There were murderous fanatics in the membership; thieves and killers who sought only their own good. To swell their ranks they were wilfully sowing the seeds of fear, doubt, bitterness; trying to undermine the faith of those who believed in the strength and destiny of democratic America.
He folded the paper, put that in his pocket also, picked up the small pamphlet that the envelope also contained. Its date was 1918. It was a pamphlet dealing with codes, ciphers, and secret inks — the kind issued formerly to operatives in the American Intelligence Service.
It hinted that Ridley, the murdered man misled by the false propaganda of the DOACs, and learning his mistake too late, had at one time been connected with the Secret Service.
It gave “X” a clear mental picture of the man, Ridley, discharged from service at the end of the World War perhaps, had become bitter when he found himself at last among the ranks of the unemployed. He had been fit material for the DOACs’ lies. But Ridley, finding that the organization of which he had become a member was really a threat to the country he had once served and loved, had tried to do his duty, tried to bring details of the menace he saw to the ears of the one man he thought might help.
Agent “X” put the pamphlet and the gun back into the floor space. He put the board over it, placed the carpet and the tacks back in place.
He had found out all he wanted to know here. No need to question the landlady. She wouldn’t even be aware of the strange significance of her roomer. “X” unbolted the door, slipped out into the hall as quietly as he had come. He descended the stairs of the still, gloomy old house, opened the front door.
Then instantly he paused, his eagle-sharp eyes swiveling forward while the crack of the door was only a few inches wide.
For a man was lounging across the street, a man who had the manner of a shadower. He was watching No. 24, leaning against a fence.
THE Agent drew the door shut swiftly, not knowing whether the man, a detective possibly, or a spy of the DOAC organization, had seen him or not. He retreated quickly along the hall toward the rear of the house. His discoveries had been too precious for him to risk capture now.
In the stuffy, old-fashioned parlor he raised a window quietly. There was a trellis just outside, a yard beneath. The yard was still and dark. He climbed through the window, shutting it after him, swung down from the trellis onto the soft turf of the yard. He cat-footed across it, climbed a fence, and immediately became conscious that he was being followed. There was a skulking figure behind him in the shadows by the fence.
The Agent set his lips grimly. He slipped into the darker shadows himself, removed his gas gun which could knock a man unconscious even in the open air with its charge of dense, anesthetic vapor.
Moving along the side of the fence, he passed through a free-swinging gate into another yard. Here he waited, planning to make a prisoner of this shadower behind and find out who he was — detective or DOAC spy. But the man did not come on. He, too, waited, crouching animal-like, a barely visible blob in the eerie gloom of the night.
Then the Agent whirled, eyes narrowed. On his right, across the width of the yard, something else moved. The lighted rear window of a house in the row along Warner Avenue was suddenly blotted out by the head and shoulders of a man. “X” felt a tensing of the skin along his scalp. There was a purposefulness about the man’s movement. It came to the Agent abruptly that this man and the shadower behind him were working in perfect accord.
Stooping, running silently on the balls of his feet, Agent “X” tried to put distance between himself and this second shadower. But a third figure appeared at his left. Then something moved straight ahead — and “X” knew suddenly that he was surrounded; that the night was filled with skulking, sinister forms. That these men were DOACs, determined to capture or kill him.
Chapter IV
HE waited tensely, taking stock of his chances of escape. They appeared slight at the moment. These men, who to the Agent’s experienced eye did not behave like detectives, had completely surrounded the house where Ridley had dwelt. They were closing in on him — human wolves seeking their human prey.
He could see the ghostly whiteness of their faces, see the glitter of their eyes. They wore no hoods now. They counted on the darkness to hide their identities — or else were so sure of their victim that they didn’t care whether they were seen or not.
Agent “X” flung toward the darker shadows of a scraggly hedge which made an uneven line by one of the fences. He merged with it, paused a moment, then ducked back on his tracks.
The men immediately in front converged on the hedge, thinking evidently that “X” planned to use it as a barrier. He saw the gleam of guns in their hands. Yet they seemed reluctant to shoot. It appeared that they wanted to take him alive.
He saw his chance and vaulted over another fence. Somewhere in the darkness behind him there was a sibilant exclamation — a warning or a command.
He glanced over his shoulder in time to see two figures fling over the fence after him. The sinister chase was on again. Against the lights in the rear of the houses he saw crisscrossed clothes poles with lines strung between. He stared intently, wondering if these offered a way of escape; then quickly gave up the idea. A building, taller than the others, showed up ahead, with two backyards intervening. It was a six-floor, walk-up apartment, and it occurred to “X” that there might be a basement area-way here, offering an exit to the street.
He moved swiftly toward the rear steps of the nearest rooming house, leading the chase that way. Then he put on a burst of speed, leaped across a weed-grown flower bed.
The dark, clustered leaves of a bank of peonies rose like a protecting barrier. He swished through them, crouched. He knew now why the men around him held their fire. They did not want to draw attention to themselves — and they felt sure of their victim.
The Agent found an old empty basket leaning against the fence behind the peony bed. He flung this to his left, making it stir the dank stems of the plants ten feet away. He himself moved with catlike steps in the other direction. This ruse gave him nearly twenty feet advantage over his pursuers.
He was vaulting over a fence when they spotted him again. He dropped down, crossed another yard and then a second fence. The rear of the dingy apartment was directly ahead. “X” saw no areaway entrance; but there was one dim bulb burning in a basement window, and the window was open.
Quick as a flash “X” slid through it, and found himself in a damp cellar with ash cans, a coal bin, and an unlighted furnace. Ahead was a door leading to the street apparently; but “X” hesitated to use it. Seeing the grim efficiency of these men, he guessed there would be other watchers posted outside; guessed that every side of the block was under close surveillance. Those who had murdered Ridley were out to see that the man who had answered his cipher did not escape.
The Agent wheeled around the coal bin in the cellar, saw an old cracked wardrobe closet standing against the brick wall before him. It might offer a possible hiding place.
He reached forward, drew the door open, and instantly changed his plan. Here was no hiding place. The wardrobe was hardly more than eight inches deep. The whole front opened up. But the janitor had obviously used this discarded piece of furniture for his own convenience. An old coat and a pair of dusty overalls hung on hooks inside. A row of whisky bottles, some empty, some half filled, were ranged along the floor.