“You don’t care,” she said. “You don’t mind that I may be killed!”
“My dear Nina—” he expostulated. The intense glow in his eyes showed the excitement that steely nerves were keeping under control.
The cab flashed across a street against traffic lights. Brakes squealed madly as another car stopped just in time. A policeman’s whistle shrilled. The cab plunged on.
THE driver’s neck and cheek — all that Agent “X” could see — were white as a sheet. His hands were wrapped stiffly around the wheel. A third bullet whizzed between the two in back, slapped against the glass partition close to the driver’s head. He cried out and the cab lurched and bucked as his arms jerked in fear. It threatened for a moment to go over. Then the driver straightened it out. He pressed the gas button down, put on a final burst of speed. They drew ahead a little. A fourth bullet went wide.
“To the park!” barked the Secret Agent. “Turn left — the first gate.”
Somewhere behind them now a police siren was wailing. But even the green police cruiser could not catch up. The heavy engine of the taxi was pounding under its metal hood. The rubber tires were whining over the pavement. Traffic was at a standstill. White-faced pedestrians scuttled out of their way, or stood staring fearfully on the sidewalk. The papers had been filled with stories of gang warfare. This looked like an example of it.
The cab’s engine began to pound then. It wasn’t built for such high speeds. Somewhere a gasket had blown. The cab was slowing down.
Agent “X” looking back saw that the car behind was gradually drawing nearer. Its headlights were goggling like the eyes of a monster. Two men were leaning out now, their faces purposeful, waiting till they were within small-arm range. They were aiming low, getting ready to shoot for the tires. Blown rubber at such speed might be as disastrous as a bullet. The menace of death rode with them in the night.
The woman, Nina, was white-faced now. Her blonde hair was spilling from beneath her hat. She looked suddenly haggish, witchlike, evil as a mad vulture. Her voice had a harpy shrillness.
“They’ll get us! We can’t escape!”
The Agent made no reply. He saw the park ahead of them. The stone pillars of the gate swept toward them. The taxi hurtled at the gates like a speeding ball headed for two goal posts. It was late. The park was dark and empty. The concrete road ahead was a smooth speedway. But the engine was hissing and pounding at every stroke.
The car behind leaped through the gateway of the park like an avenging nemesis. It roared down upon them out of the night. There was no danger of hitting innocent bystanders now. Three automatics in the black, speeding car spoke in unison. A fusillade of bullets lashed through the night.
One of them ripped across the top of the cab, tearing the fabric into a ribbonlike streak. Another plucked at the cloth of the Agent’s coat. In a moment now that centering fire would bring death and destruction. Men in the Secret Service were taught how to shoot.
The Agent’s eyes were darting bleakly about. There was a patch of dense leafless shrubbery ahead. The road made a long curve by it. Suddenly the Agent reached forward, gripping the driver’s arms. The driver cursed in fear, tried to struggle free. The Agent held on like iron, kept the cab headed for the shrubbery.
The cab lurched off the concrete, taking the low embankment in a careening, rocking bound. Its wheels struck frosted turf, squealed, and bounced. One tire struck a sharp lump of ice and blew with a report like an exploding bomb. The cab slithered around, went sidewise toward the bushes. It would have turned turtle if the tough stems of the shrubbery hadn’t cradled it. It ploughed in amongst them while the driver cried out in fear, flinging his hands before his face.
For ten feet it crunched on, breaking branches right and left, ploughing like a tractor through wheat. Then the tough shrubs won out. A cylinder head in the racing engine gave way. The engine came to a clanking, groaning stop, and the cab slid to a standstill.
Blonde Nina was on her knees on the floor, her dress around her silk-stockinged legs. Agent “X” jerked the cab door open, drew her out. The driver was scrambling out also, howling in fear.
A sudden jet of gasoline escaping from a severed feed line bathed the hot cylinders and leaped into a sheet of flame. Agent “X” pulled the woman away just in time. Flame enveloped the cab, crackled and snapped in the bushes, making a blinding intensity of light.
He heard the squeal of madly-applied brakes on the concrete roadway behind. The momentum of the pursuing car had carried it three hundred feet beyond the spot where the cab had lurched off the road.
The Agent clutched at the woman’s arm, pulled her through the bushes. They ploughed ahead with the shrubbery tearing at their clothes. Then they came to an open space and ran on till they reached a path. Far behind them the flames of the burning cab made a glow like a torch. Miniature figures, silhouetted against the leaping flames, ran up and stood about. Others beat among the bushes.
The Agent would see later that the cab company was repaid and that the driver was exonerated. He didn’t like to drag innocent persons into his dangerous exploits. This time it had been unavoidable.
THEY ran on across the park till they had reached a safe distance. The woman began tucking in strands of loose hair and straightening her disarranged dress. The expression of fear left her face. She was resuming her former tigerish poise.
“Very good, Armand,” she said. “I must congratulate you even if you are a murderer and a thief.”
Then suddenly, she cried out and looked at her arm. Crimson was dripping from a superficial wound above her wrist.
“I will take you to your home,” he said, “or wherever you are staying.”
He signaled another cab at the avenue across the park. Nina gave him the address. They were silent now as the cab rolled along, Nina nursing the wound in her arm and darting analytical glances at him.
She had leased a small apartment in the mid-town section and, when the cab stopped, she spoke to Agent “X.”
“You may come up,” she said. “We will make our arrangements now. There is still the matter of how much you intend to pay me.”
He ignored her words, but followed her into the building. They ascended to a suite on the third floor, entered it, and closed the door.
“Let me fix your wound,” he said.
He got water, helped her bathe it, tied it up, then rose.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Away, my dear Nina. We have had an exciting and pleasant evening. Now it is time to part.”
With a tigerish leap she sprang forward, clutched her hand bag, and drew the gun out.
Viciously she jabbed its muzzle toward him. He stood smiling, lighting a cigarette.
“I repeat — it is time for us to part.”
“You can’t go,” she screamed. “I’ll kill you and hunt for Roemer myself.”
“You are an impulsive woman, Nina — too impulsive for one of your vocation.”
He turned toward the door. Behind him the trigger mechanism of the automatic clicked emptily four times. She had tried to pump a stream of bullets into his back — tried to murder him.
He turned and bowed.
“I took the precaution,” he said, “of removing the cartridges while we were having our little ride.”