The reporter beside X who had first seen her spoke hoarsely now. “I know that dame. She’s on the Herald. Betty Dale’s her name. What’s she doing up there?”
As though in answer the gray-coated figure on the balcony raised her hand. She seemed to throw something through the door that the fire inspectors had entered. Instantly there was a bright streak, a flash of lurid light on the other side of the door. Flame rose on that corner of the building close to a window just around the angle. It mushroomed out. There was a tinkle of glass, a wavering, ghastly arm of dancing luminescence. Other flames showed, streaking out from the walls across the whole second floor of the building, as though the thing that the girl in gray had thrown had ignited them.
A harsh, horrified cry arose from the men straining around X.
“That girl—Betty Dale—she started the fire! I saw her!”
Chapter X
BETTY DALE CONDEMNED
AGENT X was stunned. Moisture spread a clammy film over his whole body. He had seen Betty’s face and figure with his own keen eyes. There was appalling truth in the accusations of the men around him. Betty Dale had set the fire. Betty Dale had started those evil flames that were spreading their devil’s light across the block.
He fought the idea as a man fights the clutch of some monstrous nightmare. It couldn’t be! It didn’t make sense! There was some horrible mistake—some ghastly trick.
He ran forward with a choking, desperate cry. He forgot himself for once. Emotion carried him away. Betty was up there. Betty was in danger. Betty must be saved.
Another shout sounded as he leaped ahead. “Look. She’s gone!”
The Agent stared with haggard eyes. It was true. As mysteriously, as suddenly as Betty Dale had appeared, she had also vanished. The balcony was deserted now. Yet cold dread still clutched the Agent’s heart in a grip of iron. The weird light of the mounting flames was increasing. If Betty was up there, she couldn’t survive.
He ran on, not stopping to wonder how the thing had happened, knowing only that Betty must be there somewhere, still in unthinkable peril. For the fire was spreading with satanic speed. Watchmen on the lower floor were running out. Heat reached after them in a blistering wave.
A burly fireman tried to bar the Agent’s way.
“That girl up there!” X shouted. “We’ve got to get to her!”
The fireman clutched him and shook his head. “You should worry about her, buddy! She must have left the same way she got there! Save the hero stuff for somebody that needs it. That dame’s poison—one of the fire-bug mob.”
Agent X jerked free. The fireman swore and made a grab at him, but X was already close to one of the department store doors.
A fire inspector, white faced, came staggering out, striking at burning places on his clothes. His bloodless lips were moving, he was muttering hoarsely: “I couldn’t save him! He roasted alive!” The man hardly saw X. His eyes were glazed with horror.
With constricted throat, X plunged into the building, still hoping to reach Betty.
But a wave of heat in a solid wall struck at his face. Heat choked his lungs, pressed at his eyeballs like a searing brand. Heat singed his clothing. He surged on in spite of it till his coat began to burn. He retreated slowly with clenched hands and hissing breath, knowing that no living thing could survive in that crucible heat. If Betty was somewhere in the building she was already dead.
He got a brief glimpse of a man’s body ahead of him at the foot of the main stars. It was the other inspector—his head and shoulders burned off. He saw something else that made his smarting eyes widen in amazement. A steam radiator burst with a roaring explosion, spraying flaming liquid all about. Wherever the drops fell new fires sprang up. He had learned too late what method the arson ring had used this time.
He ran gasping into the street. No one noticed him. Pandemonium had broken loose. Firemen were yelling, cursing, dragging their apparatus up. News of the girl on the balcony had passed like wild-fire from mouth to mouth. The crowd was roaring. There was the discordant, sinister note of mob fury in it. It was known that some of the watchmen had been trapped in the burning building; known also that a fire inspector had died.
“I hope she roasted!” a cop close to X spat savagely. “If she didn’t we’ll get her and she’ll fry in the chair.”
