Agent “X” frowned grimly, bitterly. Twice tonight the law of averages had been against him. Twice he had been disappointed. His search of the room in the house at Bradley Square had yielded nothing but the discovery of the concealed microphone and loudspeaker. Now circumstances beyond his control had made him lose the man he was shadowing. It was a thing that happened to the most skilled man hunters in the world. But the Agent refused to accept defeat.
A swift plan came to his mind. The investigation of Nick Baroni and Piere DuBrong would take time, days even. But perhaps Greenford could tell him something about the latter, give him a quick lead.
SWIFTLY he returned to the St. James apartments on Jefferson Avenue. Greenford was still there. With the spy unconscious in the closet, Secret Agent “X” removed the make-up that impersonated him and again resumed his disguise of a middle-aged man. It was almost time for the effects of the anesthetic he had administered to wear off. But in any event he would have found means of bringing Greenford back to full consciousness.
He injected a liquid containing extracts of adrenaline, strychnine and digitalis into Greenford’s arm. A large dose of it would have been fatal. But the Secret Agent was a master of pharmacology.
The hypo injection acted immediately on Greenford’s heart It brought him out of the quiet of artificial sleep with the abruptness of an electric shock. He sat up, twitching and glaring about. His eyes fell on the Agent and for a moment he tried unsuccessfully to talk. It was some seconds before he found the power of speech.
“You can’t hold me like this,” he said harshly. “I’ve got an appointment tonight.”
The Agent smiled. Greenford’s appointment was already more than twenty-four hours overdue. The man didn’t know he had been sleeping a day and a night.
“What time was it scheduled?” the Agent asked.
“Twelve o’clock.”
“It’s nearly one now!”
Greenford rose to his feet. Fear had come back into his eyes. He looked at Agent “X” strangely.
“Who are you?” he demanded again.
The Agent shook his head. He was staring at Greenford, and he saw Greeaford’s hand go to the pocket where he had placed the telegram of the Black Master. A startled, worried look came over Greenford’s face.
“You stole it,” he hissed.
The Agent bowed.
“I saved you from an unpleasant interview with a dangerous man,” he said.
Greenford made a snarling sound and clenched his fist.
“You’re going to tell me who you are and why you are meddling in my affairs.”
The lightness left Agent “X’s” voice.
He gazed at Greenford in a way that made the other man tremble. There was burning power in Agent “X’s” eyes. They seemed to have foresight, uncanny magnetism. They seemed to bore into Greenford’s very soul.
“Perhaps you’ll tell me why you bribed Cora Stenstrom to betray her employer?”
“I didn’t — I didn’t,” said Greenford in a sudden frenzy of excitement.
“She was in your pay. Do you deny it?”
Greenford’s face twitched, his eyes wavered. It was plain that he had been lying. Suddenly he burst forth in a torrent of denials, even before the Agent had accused him.
“I didn’t murder her,” he shrieked. “She was going to tell me what I wanted. She was going to phone me when all was ready.”
“You mean you paid her to leave the window open!”
“Yes — yes, I did, but it wasn’t I who killed her.”
“No,” said Agent “X” sternly. “Another and greater scoundrel preceded you. He took advantage of the path that you had made easy.”
“I know it,” said Greenford. “My God — who was it?”
“The Black Master,” said Agent “X” softly.
He watched Greenford. He could see by the spy’s expression that the name meant nothing to him. That telegram calling him to Bradley Square was the first time apparently he had had any dealings with the master murderer.
“Who is he?” asked Greenford trembling.
THE Agent was silent. For seconds his burning gaze rested on the man before him, until Greenford could stand it no longer.
“What are you going to do with me?” he demanded.
“Ask you a question,” said the Agent. “Who is Piere DuBrong, friend of the Countess Rocazy — the woman you once called Nina?”
Utter amazement overspread Greenford’s face.
“Nina! She is not in this country! She can’t be!”
“She is,” said the Agent sternly. “Answer my question.”
“I know nothing about DuBrong — I swear it! I haven’t heard of the man. Nina Rocazy is a dangerous woman — a viper. She is not a countess, but an adventuress — a woman seeking always to prey on men.”
The Agent’s eyes bored into Greenford’s. The spy seemed to be telling the truth. He spoke again.
“I’ve told you all I know. Now let me go.”
“I will,” said the Agent, “but on one condition only. It is that you leave the country at once. You made a mistake coming in the first place. Nothing awaits you here — except death.”
“You are threatening me!” said Greenford harshly.
“Not threatening — warning you. Will you leave or not?”
The Agent’s eyes held inexorable command. Greenford could not meet them.
“You have stolen my money,” he said. “My belt is gone.”
The Agent took out his wallet, extracted five hundred dollars, and handed it to Greenford.
“It is enough,” “X” said. “There’s a night plane to Canada. It takes off from the municipal field in half an hour. Your papers are in order — I have seen them. Take the plane and go before death prevents you.”
“My luggage!” said Greenford.
“It is too late now to recover it. The American Secret Service is on your trail. Operatives have unquestionably searched your room at the Sherwood. Menace hangs over your head. Your only chance of life is to leave instantly.”
Greenford shrugged resignedly.
“I will do as you say,” he promised.
But Secret Agent “X” took no chances. If Greenford tried to communicate with the Black Master all would be lost. He wanted to make sure that the spy kept his promise and left. When Greenford went to the street, Agent “X” stealthily followed. Then he frowned in anger and annoyance.
Instead of going to the flying field, Greenford took a taxi to the neighborhood of the Hotel Sherwood. He got out two blocks from it, walked toward it cautiously. Agent “X” followed, keeping on the other side of the street.
He saw Greenford walk furtively along the front of the hotel, passing the entrance three times without getting up enough courage to enter. There was a watchful man reading a newspaper far back in a corner of the lobby — a government operative. The Secret Agent recognized him; but it appeared that Greenford did not.
He lighted a cigarette, pulled his hat brim down, and started toward the main entrance a fourth time.
But he was destined never to enter.
He crossed the open space of sidewalk before the hotel, and it seemed that a noose was suddenly flung around his neck. He staggered on the pavement, clawed at his throat. Agent “X” heard one horrible choking cry and stared aghast at the drama that was taking place.
Greenford’s face was becoming purple — the fatal, livid hue that meant death at the hands of the Spectral Strangler.
Chapter XIII
AGENT “X” saw a stealthy figure moving across the face of the building. The figure was going away from, not toward Greenford, as would have been the case if it had been a casual passerby. It was the sinister hophead whom “X” had lost sight of in the theater crowd less than an hour before.