By disregarding Agent “X’s” warning, by failing to keep the promise he had given, Greenford had walked straight to his death. The emissary of the Black Master had slain him, thinking Greenford was the man who had shadowed him. He had been lurking in the vicinity of the hotel to destroy the life of a man he thought had tried to pry into the Black Master’s secrets.
The Agent darted in pursuit of the killer, resolved this time that he would not fail. He would shadow the hophead to his hideout and through him learn the identity of the fiend who employed him; for “X” felt certain that this drug addict was no more than a tool in the hands of the master murderer. As a criminal, he wasn’t of sufficient caliber to have plotted and carried out such a campaign of terror.
There was no chance of the hophead being lost in a crowd now. It was late. The streets were deserted. But because of this it was a difficult task to follow him without being suspected. The Agent depended somewhat on his make-up.
Behind him he heard someone come from the hotel entrance attracted by Greenford’s dying cry. He couldn’t help Greenford now. The man was beyond human aid, destroyed by his own greed and willfulness. He was the ninth victim in the terrible series of murders.
The Agent’s eyes were glowing with the light of intense concentration.
The hophead was walking purposefully now like a person who has accomplished an appointed task. He dived into a subway entrance, rode uptown, and got off in a section cluttered with theaters and cafés. Once again the Agent got a look at the man’s face. He saw that he had the features of a rat. There was cruelty in the feverish glitter of his eyes and the twist of his thin mouth.
The chase ended when the man disappeared into the servants’ entrance of a notorious night club — the Club Mephistopheles.
This club, the windows of which were curtained night and day, was known to the Agent. It was a place of evil repute, a place where gangsters hung out and where many criminals had made their headquarters. It was a place of vice and debauchery where “slummers” came also, social registerites who wanted to spend money freely and taste the city’s wild night life.
There were gambling tables inside. Here the underworld and the world of wealth and fashion rubbed shoulders. It had figured in the papers more than once. Bennie Pomarno, beer runner, had been slain here in the boom days of prohibition. In one of its luxuriously appointed rooms a well-known society matron had committed suicide after losing the last of her fortune at the roulette wheel. It was a club to which the Secret Agent had made it a point to get a card.
But dress clothes were necessary to gain admittance. Crime was hidden beneath the trappings of gentility. The Agent thought quickly, then went to an establishment near a dance hall where tuxedos could be rented. He hired one and entered the door of the Mephistopheles Club.
Though it was long after midnight, the activities inside had not begun to wane. The gambling rooms were crowded. The big dining room still held late diners. A jazz orchestra was playing sensuous music.
The Secret Agent strolled about eyeing the crowd that filled the place. He was waiting for the hophead to appear. Was he employed in this club? And if so in what capacity?
A red-headed, flashily dressed hostess came up to the Agent, but he waved her away. He recognized many faces. Here a society woman. There a crook with a police record. There a small-time politician seeking favor with the big shots of the underworld.
Then he drew back with a sudden, amazed intake of breath. He had glimpsed the fat form of Nick Baroni!
The gangster had evidently come straight here from Crandal’s party. Why? To seek solace in a familiar haunt after the terrible and nerve-racking experience at Colonel Crandel’s, or for some more sinister reason?
The pastiness of fear still showed on the big gangster’s face. The burning eyes of Secret Agent “X” studied him.
Could it be that Baroni was the man he sought — the terrible Black Master? The repeal of prohibition had made it hard for gangs to exist. Rivalry was more bitter. In the days when beer could only be had in speak-easies there had been enough money to support a score of big shots in the luxury that their gross bodies craved. But now this source of revenue had been abolished. The government and legitimate brewers were taking in what the gangsters had formerly regarded as their own. Rackets had narrowed down.
The bitter enmity of the gangs had deepened. They were ready to tear at each other’s throats like wolves; and the Mephistopheles Club was in a no man’s land between two gang territories.
THE Secret Agent stared and pondered. Baroni had his torpedoes with him now, flat-chested, pale-faced young men who talked without moving their lips and whose eyes were ever watchful; men ready to shoot at the drop of a hat. Rumors that Baroni had reformed were baseless. The fight over the city’s slot-machine racket was as fierce as ever. It was centered now between two gangs — Nick Baroni’s and Sam Dwyer’s river-front mobsters. And now Baroni was on the edge of Dwyer’s territory.
Abruptly the Agent’s eyes shifted and his body grew tense.
The murderous hophead had made his appearance. He was clad in a black jacket, a wing collar, and bow tie. The man was a waiter in this sinister club, a member of the late night shift. Secret Agent “X” was deeply struck by this.
As an employee here, the man was in a position to get orders from any one of a dozen underworld czars — but he was hovering around Nick Baroni’s table. He stepped forward once, struck a match when Baroni skinned the cellophane off a fresh cigar.
Baroni paid no attention to him; but that meant nothing. There were hundreds of prearranged signals by which secret messages and orders could be conveyed.
The Agent watched lynx-eyed. But hours passed and nothing happened. Nick Baroni drank until his face got bloated and mottled. The guests left one by one. Baroni made his exit at last followed by his sinister bodyguards. Secret Agent “X” hung around outside until the hophead emerged again. He shadowed the man to a small furnished room two blocks away.
Then Agent “X” bought all editions of the early morning papers and took them to one of his hideouts. In secrecy and silence he read all available news reports. The story of the murders in Colonel Crandal’s home was spread glaringly in headlines across the front pages. The police had made no headway. The famous Crandal jewels were gone. Three detectives and an old family servant had been killed strangely, horribly strangled apparently by unseen hands. There had, the paper said, been another murder outside the Hotel Sherwood. A man named Greenford, suspected of being an international spy, had met death in the same mysterious way.
Through it all a trail of black mystery ran. The police and Government operatives were baffled. There seemed to be no connection between the jewel robbery in Crandal’s home, the murder of Greenford, and the four other murders of like nature that had taken place previously.
But the Agent’s eyes were grimly alight. He saw a sinister motive, a connection running through it all. But the picture was not clear. Why had the Black Master, who asked a million dollars for the thing he had stolen from the chemist, Mark Roemer, stooped to such a crime as the theft of Crandal’s jewels? Was it merely to provide funds for himself until the big sale went through? Wouldn’t even the Black Master find it difficult to dispose of such famous gems as Crandal’s? And now that Greenford had been murdered, what would be the Black Master’s next move? What government would he attempt to negotiate with next?
These were the questions the Agent asked himself as dawn made the sky gray over the city. Milk wagons rattled in the streets outside. Men and women rose to another day of work. The black mouths of the subways became gorged with hurrying people. But the Agent, silent and alone, pondered a murder riddle.