The Agent moved up to Inspector Burks. He heard Burks issue orders to two of his men. “I don’t get it,” Burks was saying. “I don’t understand at all—but I saw her. She must have gone crazy to do a thing like that. But it won’t help her any. If she’s still alive and we catch her she’ll have to be put away. It’ll be jail or an asylum for that kid for the rest of her life. Get going, boys—and find her.”
Jail or an asylum! The words fell like a hateful death knell on the Agent’s ears. Jail or an asylum for Betty Dale! Even if she had somehow, by some miracle, survived the fire, what faced her? She would be captured surely. Her ways of life were well-known to the police.
Scores of her fellow reporters would treacherously run her down, thinking only of themselves, anxious to make a scoop. And then—long years behind steel bars till the spun gold of her hair lost its luster and turned gray. Long years in which her beauty would fade, her face grow wrinkled, her life wither. If Betty Dale had helped to set the fire even Secret Agent X couldn’t aid her much. He knew it. Her very beauty would betray her. Or, if she tried concealment, her days would be spent in furtively skulking from the law.
DULLED by the horror of it, shocked as no threat to his own existence could have done, the Agent stood by while the firemen battled with the flames.
The thing was hopeless from the start. Though no bombs of the bloating death rained from the sky this time to halt the firemen’s labors, the conflagration was too furious to be stopped. The bombs weren’t needed. The patrolling planes overheard could only circle over a scene of devastation. The store had somehow been honeycombed with inflammable substance. The firemen this time couldn’t even get near enough to pump in the smothering gas. The most they could do was to save other adjacent buildings. The inferno in Jacoby & Sons store was a hideous demonstration of the arson ring’s power.
But to X the appearance of Betty Dale on the balcony was a greater one still. Through his dazed mind came the clear realization that some fiendish criminal influence had been exerted here. He felt like shouting from the housetops: “She isn’t guilty! She can’t be! She would never do a think like that!”
He knew it would be useless. The harm was already done. Guilty or not, Betty Dale was already branded. He had heard the reporters talking, seen them running for the telephone booth in the store on the corner. In a dozen newspaper offices pencils and typewriters were racing as listening ears before telephones learned the news. Great rotary presses would soon be roaring. Special editions would be brought out. Wires were carrying the news to press bureaus all over the country. Betty Dale, golden-haired beauty, sets ten-million dollar fire!
And down in police headquarters teletype machines were clinking; excited men were bawling commands over wires and through the ether. Here was a commercial lead at last. Girl reporter in with arson ring!
The Agent left the scene of the fire as melted, twisted steel collapsed with a crash. Sparks lifted into the air like escaping demons. The whole great building was sagging inward, falling, like a dry barn made of wood.
He pushed through the crowds of staring, glassy-eyed people. His mind was still battling with the mystery of Betty’s appearance. He was building up a theory. Of all people in the city, Betty Dale would be the last to throw in her lot with criminals! Others might not sense that—he did. And, sensing it, he realized that her presence at the fire could only mean one thing.
The murderous members of the arson ring were striking a blow at him. They had ferreted out the fact that Betty Dale was closer to him than any one in the world. He was being punished for his interference. Punished—or was there something deeper?
Bleak-eyed, cold and hot by turns
with dread and fury, the Secret Agent moved toward a spot where he could switch in his radio. If the criminals had murdered Betty they had brought upon their heads the vengeance of one of the most relentless manhunters in the world. Agent X would track them to the ends of the earth if need be, learn who they were if it took a lifetime, fight them as long as there was a breath in his body.
He paused in a shadowed doorway, tapped Harvey Bates’ signal. The insect-like answer came back quickly. “No more leads yet on Betty Dale. Operatives contacting every acquaintance she has in the city. House-to-house canvas being made on Avenue A. Hope for more favorable report later.”
Scowling, the Agent sent back a swift rejoinder. “Betty Dale seen at burning department store of Jacoby. Appears to have started fire. Disappeared. May have perished. Recall any men still working on Santos lead and rush them with others to vicinity of fire. Comb entire district. Hunt for Betty Dale takes precedence over all other missions.”
