“I’ll come out there, Jim,” he said hoarsely.
“What can you do, boss? The strike’s bound to go through—unless these factory owners cough up. And a hundred grand is a lot of dough.”
“Listen, Jim,” the Agent’s voice was hard and thin, “I’ll bring the money myself. I’ll get it somehow. We’ve got to stop this strike!”
He heard Jim Hobart’s gasp of surprise.
“A hundred grand, boss. I don’t see how you can do it!”
“I’ll try anyway.”
The Agent’s eyes were almost feverishly bright as he hung up. He licked lips that had become a thin straight line. The money angle didn’t bother him. He still had plenty in the bank, a vast sum at his disposal to combat crime. But it was the time element. He couldn’t just wire the money to South Bolton. The cash must seem to come from the factory owners themselves. His presence would be needed on the spot.
There was no other sure way. It would take the genius and tact of the Man of a Thousand Faces to see that the money was distributed properly. And the strike might already have started. His presence would be needed by those innocents whom it would affect—the wives and children of the workers, ground down already by four long years of depression.
Never had Secret Agent “X” been torn by such a conflict of emotions. Betty Dale, somewhere in the East a prisoner awaiting torture and horrible death at the hands of the DOACs! The city of South Bolton, a festering point of sinister DOAC activity. He walked the streets for minutes, trembling, shaken, trying as he had never tried before to pull himself together.
A sound that was like a groan came from the Agent’s lips. The bright morning sun had lost its brilliance for him. A gray pall of horror seemed to stand between him and it. The death shrieks of the man he had seen die seemed still to echo in his ears. Forcibly he shut out the thought that shrieks of a like nature might come from Betty Dale’s lips if he were not in time.
TIME! That was the vital thing! Never had he had such a realization of the value of time as now. He wasted no more seconds in thought. His mind was made up. Duty came first—the duty that commanded him to go where he was most needed; where he could bring the greatest good to the greatest number. He must go to South Bolton where the hideous lightning bolt of DOAC terror was scheduled to strike.
He moved along the street in a frenzy of speed. Back in his hideout he made another quick change of disguise. This time when he came out he was a new character—Elisha Pond, man of means, depositor in several big eastern banks.
He took a brief case with him. A taxi sped him to the door of one of Washington’s largest financial institutions. It was just opening for the day. As Elisha Pond, he was known here also.
The cashiers behind their cages were startled by “X’s” burning eyes and intent face. One of them stepped forward. The Agent stilled the emotions that racked him. He spoke quietly.
“I want to draw out a hundred thousand in cash this morning.”
“A hundred thou—” For a brief instant the clerk glanced up as though he had heard the voice of a madman. Then his own official composure returned.
“Certainly, Mr. Pond, but I’ll have to speak to one of the managers first. Just step this way, sir, if you don’t mind.”
Agent “X” was taken through grilled doors, along a marble corridor, to a row of inner offices behind the cashiers’ cages. He hardly noticed his surroundings. His face still worked with the force of his emotion.
To the quiet-faced man in the manager’s office he repeated his request. He said that he was flying west immediately and needed the cash to satisfy certain parties in a big business deal.
The manager had his account looked into, found that there was sufficient on deposit, and made out a withdrawal slip himself. He tapped his desk nervously, eyeing this strange depositor. It wasn’t the first time Elisha Pond had made odd demands on the bank. His mysterious comings and goings had never quite been explained. But he was too big a depositor to be questioned.
“That will just about clean us out of the cash we have on hand, Mr. Pond,” the manager said, smiling. “But it is our policy to please. I’m glad we could accommodate you this morning.”
The cash was brought to “X” in bills of large denomination. He counted them, stuffed them quickly into his brief case.
“Don’t you think you’d better have one of our guards accompany you out of the city?” asked the manager. But Agent “X” waved the offer aside.
“I’ll be all right, thanks,” he said. “Sorry to have troubled you like this.”
