”You mean the Green Mask has them?”
Senator Blackwell wilted suddenly, seemed on the point of collapse. “Yes,” he said dully. “He came tonight and demanded them. I don’t know who he is, but he’d got the truth from Ferris — tortured the boy. Don’t look at me so, captain. I gave them to him! It was the only way!”
“And when did he promise to bring back Suzanne?”
“Tonight sometime. He wasn’t clear.”
A harsh, mirthless laugh came from the Agent’s lips. But he stepped forward, laid a hand on Blackwell’s shoulder.
“I understand, senator. Keep quiet about this. Say nothing to anybody. Nothing at all, do you understand?”
Agent “X” picked up his army cap. He turned toward the door — looked back as the senator’s voice rose.
“What are you going to do, captain? How can I save Suzanne? How can I be sure?”
“There is no surety,” said “X.” “There’s only hope. I’m going to talk to the inspector. I want to see him alone.”
The senator spoke in sudden panic. “You’re not going to tell him — about Ferris — and the plans? Wait — the police don’t know!”
“It’s something else entirely, senator,” said “X” harshly. “You may trust me — to keep silent.”
He strode through the door, crossed the hall quickly, and entered the drawing room. Inspector Clyde turned at sound of his step. His sharp face was palely set. The Agent nodded, spoke abruptly:
“We’ve met before, inspector. At Senator Dashman’s home, you may remember. I’d like a word with you?”
Inspector Clyde nodded surlily. His pride was ruffled apparently because the Agent’s visit had interrupted his own interview with Blackwell.
“What is it you want?” he snapped. “I’m a busy man tonight.”
AGENT “X” asked a blunt question. “When you reached Senator Foulette’s after the robbery this evening, just what did you find, inspector?”
“Jewels had been stolen and three persons were missing. Miss Blackwell, Raphael Sancho, and a girl named Betty Dale. We believe they were kidnapped.”
“Who called the police — the servants?”
“No — they were knocked out, too. A man named von Helvig called us — an attaché of the German embassy.”
“He revived first, you mean?”
“Yes, he was among the first.”
“And when did he leave?”
“After we’d finished questioning him.”
“Did you make a list of all those present, inspector?”
“Certainly, as a matter of routine. They’d been robbed and filed normal complaints.”
“Did you happen to talk to a Miss Lili Damora?”
“Yes, she’d lost a diamond ring valued at five hundred dollars. She was with von Helvig. Was she a friend of yours?”
“Yes, inspector, exactly. And I sympathize with her loss.”
Inspector Clyde shrugged coldly. “What’s a bit of a jewel compared to human lives. Three people were kidnapped, I tell you. We have every reason to believe they are in danger,”
The irony of the situation held grim humor. Clyde was talking to one of the supposedly kidnapped people now. But the Agent’s face was masklike.
“Thank you, inspector,” he said. “I appreciate your information.”
A sly gleam of curiosity came into the inspector’s eyes now. “You’re not trying to cast suspicion on von Helvig, are you? It doesn’t seem likely that a man attached to a government legation would be a jewel thief, does it?”
“It doesn’t, inspector. You are right. Thanks again, and good-night.”
Secret Agent “X” turned and strode quickly from the room. The light of excitement was in his eyes now. There might be nothing in what the inspector had told him; but again, there might. Von Helvig was a murderous criminal. He had been a ruthless spy, and he had been the one to summon the police. Suzanne Blackwell hadn’t been taken to the island. Where was she — and was von Helvig responsible for her abduction?
“X” went straight to the Hotel Wilmot and was told that von Helvig hadn’t been in all evening.
The Agent pondered a moment, then left the hotel and drove swiftly through the night streets again. This time he went to the fashionable apartment where Lili Damora had her suite. The doorman had long since gone off duty. Agent “X” didn’t announce himself to the sleepy-eyed girl at the switchboard. He walked past, ascended in the all-night elevator, pressed the bell of Lili’s apartment. But there was no answer to his ring. Seconds passed. He pressed the button again. Still no answer.
The Agent took his tool kit from the lining of his coat then and entered the apartment by deftly and silently picking the lock.
The place was dark and quiet. An inexplicable sense of eeriness hung over it. He turned on his tiny light, moved cautiously. The bed hadn’t been slept in. It was not even turned back. He went into the drawing room next, stood still a second looking about, them bent sharply forward.
The place was in good order, but something on the rug caught his eye. A dark, sinister spot that was crimson, and still damp.
He examined the rug carefully, eyes brightly alert. Another spot of crimson showed near the hall entrance. He passed across it, opened the door of a guest room, entered.
The bed there hadn’t been used, either. The room was spotlessly neat. But he noticed a slight roughed-up place on the carpet. Beyond this was the door of a clothes closet. The Agent moved forward, touching the knob. It was locked.
With suddenly tense fingers, Agent “X” removed his compact tool kit again. He selected a steel implement to suit, forced the lock, and pulled the door open. Then he gave a sudden hissing exclamation.
A huddled figure lay on the floor of the closet. A white face with glassy eyes stared up at him above a crimson-stained shirt front. The face was that of Karl Hummel, alias Otto von Helvig, ex-Prussian spy and embassy attaché. One glance at his still, marble-pale features showed Agent “X” that he was dead.
Chapter XX
HERE was a turn of events as unexpected as a sudden blow in the dark. The Agent was staggered.
For tense seconds he stared down at Karl Hummel. One of Europe’s most cunning spies lay at “X’s” feet — dead. A man who had served his country during four years of bloody strife, outwitting many opponents, winning many triumphs. A man who had played the desperate game of espionage with all the strength of mind and body. And now, in time of supposed peace, he had succumbed to a criminal too terrible for him to cope with.
For a moment Agent “X” forgot Karl Hummel’s ruthless past — and saw him only as a victim of their common enemy. He felt a touch of sentiment for this brilliant old-time adversary of his, who had rolled the dice — and lost. Then he stooped and lifted Hummel up.
Stretching the dead man on the floor, he went through his pockets with swift thoroughness. Careful examination of a wallet in Hummel’s pocket disclosed a sheaf of bills, a few calling cards. “X” tossed these impatiently aside, then felt through the dead man’s vest. He paused to scrutinize another card. This bore the name of an undertaking firm — David Daniels Son. Unimportant, it seemed — or was it? The Agent stared at it for tense seconds.
There was gruesome irony in finding a mortician’s card in a dead man’s pocket. But there was no amusement in the Agent’s keen eyes. The murder of Ferris Blackwell, the kidnapping of Suzanne, had sent his mind leaping to conclusions which had been right. Now a macabre hunch was building itself about this bit of pasteboard in his fingers.