He couldn’t locate its direction. It seemed to fill the whole room. It seemed to come from his left; but only blank wall space was there. He listened.
“Greenford,” the voice said. “Greenford,” it repeated again and again. “You are nearly a minute late, Greenford. It is not wise to come late to this house when an appointment has been made. I expect those with whom I have dealings to be on time!”
The voice ceased as abruptly as it had begun. It was a man’s voice, harsh, grating. It was a voice that gave Secret Agent “X” some inkling of the sinister being that he was fighting, a voice that had the assurance and cruel arrogance of supreme power.
Mimicking Greenford’s accent, Secret Agent “X” answered.
“The slippery pavements made haste difficult tonight. I am sorry — so sorry.”
The voice spoke again.
“Some men learn by their mistakes. Others do not. You will learn to be punctual, or—”
A harsh laugh sounded — a laugh as brutal and evil as the scraping of a poisonous reptile’s scales. Then the voice continued:
“I have what you want, Greenford. By murder I gained the thing you sought. Gold would not buy it for you. Death gave it to me. But for gold I will part with it. What amount, Greenford, is your government prepared to pay? Consider well. You have twenty-four hours for cable negotiations. Come tomorrow night at this same time. Take warning! Do not be late! Speak in this room and I will hear. Let me know your answer. I have other customers if your price is not satisfactory. And make no attempt at trickery. You are helpless. You are in the hands of the Black Master.”
The voice ceased again, and silence descended on the room, as heavy as the silence of a tomb. Agent “X” pondered a moment.
B.M. had been the initials on the telegram Greenford had received. B.M. — The Black Master. But who was this criminal who held the city in a thrall of fear? Who was this killer who had brutally murdered four people, among them loyal, brave-hearted Bill Scanlon of the D.C.I.?
The silent room and the old house gave no hint.
The fingers of “X’s” right hand tautened for a moment, clenched till the knuckles went white. His lips moved slightly, whispered again that phrase that seemed to ring through his head.
“A kid and a woman are waiting!”
He had come close to the murderer of Scanlon — heard him speak. Yet it was as though rocky walls separated them. He dared not strike now, dared not search through that room as he wanted to. He must wait, watch, proceed with the caution and cunning of a fox. A false step — and all would be lost. The horror would go. Scanlon’s cruel killing would never be avenged.
He descended the dusty stairs quietly. His eyes held an inscrutable light. He had till tomorrow night to make a decision. But he was still in darkness, darkness as total as that in the black corridor below. The door opened for him again as though the ghost of some ancient, silent servant still lingered in the dim hallway.
He passed out into the street. Night wind struck his face. The ice-coated branches whispered like mocking laughter.
But as he moved along the street, it seemed for an instant that a shadow moved after him. He had trained himself to see such things. He had shadowed men himself and knew the arts of shadowing. He was being shadowed now. Of that he was certain.
For a bare second he paused. His only hope of running the killer to earth lay in seeming for the moment to comply with the voice of the Black Master. He walked on, conscious still of eyes upon him.
He passed beyond the square and came to a thoroughfare. Standing at the curb, he signaled a taxi. His eyes glinted grimly as, looking back, he saw another taxi go to the curb, pick a passenger up and follow.
“The Hotel Sherwood,” said Agent “X.”
Posing as Greenford, he must play the role of Greenford until—. It seemed now that the cunning of his brain was the only power on earth that could sever the terrible murder chain that unseen hands were forging.
His cab drew up before the bright lights of the Sherwood. The other taxi was no longer in sight. Agent “X” paid his fare and went into the lobby. He picked up Greenford’s key at the desk and ascended in the elevator. He was revolving a hundred plans in his mind, wondering what course was best to follow. The man he was battling was a monster — a criminal without scruple, and with infinite cunning. High stakes were at issue. The caution the Black Master had taken proved that. But, even if there were nothing else, the murder of Scanlon was motive enough to drive Agent “X” forward into the very gates of death.
He opened the door of Greenford’s room, closed it after him, groping for a light switch. He clicked it on, and the overhead bulbs bathed the chamber in radiance. Then suddenly the Agent held himself taut, holding his breath and with muscles contracted. A woman’s voice, sinister as the purring of a sleepy tigress, spoke close to his ear.
“Armand — are you not glad to see me?”
Chapter VII
AGENT “X” turned his head slowly, stiffly. For once he had been caught off guard. For once the utterly unexpected had happened.
A woman, blonde and dazzlingly beautiful, stood beside the door. Crimson lips smiled at him. He caught in that first glimpse the feline, arrogant grace that characterized her bearing. She was leaning against the bureau, one hip thrown out, a hand resting on it, the other hand holding an unlighted cigarette. Her close-fitting dark dress revealed the superb outlines of her figure.
Slowly she lighted her cigarette, took a deep puff, blew smoke through her delicate nostrils.
“You are surprised! You did not expect to see me,” she said.
Her lips smiled again; but her eyes did not. They regarded Agent “X” with cold, impersonal calculation. The silvery tones of her voice, her sleekness, her beauty, masked something else — something sinister. Here was a woman as dangerous as she was lovely. A tiger woman who lived by her wits and that stinging provocative appeal of her charms. Who was she? The Agent could only guess. He had pulled himself together. He began playing a game — a deadly, silent battle of wits.
“I am surprised — yes,” he said. “But a beautiful lady is always a welcome surprise.”
She laughed throatily, came nearer. He could smell the faint clinging perfume that seemed to envelop her.
“You used to call me Nina,” she said.
“Nina is a lovely name,” he replied.
He lighted a cigarette himself, stared at her, waiting and watching, his eyes narrowed. A false move and she might grow suspicious. He must not slip out of his role — the role of Arthur Greenford — the man she called Armand.
“It was clever, changing your name,” she said. “But why did you choose the same initials? Arthur Greenford — Armand Grenfort?”
He bowed ironically.
“I did not expect that my initials would undergo analysis by such an astute brain as yours.”
She laughed again, but her eyes that were dark and bright as polished agate took on the hardness of agate.
“You are fencing with me, Armand. Do you think I do not know why you are here?”
Her accent and phrasing were foreign. He had catalogued her already. The theft of Mark Roemer’s mysterious formula had brought another evil vulture circling about. For in spite of her beauty, the woman before him had in her eyes the look of some predatory bird or beast.
“You are just as subtle as you used to be,” he said softly.
She came and laid her hand on his arm, brushing her lithe body against him for a moment. Her lips, smiling up at him, were challengingly close.
“Perhaps,” she said, “we can work together — as we did once before.”