskine.” But the voice of the telephone ope
rator sounded in his ears.
“Sorry, sir, the number you called does not answer. It is temporarily out of order.”
“Out of order?”
“That’s right, sir.”
Agent “X” dropped the receiver back on the hook, left the booth in three quick strides. He took several deep breaths. His eyes were bright. He looked up Costigan, gave the man instructions to continue his shadowing of Summerville, then went to the municipal flying field. Fifteen minutes later he was winging through the night again in his hurtling, rocketing ship, the Blue Comet.
He did not swerve from a straight line till he picked up the blue and silver streak of the river that flowed by the state prison’s fortresslike front. He followed it, sweeping lower as he made out the glaring beams of the searchlights that burned on the prison walls, turned on since the raid. He crossed the river and side-slipped into a small field beside a highway. Greta St. Clair’s house was a half-mile down the road.
AGENT “X” strode quickly through the darkness. A grim sense of foreboding filled him. A sense that Chatfield’s silence, his failure to report, indicated another act of terrorism on the part of the DOACs.
He crossed fields and woods making a short cut, till the high wall of Greta St. Clair’s estate rose before him. Then he paused, holding his breath.
Lights were burning near the front gate. They were not lights from the house itself, but lights held in the hands of men, electric torches and lanterns. He saw the visored caps of cops, saw an automobile and several motorcycles close to the walls. The iron gate was open.
He strode forward, and instantly saw that the gate had been smashed, and that the wall itself was cracked and broken. Loose strands of wire hung down. This havoc had been wrought by some terrific explosion. Agent “X” could guess what it was.
Lips grim, eyes probingly bright, he shouldered up to the group of men.
“Something happen?”
He baited a cop by deliberately asking a stupid question. The blue-coat turned toward him, his face plainly showing irritation.
“Huh!” he grunted. “When mugs get to throwing bombs, something usually happens, doesn’t it? Them hooded guys have been messing around again. The same mugs that tried to snatch Mike Carney out of stir. Now they’ve kidnaped that high-stepping dame of his, and knocked off some of her servants while they were doing it. Better start traveling, pal. The chief’s showing his teeth today. He’s likely to pick up any nosey gent and book him as a suspect.”
Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2 Page 51