THE Agent changed the wavelength of his radio, and tapped a like message to Jim Hobart. He was disappointed in the negative results of his two crime-fighting organizations. Yet he doubted that they were at fault. Theirs was a routine task. Their failure to learn anything of the whereabouts of Boss Santos or Betty Dale was more proof of the criminals’ uncanny cunning.
He suddenly turned and strode away from the doorway. He hailed a cab and had himself driven to one of the worst sections of the city. He got out, paid his fare, and moved along a quiet street, bordered with ancient rooming houses.
Halfway down it he stopped and slipped into an areaway opening. He stood in the semi-darkness, still as a statue. A faint sound had reached his ears, the brittle tap-tapping of a cane.
He waited as a shabby, frail-looking figure came along the block. The figure was a man, a beggar, with a tray of chewing-gum tied around his middle. He had been on his evening rounds of lighted corners and subway exits. Though his face was pale, wrinkled, there was a strangely peaceful expression on it. A pair of dark glasses covered his eyes, and he looked neither to right nor left. The man was blind, forever denied a glimpse of daylight; but the calmness, the composure of his features indicated that he enjoyed some sort of inner vision.
He drew abreast of the Agent, seemed about to pass by, then stopped. The cane was held rigid before him. He raised his head slightly, stood as though listening. Suddenly he spoke. “Good evening, friend, whoever you are! A blind man greets you!”
The Agent did not answer. But he left his hiding place, walked slowly across the areaway and up on the sidewalk, his footsteps sounding faintly. The blind beggar’s voice held instant, excited welcome. “Mr. Robbins! I couldn’t quite tell from your breathing, but your steps I’d know anywhere!”
“Thaddeus Penny,” said the Agent. A faint, grim smile twitched his lips. He never ceased to marvel at the blind beggar’s amazing acuteness. Months before, made up as a man named “Robbins,” X had done Thaddeus Penny a great service, and Penny had become his friend for life. Several times he had helped X identify men by their steps and by his faculty of never forgetting a human voice. And, because he moved ceaselessly and unnoticed through many shady sections of the city listening and keeping his own counsel, his mind was like an encyclopedia of underworld information.
X gripped the blind man’s hand. “You tried to fool an old friend,” said Penny smiling. “But friendship is such a blessed thing that sight is not needed to see it.”
X was used to Penny’s quaint way of talking. The blind man often spoke in parables. But the smile suddenly left Penny’s face, and his voice grew serious. “You are in trouble, friend. Your hand is cold. I can even feel you trembling. What is it? What is wrong?”
“I am worried about another friend,” said X softly. “It’s a long story, I won’t go into the details. But some one, this friend, is in deadly danger.”
“And you don’t know where she is!” said Penny suddenly.
“She?”
“Yes. Men of good heart use one voice when speaking of men, another when speaking of women. This friend is a woman—perhaps a girl.”
“Right,” said the Agent. “A girl. But what I want of you is information that may help me to find her—and that information concerns a man. Have you ever heard of Boss Santos?”
Thaddeus Penny bobbed his head. “Surely. The fame of the wicked spreads more rapidly than that of the virtuous. But this man you speak of, Boss Santos, has disappeared. The police are searching the city for him at this moment.”
“I know it,” said X grimly. “But you have ways of picking up information that the police have not. Don’t put yourself in any danger. But go to some of the places where Santos was known, and listen to what you hear. I’ll meet you again, later.” The Agent dropped a dollar bill in the blind beggar’s tray, but Penny heard the soft fall of the bill and shook his head violently.
“Friendship never asks reward, and, because my wants are few, I live in luxury.”
“Keep it then,” said the Agent, “and give it to some of the poor people you know.” He pressed the blind beggar’s hand and strode quickly away.
LEAVING Penny, X drove in a cab to one of the city’s branch post offices. He looked through the glass of box No. 2020, saw that it was empty and scowled. This was one of several boxes he rented under various names. Betty Dale knew the numbers of them all. He had a wild hope that there might be some message from her.
