With a movement so quick that the eyes of the chauffeur could hardly follow it, Secret Agent “X” reached out and turned the dial, cutting off the voice.
“Stop right here,” he said quickly.
The car came to a halt with a screech of brakes. Agent “X” jumped put, then paused for an instant, staring back at the wondering eyes of the police chauffeur.
“What is it, chief? What’s the matter?” the man asked.
With a strange, sardonic smile on his lips Secret Agent “X” reached into his pocket He drew out the slip of paper with the code upon it, handed it to the chauffeur.
“Give that to Inspector Burks,” he said, “with my compliments.”
“Inspector Burks! Why — what the hell!”
Words tumbled from the chauffeur’s lips; but Secret Agent “X” didn’t wait to reply. He slipped around the car, darted across the sidewalk into the shadow of a hedge. The darkness seemed to open up, swallow him.
But behind him, as the excited hand of the chauffeur turned it on again, came the blatant, metallic sound of the police radio.
“Look out for Inspector Burks’s official car driven by man impersonating him. Chauffeur believed murdered. Look out for escaping killer. Calling all cars!”
WITH the gleam of sardonic amusement still in his eyes, the Secret Agent ducked between two houses, crossed to another street, and continued on into the night.
He stopped for a moment in the blackness of an alley to change his disguise. As the impersonator of Inspector Burks, he was a marked man now. Police cars would be combing the city. His present make-up would be like a death warrant.
His quick, deft fingers removed it, and pulled other materials from a deep inner lining of his coat. Disguises that took patient minutes to build up could be destroyed quickly. He had other stock make-ups for just such emergencies as this.
Working in the dark by a sense of touch alone, he drew the white toupee from his head, changed it to a gray one, and molded his face into new lines.
He came out of the alley disguised as a man of middle age, with thick lips and sagging face muscles. Then he walked through the night-shrouded streets to the nearest drug store. In a telephone booth, he dialed information. He gave the number he had deciphered and learned that it was the Hotel Sherwood.
Step by step he was creeping ahead. Creeping toward what? Toward the solution of the mystery, toward defeat — death? It was certain that the person who had committed four terrible murders wouldn’t stop at committing others. It was certain that menace like a sinister shadow darkened the path that “X” had chosen to follow.
Still disguised as a well-dressed man of middle age, he took a taxi to within two blocks of the Hotel Sherwood. Smoking a cigarette, he walked into the lobby. It was one of the city’s smaller, less expensive hostelries. A place where many transient out-of-towners stopped. His presence attracted little attention. And “X” always prepared for small emergencies, acted deftly, swiftly, now.
He fished in his pocket, drew out a complimentary theater ticket that had been handed to him in a restaurant. Dropping this into a yellow envelope, he sealed it and wrote “A. Greenford” on the outside. He moved across the lobby, dropped the envelope on the reception clerk’s desk, and, even before the clerk had seen it he went back to a seat beside an ornamental palm. From here he saw the clerk pick up the envelope and place it in a numbered box.
A half hour went by, an hour, while the Agent waited tensely. Many cigarettes passed through his fingers. His nerves were screaming for action. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a dark, quick-moving man come out of the hotel’s elevator.
The man walked jerkily to the desk and asked a question. The clerk reached into the tier of boxes behind him, drew out the yellow envelope and tossed it on the counter. The Agent’s eyes, brightly alert, took in every move.
The dark man opened the envelope, frowned at the ticket and threw it irritably into a cuspidor.
Still frowning, he turned and moved toward a seat in the lobby. He had a brownish, pasty complexion, thin, cruel lips and deep-set eyes.
He stopped suddenly, turning his head toward the door.
Newsboys in the street outside were crying shrilly, shouting:
“Extra! Extra!”
One of them came into the hotel’s lobby brandishing a paper.
“Extra! Read all about the big murder! Federal man killed! Read all about the big murder!”
The dark-faced Mr. Greenford jumped out of his chair and stepped forward tensely. He fumbled in his pocket, produced coins, and bought a paper. Agent “X” watching intently, noticed the sudden change that came over Greenford’s face. Its pastiness seemed to increase. Evil lines showed around his thin mouth. He retired to a corner with the paper in his hand.
Agent “X” quickly signaled the boy and bought one himself.
Here was the terrible story of Bill Scanlon’s murder. Here was a picture of him and his wife and small son. Here was the record of his long and faithful service with the Department of Criminal Investigation. Telegraph wires had been humming. The tabloid presses had been busy spewing out a special edition to broadcast this latest strangler horror. The police had been forced to release details to eager reporters. The papers had played it up.
“Unseen Strangler Claims Fourth Victim,” the headlines screamed.
But Agent “X” hardly glanced at the story inside. He knew more than these startling lines told. He was watching the man who called himself “A. Greenford.”
The dark-faced stranger was devouring the details of the killing, his long, thin hands trembling, one black eyebrow twitching nervously.
MINUTES passed. The man did not move. Then a uniformed telegraph messenger stepped into the hotel lobby. He went to the desk, handed a telegram to the clerk. The clerk signed for it, gave it to a bellhop. The bellhop’s voice rose.
“Paging Mr. Greenford. Telegram for Mr. Greenford.”
Agent “X” acted swiftly, daringly again. He rose from his seat, held his hand up and signaled to the boy. Before the angry, incredulous eyes of the dark-faced man in the corner, he snatched the telegram and slipped a shiny quarter into the bellhop’s hand. Then abruptly, he slit the envelope with his finger and read the message inside.
“Arthur Greenford, Hotel Sherwood,” it said. “Come to No. 40 Bradley Square, top floor, rear, midnight. Important. B.M.”
The Agent saw that the dark-faced man had leaped out of his chair and was coming toward him. He did not wait. Thrusting the telegram into his pocket, he turned and walked swiftly to the door.
He knew that he was being followed. There was an excited gleam in his eyes. The message of the telegram carried mystery with it. It was almost as mysterious as the sentence found on the body of the murdered Cora Stenstrom — the sentence that Secret Agent “X” had deciphered. Who was B.M.? What motive was behind his midnight invitation? Agent “X” would find out.
Theater crowds were thick on the sidewalk outside. Laughing, jostling people moved along beneath the bright, gay lights. They stared at the gaudy, alluring theater posters, blinked at the flashing neon tubes. They did not sense, as “X” did, the sinister spirit of murder that seemed to stalk through the night.
He mingled in the crowd quickly, but not too quickly. He turned his head once. The dark-faced man behind him was catching up. Agent “X” lighted a cigarette. He strode ahead as though preoccupied with his own thoughts. He did not turn when someone touched his arm. Then a hoarse voice spoke in his ear.
“Wait — you have something of mine!”
Agent “X” looked around then. The man who called himself Arthur Greenford was standing tensely at his side. His face was contorted with emotion. Fear and suspicion glared from the depths of his black eyes.