He was away in a moment. Another taxi sped him back to his hideout, where he changed again to the disguise of A.J. Martin. In ten minutes he was on his way to the airport at Anacostia.
Another twenty minutes, and the blue-and-orange nose of his fast, bulletlike plane was speeding him westward through the morning sky. Never had he driven the little ship as he did now. Every second that ticked by on his instrument-board clock seemed precious. It seemed as if they were drops of his own life’s blood, dripping away.
He pushed the throttle forward to the quadrant stop, sent the ship hurtling like a rocket over rivers, forests, fields and towns.
IN three hours he canted the blue wings of his plane down toward the airport at South Bolton. Three hours to cover over six hundred miles. Three hours from Washington, D.C.
He slammed down in a breath-taking side-slip that seemed to spell destruction. He yawed the blue plane’s tail at the last minute to kill speed. When his wheels touched he hurtled toward the row of hangars so rapidly that a frightened mechanic shrieked a warning, until Agent “X” fish-tailed to a skidding stop with a wing tip almost touching a hangar door.
“Take care of the ship,” he yelled. “I’m in a hurry. See that she’s gassed and oiled—ready to take off any minute. There’s an extra twenty in it if you do the job right.” He tossed the amazed mechanic a ten-spot, signaled a taxi outside the field gate.
In the center of town, a phone call put him in touch with Jim Hobart. In ten minutes he was conversing with Jim in a hotel room. Hobart’s eyes bulged at sight of the brief case.
“You got the cash then, boss?”
“Yes. But that’s only the beginning of it. Now to get it into the hands of the right parties and have it turned over to the DOACs. The strike’s got to be stopped.”
Hobart pulled a long face. “It’s already started, boss. They’re fighting now in front of the Consolidated Mills. The police are out. I seen two guys shoved into an ambulance as I came by.”
Agent “X” grabbed Hobart’s arm and spoke hoarse instructions.
“Get back to DOAC headquarters. Play your part with them. I’ll handle my end of it. I’ll meet you here as soon as it’s over. You mustn’t be seen in public with me.”
The brief case of money under his arm, Agent “X” went to the mill section of town. Police lines stopped his taxi within two blocks of the Consolidated Mills. He heard the spiteful crack of revolver and rifle fire, saw grim-faced cops holding a thousand or more workers at bay. There was trouble in the air—hate and suspicion running rampant, like some unseen but menacing beast.
This was no normal strike. The workers themselves didn’t understand it. Feeling was running high. Men who had been given work after years of idleness now found themselves out on strike. Employers who had signed codes, increased wages, were suddenly without help, while orders piled up.
The union bosses that “X” saw were scared-looking, haunted. He knew that DOAC terrorism had reached them. He knew that they feared for the safety of their families and for their own lives. They could not disobey the DOACs’ command to call a strike, any more than the workers could disobey them.
One boss rose on a barrel top, warning the workers against violence, pleading with them to be patient. Two men who had the look of hired thugs stepped forward. They yanked the man from his perch, began beating him unmercifully while factory employees stood by, afraid to take a hand, and failing to understand j
ust what was going on.
“X,” grim-lipped, shouldered through the mob. Two cops stopped him gruffly. Once again he showed one of his cards. It identified him as a representative of the American Federation of Labor. He was allowed to pass.
The owner of the Consolidated Mills was trying to bring strikebreakers in. Four truckloads of unemployed men from the city’s parks were nosing through the lines of sullen workers. The police opened a way for them. “X” saw the first real outbreak of violence.
A factory hand made a harsh-tongued harangue to his fellows. A dozen men rushed forward and surrounded the foremost of the trucks. The driver tried to speed up the vehicle. He was pulled from his seat, sent staggering into the gutter with a black eye. Workers swarmed around the truck in an angry sea. A strikebreaker shouted a warning. He was pulled from the truck and beaten. Blood ran as a fist squashed his nose. The voice of the mob rose in an angry roar.