Grimly he went the rounds. At the last box, hired under the name of Gregory Marsedon, he saw a white piece of paper and his heart gave a leap. He opened the box, grasped the paper, a small envelope, and suddenly went cold.
It was typed, but not in the blue ink that Betty Dale had agreed always to use. This meant she had not done it herself. It gave rise to dreaded, sinister possibilities.
The Agent’s fingers were tense as talons as he opened it. There was a short, unsigned note inside.
MARSEDON: If you receive this in time go to the drug store at the corner of Stillwell Avenue and Twenty-third Street. Be there at eleven sharp. A phone will ring in one of the booths. There will be a call for Marsedon. Answer it.
The Agent looked at his watch. It was fifteen minutes of eleven now. This note had come in a late mail, timed as though he were meant to receive it just after the fire. He had visited the box a dozen times through the day and there had been nothing.
With dread still clutching his heart in a grip of ice the Agent dashed outside and hailed a taxi. He pressed a handful of bills into the driver’s hand. “Stillwell Avenue and Twenty-third street as quick as you can. Step on it! Don’t mind the lights.”
The driver took long chances rushing across town. Once a policeman shrilled at them, but the cabby didn’t stop. He drew up at the designated corner with a squeal of tires. He stared wonderingly after the Agent’s retreating figure.
The Agent plunged into the drug store just as eleven struck. A telephone in a booth was ringing. A dapper clerk came out from behind the counter and lifted the receiver. He appeared in a moment, glanced around the store. “Is there a Mr. Marsedon here?”
The Agent nodded, slid by the drug-store clerk and into the booth. He closed the door tightly, pressed the receiver to his ear, and was conscious of the trip-hammer beating of his heart.
A voice came over the wire, solemn, sinister. “Have I the pleasure of addressing Secret Agent X?”
The Agent answered with a studied effort at calmness. “Gregory Marsedon speaking. Who is this?”
A laugh sounded. It was harshly derisive, chill as the scrape of steel on ice. “Good evening, Marsedon! That question I can’t answer. Is there any other you would like to ask?
The Agent caught the gloating, taunting quality in the words. Cords in his neck swelled out. His fingers clenched the receiver till the knuckles whitened. Yet still his voice was calm. “Have you one to suggest?” he parried.
“There is a girl, I believe—a certain Herald reporter, Miss Betty Dale. She took part in a rather sensational crime tonight. The
police are searching for her now. It is barely possible that news of her would interest you.”
X could not smother the gasp that rose to his lips. It brought another chuckle. Unsuppressed fury caught at the Agent’s speech for a moment. “If you’ve killed her—” he started.
“If I have, what then? What could you do about it? It happens, though, that I haven’t. She’s very much alive.”
There was a second’s silence, while relief flooded the Agent’s heart. He felt weak, almost dizzy, proof of the strain he had been under. The taunting voice went on:
“So far as her future goes she might as well be dead. Life holds nothing for her, except disgrace, prison, a psychopathic ward. Society is not kindly to those who commit arson and murder—even if they happen to be beautiful young girls.”
“She isn’t guilty!” rasped the Agent. “Do you think I don’t know it?”
“Your faith in Miss Dale is touching,” said the voice mockingly. “You say she isn’t guilty, and let us suppose for argument’s sake that she isn’t. That doesn’t change things—for her. She was seen by police and reporters. Detectives are hunting for her now. Her guilt is being blazoned across the country. If she were caught, no matter what fantastic alibi she gave, no jury would clear her. The public is keyed up and wants a victim. A wolf in sheep’s clothing—an attractive young woman—would serve as well as any. You are enough of a psychologist to realize that!”
The Secret Agent inwardly agreed. This sinister, unknown criminal was framing his own thoughts, hurling them in his teeth. Betty Dale might as well be guilty. She was doomed already. The hungry voice of public opinion had condemned her.
“Why are you telling me this?” asked the Agent.
“Because you’re one of the few people in the world who can save her, clear her. Because I’m willing to bargain with you. I ask certain services you can render in return for Miss Dale’s freedom and good name.”
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 6 Page 28