But why were they here?
Secret Agent “X” made discreet queries. Who was the charming countess? Who was the tall man with her? He learned that DuBrong was attached to the embassy and that Countess Rocazy was a friend of his, a lovely woman just over from Europe who could speak excellent English.
On the surface that explained matters. But Agent “X” wasn’t satisfied. His sense of impending menace deepened. The gaiety of the gathering impressed him now as gaudy beauty hiding something darkly evil. The bright skin of a poisonous serpent! A blood-hungry beast concealed in a bed of gay flowers! Nina Rocazy was like that — a tigress cloaking her claws behind velvet fur until the moment came to spring.
She and her escort had separated now. Agent “X” was introduced to her and even danced with her. He felt the strange undercurrent of drama as he held the woman in his arms. What would her reactions be if she suddenly learned that her dancing partner was the same man who had accompanied her on that wild taxi ride which had so nearly been fatal? What would she say if he told her he was the same man she had tried to kill and who had locked her in her apartment?
He gasped at her audacity when she asked if he thought it would be possible to see the Crandal jewels.
“I have heard so much of the riches of Americans,” she said. “Jewels are riches that even we poor women can understand. They attract us as children are attracted to bright, pretty baubles. There must be other women here who would like to see them, too.”
Agent “X” nodded. She did not understand the mocking light in his eyes.
“Such a woman as you would be doubly appreciative,” he said.
Beneath her smile, lines of avarice showed. Money, the things that money could buy, were the gods she lived by. But would she have cheek enough to make such a request to Colonel Crandal?
“There has been a threat,” he said. “A criminal has announced that he intends to steal the jewels.”
He watched her face, but her hard eyes were inscrutable. She shrugged.
“Colonel Crandal is a brave man. He will not fear threats.”
THE dance ended and he left her. But he followed her through the milling company and saw her cleverly insinuate herself into the group around the colonel. Smiling radiantly, acting as though the impulse had suddenly come to her, she asked if she might see the famous gem collection.
For a moment Colonel Crandal’s face showed surprise. Then he smiled and nodded.
“Certainly, countess, I’ll have the jewels brought down. All of you can see them then.”
Agent “X” edged close. He heard the police commissioner object.
“What about the threat of that crook?” the commissioner asked. “Isn’t it going in the face of Providence to bring them out tonight?”
Crandal made a gesture with his hand.
“That’s what your men are here for — to give protection. And a lady has requested that they be shown.”
The commissioner flushed and nodded.
“Very well,” he said.
Crandal whispered the combination of the safe into the ear of an old and trusted butler who had been with the family forty years.
“Go get them, Wilmot,” he said. “But be careful.”
The butler protested.
“I wish, sir, that you would come with me. If anything should happen—”
Crandal gave the man a push.
“Do as you’re told,” he said.
Three detectives followed the butler, after a low-voiced conversation with the commissioner.
In ten minutes the butler returned carrying a square leather box in his hands. His fingers were trembling as he set it down.
“There, sir,” he said, and there was a note of vast relief in his voice.
The guests crowded around tensely. Crandal opened the box, exposing the glittering collection of gems that reposed on a cushion of black velvet.
There were rubies that gleamed like drops of freshly fallen blood, emeralds as green as polar seas, sapphires blue as the sky, diamonds that reflected sparkling prismatic lights and gave off rainbow colors. Many of them had come from the crowns of former kings and queens.
Crandal held them lovingly in his hand, then passed them about.
Nina took a diamond necklace and held it in trembling fingers. She placed it against her neck, let the cold stones touch her skin. Her eyes were dark with greed. She seemed reluctant to give it back.
But the other guests were nervous, holding the jewels gingerly, or refusing to take them at all. They appeared to breathe easier when the gems had been exhibited and put safely back in their box. The old butler picked the box up and solemnly bore it away with his escort of detectives. The police commissioner wiped a perspiring face, and Secret Agent “X,” watching Nina’s every movement, wondered what was going on in her mind.
The butler had taken the jewels up a flight of broad stairs to a second-floor room. Several detectives hung around this stairway for minutes after he had disappeared. The others remained with him on the floor above.
The dancing began again. Liquor flowed freely. The guests and even the police commissioner appeared to relax. But Agent “X” stood tensely staring around. At the moment he could not see Nina, Piere DuBrong, or the pudgy-faced Nick Baroni. He pushed his way through the crowd watching the dancers until the blonde head of the Countess Rocazy came in view. She was in the arms of the politician. He looked about for the others; then suddenly whirled.
A stumbling, horrible figure had appeared at the head of the stairs. It was Agent “X’s” hoarse exclamation that stilled the music and attracted the attention of the other guests.
A ripple of tense excitement passed through the assemblage. It increased with the speed of a spreading grass fire. Talk ceased. Laughter died away. All eyes were turned toward the stairway.
The man at the top of them was one of the police detectives. He seemed to be trying to say something. He was waving his arms, staring toward them. Then his hands, clawlike, went to his throat.
He reeled, staggered, clutched at himself. One choking, terrible cry came from his lips. It was silenced as though by the jerk of an unseen noose. The man appeared to be fighting invisible fingers that were wrapped around his neck.
He twisted, swayed, lurched forward. His feet slipped on the top step.
Then, while women screamed and men shouted hoarsely, he plunged headfirst down the slippery hardwood stairs. His body landed with a thud on the rug below. But the man had ceased his struggles now. His face became purple, the terrible livid purple of an overripe plum, the hue which had mottled the dying face of Bill Scanlon. His lips were drawn back in a mirthless, hideous grin. From between them his swollen tongue protruded, mocking, horrible.
While men and women in the room stood frozen with fear, too scared to speak or move, too weighted with horror to do more than breathe, there came a fearful explosion somewhere on the floor above. It rocked the house, rattled the windows.
A cloisonné vase dropped off a shelf and rang against the floor. Another of porcelain shattered to fragments as it fell. In the crowd, close to the Secret Agent’s side, a woman screamed and fainted. Then pandemonium broke loose.
Chapter XI
SO terrific was the explosion on the floor above that it seemed as though a bomb must have gone off. Plaster fell from the ceiling. Crystal pendants from the old chandelier followed it in a clattering, tinkling cascade.
Men and women made a wild dash for the doors, jostling each other, crowding, shouting in a mad stampede. Their fear made them forget that they were ladies and gentlemen.