He tried a shot in the dark then. He made his voice harsh.
“It’s too late, my dear Nina. What I seek is gone. It has been stolen. It is in the hands of another.”
The woman pushed him away from her roughly. She stepped back toward the bureau again. A transformation came over her. Hate and greed convulsed her face, making her look suddenly older, bringing out wicked lines in her features.
“You lie!” she said, and the two words came from her lips like drops of distilled venom. The beauty of her body was like the sinuous beauty of a cobra swaying, ready to strike.
“You lie!” she repeated.
He stood looking at her, shrugging.
“Listen,” she said fiercely. “You will let me work with you — share with you, or—”
Her slim hand suddenly reached behind her. She snatched something from the bureau top which she had concealed under a lacy handkerchief. It was an automatic, flat, polished, small as a child’s toy — but capable of dealing death. She pointed the gun at the Agent’s heart, held it tensely as though it would give her pleasure to shoot. He did not doubt that she had killed men before.
Again he shrugged.
“What about the kidnapping of Mark Roemer and the murder of his assistant?” he asked.
Her lips slid back from her teeth in an evil smile. They formed a crimson, mocking gash across the front of her white face. She nodded craftily.
“I know,” she said. “Mark Roemer was kidnapped. His assistant was murdered — not prettily either. I read all about it. That is why I came to see you. You did it, Armand. You are bolder than you used to be. Men learn by their experience. You murdered that woman — and those others. You have Roemer somewhere and you are guarding his secret. If you are not generous with me, Armand, I will turn you over to the police — right now.”
“And if I am — generous?” he asked.
“I will forget what I know about you. What is a murder — between friends?”
THE depth of her wickedness was appalling. It was like finding a deadly, coiled serpent concealed in the soft petals of a flower. She was blackmailing him, ready to wink at murder — if he would satisfy her greed.
He shrugged again, resignedly this time.
“You always had strength of character, Nina. You had a way of getting what you wanted. But I’m tired and there are many things to be gone into. Let us go out and discuss this over a bottle of wine. If we are to work together — we must renew our acquaintance — for old time’s sake.”
She stood glaring at him, doubt in her eyes.
“Any tricks, Armand — and I will anticipate the law. I will kill you!”
“Are you not a little frightened,” he said, “trying to browbeat a murderer?”
For a moment the paleness of her face increased.
“I left a note with certain friends,” she replied. “It is to be opened — if I do not return. In it are facts about you — details to aid the police.”
“In that case,” he said, “we are assured of a quiet evening. I am certain we will get on amicably.”
She nodded and put her automatic into a hand bag.
“We understand each other, Armand,” she said.
The Agent smiled to himself. He understood her, knew that she was an unprincipled spy in the pay of some government, and that she had once worked with Greenford, or Grenfort. But it was ironic to think how utterly in the dark she was concerning the affairs of the real Grenfort. He had spoken the truth and she had not believed him.
She came then and lifted her lips to his, slipping soft arms around his neck.
“We used to be such good friends, Armand!” Her words were a caress and an invitation.
“Let us not mix business with pleasure,” he said coldly.
He saw hatred flash in her eyes again. But she began dabbing powder on her face from a silvered compact. Then she slipped into a clinging fur coat that was thrown over a chair. It made her seem more feline than ever.
They descended in silence to the lobby below and turned their faces toward the street. There was a cab waiting at the curb. Agent “X” ushered her into it and gave the address of a small restaurant.
The woman settled herself beside him.
“Remember,” she said, “there is a note waiting to tell the police — everything — if I should disappear.”
“Let me repeat that I hold your life as precious as my own,” he said mockingly.
She looked at him keenly for a moment.
“You have changed, Armand,” she said. “You have more steel in your character than you used to have. That is what murder does for a man.”
Suddenly he saw her eyes widen, and a hiss came from her lips that was like the hiss of a startled snake. She was looking back, looking out the cab’s rear window. Her fingers tightened over the Agent’s arm like clutching talons.
“Armand,” she said, “we are being followed. Look — there are men in that car — and they are watching us.”
Chapter VIII
AGENT “X” stared back tensely. He was not afraid for his own life. He was afraid only that something might impede his progress in tracking down the Black Master — the invisible strangler. In his first glimpse of the men behind, he catalogued them. There were four, grim-faced, clean-cut. One at the wheel of the car, another beside him, two in the back seat.
One was leaning out, signaling for the cab to stop.
Agent “X” bent forward, jerked the glass panel behind the driver’s seat open and hissed in the driver’s ear.
“Gangsters behind,” he said. “Speed up — for your life!”
With a startled twitch of his head, the driver stared back, saw the pursuing car, stepped on the gas. The taxi leaped ahead like a horse under the lash of a whip.
Agent “X” leaned back smiling grimly. The men behind were not gangsters. They were Department of Justice operatives. Of that he was certain. He knew the type well. But it had been necessary to lie to the cabman to save the situation. Nina, the woman beside him, caught the fleeting smile on his face.
“You — you tipped them off!” she hissed. Her hand flashed toward her hang bag again. He caught her wrist.
“Don’t be a fool. You accuse me of murder. Would a murderer tip off the law? They must have trailed me.”
The woman blanched and began to mutter fiercely. She was no longer beautiful. She was a harsh-faced tigress.
“They must not get us,” she cried. “We will shoot — shoot to kill.” Again she dived for her weapon. Again he stopped her.
“You will do as I say,” he grated. “You came to my hotel. Perhaps it is you they followed!”
“No,” she said fiercely. “I came by plane from Mexico. It was night when I landed. They could not have seen me. It is you, Armand, that they are after.”
“You are a notorious woman,” he answered, again making a stab in the dark. “The American Secret Service has a hundred eyes. Spies are always under suspicion — but they must not catch us.”
“No — no,” she echoed. “I cannot be found with you. I will be deported — perhaps jailed. They will suspect me of being implicated in the murders you have committed.”
“And,” he said mockingly, “you will lose the money that I am supposed to divide with you.”
He leaned forward, spoke to the driver again.
“Faster — they are catching up.”
The man leaning out of the car behind had stopped signaling now. His face under the glow of a street light that flashed past had the grimness of granite. Something gleamed in his hand.
“They are going to shoot!” screamed Nina.
Her sentence was punctuated by the slap of a bullet against the rear of the taxi and a crashing report in the street behind. The cab leaped ahead again as the driver sought frantically for more speed. A second bullet struck the glass in the cab’s rear, splintered it, sent it tinkling between the Agent’s and the woman’s laps. Cold air rushed in. Nina screamed again shrilly. For a moment he thought she was hurt. Then he saw that it was fear. A tiny sliver of glass was sticking in the back of his hand. He pulled it out deftly.