The other scabs, fear suddenly in their hearts, leaped from the truck and ran yelling. Sticks, stones and empty bottles followed them. One man fell to the pavement with a cracked skull.
“X” SHOULDERED on inside the mill and a furtive watchman conducted him to the manager’s office. The owner wasn’t present; but the manager, bald-headed, nervous, was there. “X” at once told his purpose in coming.
“This strike most be stopped,” he said. “The workers don’t want it. It’s going to cause needless suffering and killing. It will wreck the returning prosperity of this city. The DOACs’ demands must be met before it is too late.”
A flush of fury spread over the manager’s pink face.
“That’s impossible,” he said. “They want a hundred thousand dollars from the mills of this city. The owners of Consolidated and others have refused to meet their demands. The DOACs and the workers are in league against us. It’s criminal extortion.”
“You’re wrong,” said the Agent harshly. “The DOACs have used intimidation, terrorism on the union leaders. They don’t want the strike any more than you do. But their lives wouldn’t be worth a cent if they didn’t call it. There’ll be murders, bloodshed if this thing isn’t stopped. The demands of the DOACs must be met, I tell you—to prevent a terrible catastrophe in this city.”
“It’s a racket!” shouted the manager. “We won’t be taken in by it. Who the hell are you?”
Again Agent “X” showed his card, and the manager’s face grew redder still.
“So! I told you the workers were in league with the DOACs. You dare to come here and tell me—”
Quietly Agent “X” opened his brief case.
“How much of the extortion money is assessed against this mill?” he asked.
“Twenty thousand dollars!”
The Agent took out a dozen packages of bills as the manager stared in wide-eyed amazement. “X” flipped the bills down on the man’s desk.
“Give me a receipt for that—and tell your boss that it is to be paid over to the DOACs at once.”
The manager was speechless for a moment. He found his voice. It was breathless.
“What about the other mills? Will they pay their share?”
“Yes. I can promise you that they will pay, too. The full amount will be raised.”
The manager nodded, grabbed a telephone. There was relief on his face. As he told his boss the good news, the sound of the strikers outside was like a rising storm.
Violence had gained headway as “X” went to the next big mill. A thousand wild rumors were going the rounds. Some union leaders were uncertain as to what course to follow. They were fighting furiously among themselves, giving and countermanding orders.
The mill owners, feeling that this strike was unfair and uncalled for, were bringing more and more scabs in. Regular employees of the mills, seeing their valued jobs snatched from under their noses, were becoming bitter, dangerous.
Beads of sweat on his forehead, working madly against time, Agent “X” visited mill after mill. He felt like a man pouring oil on troubled waters, trying to calm a raging sea to save a frail craft from destruction. His frenzied work was beginning to take effect.
The owners of the various mills along the trail behind “X” were getting in touch with one another. The word was going about that money had been obtained, that the DOACs’ demands were to be met.
An hour passed. Agent “X” moved on, interviewing, haranguing, taking packs of bills from his brief case. But not until the last mill owner had received his share of the Agent’s money and informed the DOACs that the sum demanded had been raised did the hooded organization get in touch with the union leaders.
Then at last the fury of the strikers began to abate. Groups of workers began straggling back to their jobs. Foremen began organizing shifts.
At the outskirts of the city by the last mill that Agent “X” came to, a tense knot of men stood gathered. Here, like a lurid spark of revolt refusing to die out, hatred and suspicion were still burning fiercely. The Agent heard a man’s voice, hoarse, frenzied, haranguing those around him. He saw a pair of arms flailing the air. The man seemed to have the gift of an orator. He was holding the others spellbound.
“Don’t go back to your work, fools!” the man was shouting. “Don’t let your bosses betray you. Who are they to make pawns of you! They are being bought off. They are the tools of the mill owners. Money has been sent in from the outside to stop this strike. You are being sold out, double-crossed, betrayed.”
A leader of a local union thrust forward angrily to speak to the man. The man lashed out with a huge, brutal fist, knocking the other down. As he did so he turned his head and Agent “X” caught sight of his face for the first time. He gasped.
