For minutes he sat brooding, his head sunk into the rolls of fat around his neck. He was lost in thought. Finally he spoke.
“You heard what the inspector said. There’s one way of putting it over on that bird. I hate to do it. Maybe I won’t. But it’s worth considering. If me and Dwyer went in together, stopped fighting, we could clean up on dope. Booze is out; but dope’s still good. Now that mugs can get all the liquor they want, they won’t want it so much. We’ll start ’em on dope and get ’em to like it.”
Baroni stopped, took another gulp of liquor. His piglike eyes were gleaming. His shrewdly acquisitive brain was active. He had forgotten the fight in the Mephistopheles Club. Forgotten the dead men on the floor. Forgotten his hatred of Dwyer. Gold took precedence over everything.
“Dwyer and I can open up a swell joint somewhere,” he said. “Together we can keep any other guy from chiseling in. If anybody wants snow or coke they’ll have to come to us.”
The Secret Agent rose.
“Where are you going?” Baroni snapped.
“Out,” said the Agent. “I’ve got some business to attend to.”
Baroni eyed him speculatively for a moment. Then he spoke slowly.
“What I said goes,” he remarked. “I can use a guy like you in more ways than one. You got class and brains. If I hitch in with Dwyer, there’ll be a place for you. Drop around here and Frenchy will tell you where to find me.”
“O.K.,” said the Agent. There was a mocking light in the depths of his eyes that Baroni didn’t get. He was satisfied with the way things were going. If Baroni and Dwyer joined forces, he would have a chance to learn the intimate secrets of both gang chiefs. As a side issue, he’d smash their evil dope racket. But he’d find out first whether either was the Black Master. Now that he thought of it, Dwyer, with his polished manners and suavity, was more the type who might plan such a colossal crime.
BUT, as he stepped into the street outside of Frenchy’s place, the Agent’s calmness left him. He tensed suddenly, whirled toward the curb. His momentary let-up of vigilance had brought new danger upon him.
A dark sedan with lights out was sliding to the curb beside him. The door was open. A voice addressed him from the interior.
“Come here, guy. Stick your hands up.”
The Agent knew the threat of death when he faced it. There was death in that voice. He could see no features; but, just inside the door where the glow of the street light fell on it, he saw the dull, gleaming muzzle of an automatic. He hesitated an instant only, then moved forward.
By the curb he came to a standstill.
“Closer,” said the deadly voice inside.
The Agent moved closer still, his scalp prickling.
Then rough hands seized him. He was dragged into the car’s interior. Almost instantly gears whined and the car shot away. There were three men in the rear of the car. He caught the silhouette of one and held his breath. He was staring at the sharp, wolfish features of Sam Dwyer, river-front mobster, the man who had butchered four of Baroni’s bodyguards.
He did not speak. The car sped on for six blocks. The men beside him were silent; but the hard, cold muzzle of an automatic pressed against his side.
Then the voice of Dwyer sounded again.
“You’re the guy,” he said, “who cribbed our show tonight. I’d have got that hog Baroni if it hadn’t been for those firecrackers of yours. You pulled a fast one — but one of my mugs saw you going out.”
Still the Agent was silent.
“What have you got to say about it?” snarled Dwyer. “Who are you, and since when did you start working for Baroni?”
“Just now,” said the Agent. “My name’s Porter.”
“What do you mean — just now? You helped him make a get-away when I had him trapped.”
“I horned in just for fun,” said the Agent casually.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
Dwyer was silent for seconds. He turned on a small flash light, studied the Secret Agent’s face. There was contempt in his voice when he spoke again.
“Just a dolled-up softy,” he said. He swore under his breath and continued. “You shouldn’t have done it, fella. Nick Baroni wasn’t worth it. He gave you a job, you say?”
“Yeah.”
Sam Dwyer laughed thinly, making a sound in his nose that was like a harsh whinny.
“I’m going to save you a lot of trouble, fella. You wouldn’t like to work for Baroni. He’d work you hard. He’s a bad man. You’d come to a lot of grief. I’m going to save you all that. I’m a good guy.”
Dwyer stopped speaking. He laughed again, and one of the others in the car with him laughed, too. Their laughter was harsh, mirthless; it was laughter that held a terrible threat. When Dwyer spoke again, he didn’t address the Agent. He spoke gruffly to the driver of the car.
“There’s a field at the end of Marigold Avenue,” he said. “They’re going to build on it when they get around to it. There ain’t nothing there now. That will be a good place.”
There was coldness, cruelty, in his tone. The driver nodded understandingly and stepped on the gas.
The Secret Agent stiffened. He knew to what use Dwyer planned to put the vacant lot. He knew that they were taking him on a ride of death for the part he had played in Nick Baroni’s get-away.
Chapter XVI
THE pressure of the gun against his side increased. The Agent thought quickly. He had often been in the presence of death. It held no terrors for him. But death before his work was done was something he could not face calmly. The gangster killings he had witnessed had been evil, vicious. But they were as nothing compared to the horror of the Spectral Strangler murders. In his mind’s eye he saw again the swollen, purple face of Bill Scanlon — the tongue thrust grotesquely between lips silenced forever. He saw, too, the features of those others who had met death in the same terrible fashion.
His own face was calm, but his eyes burned with the deep, glowing light of determination.
Sam Dwyer spoke then, harshly, mockingly.
“Baroni can save the dough he was going to give you. You won’t need it; but he will — for funeral expenses. A big shot’s got to have a decent funeral — an’ Baroni comes next — after you.”
Dwyer’s hard, glittering gaze was fixed upon the Agent. The others were staring at him also. There was sadistic cruelty in these men that made them contemplate murder with fierce pleasure.
“Shall we give it to him now, chief, an’ chuck him out afterwards — or wait till we get there?”
The man who had spoken was fingering the cold butt of his automatic. He spoke again, his voice eager.
“It won’t make no noise if I put the muzzle close. The rat cheated us tonight. Let’s smoke him.”
Dwyer answered harshly.
“Pipe down, mug! You’re not giving orders — you’re taking ’em. There’s cops around. We’re not taking any chances — tonight.”
The car rolled on, nearing Marigold Avenue. The Agent knew that it was a long, bleak thoroughfare lined with warehouses and factory buildings. There would be no cops there.
Dwyer corroborated this.
“I’ll give the word when we turn the corner,” he said.
The Agent began to tremble as though in a palsy of fear. They did not know that the man they had captured was a superb actor. The quivering of his arms and body seemed real.
Dwyer’s lips curled back from his white teeth in a mirthless grin.
“Can’t take it — can you?” he said. “Don’t worry, fella — it won’t be long now.”
The others chuckled evilly. Then the Agent spoke, his voice hoarse, as though terror were constricting his vocal cords.