With the light of purpose in his eyes, the Agent stepped quietly into the booth. Inch by inch he edged the drapery across till the booth was covered — till he was out of sight.
The girl looked quickly about The men and women in the room were staring at Sergeant Mathers, following his every word and gesture as he cross-examined Mike Panagakos and the kitchen staff. No one had seen the Agent go behind the drapery. She looked toward the booth for an instant.
A faint light showed under the drapery’s edge. The Agent was mysteriously at work. But fear and perplexity still mingled in her expression. Her ears were strained to catch the wailing of police sirens outside announcing the arrival of the headquarters’ cars.
Then she gave a sudden gasp. The drapery in the front of the booth moved. A man stepped out — but not Jeffrey Carter, the clubman who had brought her to the Bellaire Club.
The man who emerged had a hard, pale face. His mouth was a thin line. There was a frown between his eyes. His eyebrows, in contrast to his white hair, jutted blackly. He carried himself with erect, military bearing. She had seen that man before. He was Inspector Burks of the Homicide Squad.
Betty Dale drew in her breath.
She could not be mistaken. One man had gone into the booth; another had stepped out — but she knew they were one and the same man — Secret Agent “X.” She knew that his uncanny mastery of disguise had accomplished the impossible.
He didn’t try to test his make-up this time. He looked at her, smiled an instant, and nodded. Then his face set again into grim lines. He gestured toward the front entrance and handed her her wrap. She understood.
With wildly beating heart, but covering her agitation, she walked toward the door.
The burly detective guarding it barred her way. “You heard the sergeant’s orders, lady — nobody goes out!”
Then the detective gave a visible start. His eyes widened. He drew himself up respectfully and lowered the gun.
“It’s all right,” said a cold voice. “I’ll show her to the street. See that nobody else leaves.”
“Certainly, Inspector!”
The detective’s puzzled frown indicated that he couldn’t quite piece things together. He could only go by what he saw. Inspector Burks was at the girl’s elbow. The Homicide Squad head must, it seemed, have come in the back way. He must have a good reason for making an exception in the girl’s favor. The detective stood back, and Betty Dale and the Secret Agent moved unmolested down the carpeted stairs.
They did not hurry. The man at Betty Dale’s side maintained his stiffly erect bearing.
But, at the downstairs entrance, his grip on her arm tightened. He gave a swift look right and left and suddenly drew her across the street. Up the block, headlights flared piercingly; a swift car shot around the corner; squealing rubber; and a siren rose into a screaming, pulsating wail.
“The police!” gasped Betty Dale, the words like a sob of fear in her throat.
Chapter V
THERE wasn’t time to do more than draw the girl into a dark areaway beside a stoop. Agent “X” did so, crouching beside her. To be seen now disguised as Inspector Burks would put an end to his plans.
He waited tensely as the car with the screaming siren came to a halt opposite. The real inspector was the first to get out, his erect, military bearing and pale face making him easy to identify. After him tumbled three plain-clothes men and two grim-faced policewomen. They crossed the sidewalk and disappeared in the entranceway of the Bellaire Club.
A second squad car rounded the corner and came roaring down the block, sliding to a screeching halt behind the first. All the detectives in the city seemed to be concentrating on this one point. The sirens had attracted attention. Heads were peering out windows. A small crowd was collecting. Any moment sharp eyes might spy out Agent “X” and the girl beside him. But she was safe now. He motioned toward the street and she understood.
“You?” she said. “What will you do?”
“The spots of the leopard will change again,” he replied.
Her face was pale and uneasy as she left him and mingled with the crowd on the street. A moment later she signaled a taxi, stepped into it and was whisked away.
The Agent turned his back. Head down amongst the shadows of the areaway, his long fingers began to move. They were working in the darkness now, working by instinct and the uncanny skill that past experience had developed.
He left the white hair on, but drew the jutting black eyebrows off and peeled away the plastic material from his face. He slipped rubber cheek plates against his gums to broaden his features, smoothed the frown of Inspector Burks from his forehead, then turned.
As he sauntered out into the light of the street, no one would have known him for either of the two men he had impersonated earlier in the evening. He looked older now, fatter — and the glittering nose glasses with a black cord attached that he slipped on heightened the effect of dignity and age.
The voices in the crowd around him were tense, electrified with fear. Rumors were running like wildfire. The “Torture Trust” had claimed another victim. A newspaper man with a flash-light camera was taking pictures of the front of the Bellaire Club. Soon the presses of the tabloids would be grinding out another story of mystery and horror for a thrill-loving public to devour at their leisure.
But the game that “X” was playing was a game of life and death.
He slipped through the crowd, moving along the side of the building to the mouth of an alley that tradesmen used. He stared down it, glanced back along the street, then plunged out of sight.
The dignity of his movements fell from him suddenly. He snapped the eyeglasses off, placed them in his pocket. His eyes were bright and piercing as bits of polished steel.
Above him were the lighted windows of the Bellaire Club. He followed the alley on up to the corner of the building. Ahead was a courtyard filled with boxes and barrels. A fire escape snaked up the side of the club, passing the windows of the kitchen, going on up to the roof.
“X” stood a moment, trying to locate the position of the air shaft he had figured was there. It was either by that or the fire escape that the acid thrower had entered and gone.
Then he drew in his breath. Far above him, silhouetted a moment against the starlit sky he saw faint movement. It might have been a man’s head or hand. He couldn’t be certain which; but he crouched back in the black shadows of the courtyard.
Then, swiftly as a cat, he crossed the flagstones and leaped up. His fingers caught the end of the weighted fire escape ladder. The ladder came down slowly, its rusty hinges squeaking.
Agent “X” paused and listened. No sound came from the darkness above. He mounted the ladder swiftly, up past the kitchen windows, reaching the darkness beyond just as one opened. Inspector Burks was on the job now and would be more thorough than Sergeant Mathers had been.
“X” took the iron steps two at a time. Speedily, silently, he reached the roof, while behind him a cop stepped out on the second-floor landing. The police, too, were going to search the roof. The Agent had escaped from one difficult situation only to be involved in another. His blood raced madly. Once again he was pitting his wits and courage against the forces of Fate. What if there was no other way down from the roof? What if the police trapped him?
But he didn’t dwell on the dangers of the situation.
Lightly as a cat, he leaped to the coping of the roof and balanced there on the balls of his feet.
The top of the Bellaire Club stretched before him. Beyond was another building, higher still — a sheer cliff of offices closed for the day. But against its brick walls he saw vague movement again. A giant spider seemed to be creeping up its bare side.