The man was broad-shouldered, his features covered by a dense black beard shot with streaks of gray. The gleaming, close-set eyes, burning with the light of fanaticism, were familiar.
Every muscle in the Agent’s body grew tense. He was looking at the face of Leon Di Lauro—Summerville’s strange guest and Mike Carney’s suspect.
Chapter XV
Guns of Death
THE sight of this man backed up the Agent’s suspicions against him and Benjamin Summerville. Di Lauro was trying to make trouble. His persuasive eloquence was creating doubt in the minds of the mill-hands. He had caught their attention. His violence against the union leader made him seem dramatic.
The Agent knew that many of the DOACs probably were honest men, working for what they considered the betterment of the nation. These were the ones who had been fooled and tricked by DOAC propaganda—men like the slain Gordon Ridley. Possibly Di Lauro was such a man, too. Again, he might have the cleverness to cover criminal motives with the cloak of sincerity. Whatever his real character, he was in a tight spot now. The union leader was rising angrily, fists clenched, demanding that the workers ignore Di Lauro and return to their jobs.
The men were uncertain, bewildered, torn between loyalty to a union they felt might have betrayed them, and the convincing arguments of the bearded agitator.
Di Lauro was a solid man, built to stand physical punishment, well able to give it out. The union leader had the same muscular proportions. They glared at each other. Intense hate shone in their eyes.
“Comrades, this man is a four-flusher, a crook, a trouble-maker,” cried the union leader. “You don’t know him, and neither do I. Listen to him and you’ll have a lot of grief on your hands. The best way to get ahead in this world is to work. Don’t forget the tough times you’ve all been through! You guys are lucky to have jobs. There’s a lot that would like to be in your shoes. Go back to your jobs now and let this bird whistle through his whiskers alone.
“He knows how to sling the lingo—but don’t let that fool you. Get back to the mill—an’ tonight you can drink your beer, take your missus to a movie or play with the kids. What more does a guy need to be happy?”
It was a sound argument. The union leader had outlined an age-old method of finding happiness—through work. But Di Lauro had a silver tongue and glib
cleverness in the use of words. He raised his hands to the men. His voice boomed out dramatically.
“What does life mean to you, friends? What do you ask? Do you demand nothing more than enough money to keep you existing so you can get on the job at the blast of the whistle every morning? Are you toiling ants, insects, that life means nothing to you but work? Take warning, friends! Don’t let yourselves be slaves of the money monsters who drain your life away. They will throw you aside when you can no longer produce the wealth they squander in riotous excesses.”
Di Lauro’s teeth gleamed in a triumphant snarl. His eyes blazed. Momentarily he was holding the workers spellbound, keeping them away from the jobs that gave them a living.
The union leader boiled with rage. He was a self-made man who’d worked hard and honestly all his life. His face still bore the marks of encounters of an earlier day. He lunged at Leon Di Lauro, and the rabid, wild-eyed agitator met him with a bruising attack. The two men clashed, each ready to fight to a finish.
The Secret Agent wondered. The union leader was obviously a hard-headed, two-fisted advocate of labor organization, loyal to his union, right or wrong. But what about Leon Di Lauro? Even the Agent, skilled at detecting hidden motives, was in doubt. Was Di Lauro, possibly an emissary of Summerville, spreading discontent, working for the DOACs, building a campaign to exploit man power?
While the Agent harassed his brain with conjectures, the bearded agitator and the union leader began a furious exchange of blows.
The mill hands stopped. Forgotten were their troubles in the excitement of witnessing a primitive battle.
Di Lauro was a savage fighter. He slashed into his foe with both fists pumping destruction The union leader fought valiantly, but he wilted under the blasting punishment. Di Lauro rocked his opponent repeatedly with devastating blows to the head and body. The bearded agitator was beyond the age of fist fighting, and he did not avoid all the clumsy swings that were hurled his way.
Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2 Page 54