He put as much distance as possible between himself and the apartment, then drew off the DOAC hood, stuffed it in his pocket and made his way to the street.
He thought of his armored coupé, shrugged. To go back to it now would be suicidal. It was registered under another name, as were the various cars he owned. It might be taken by the police as evidence, in which circumstance he would never be able to salvage it. Its loss would have to be chalked up to the other expenses of this case.
Agent “X” signaled another cab which took him back to the vicinity of his office. Four blocks from it he maintained a hideout in a small walk-up apartment. He went here first, changed once more to the disguise of E.E. Winstead, and returned to his office.
Other offices in the building were closed now. But the all-night elevator was still operating, and “X” had his key. To the manager from whom he had leased the office he had stated his business as that of private investigator. It explained his odd comings and goings at all hours of the day and night.
As “X” opened his door he saw the yellow oblong of a telegram beneath it. He picked this up, ripped open the paper, scanned the message inside.
“Tried to get you and couldn’t. Call Meadow Stream 224. Hensche,” it said.
The lustrous, almost uncanny brightness of the Agent’s eyes increased. Meadow Stream was the town where the State penitentiary was located — and “X” had stationed Hensche there because of a recent, strange threat the DOACs had made.
Agent “X” strode to his phone, dialed long distance and gave the Meadow Stream number. The guarded voice of Hensche came over the wire.
“That you, boss?”
“Yes. Winstead speaking.”
Hensche began talking now, low and fast, not in verbal code as Hobart had done, but in tensely clipped sentences.
“There’s going to be hell to pay, boss. That threat against Mike Carney was no bluff. A bunch of strange guys have blown into town since dark. I overheard two talking. A raid on the pen to get Carney out and make him come across about his dough is set for midnight. It’s the D.’s all right.”
The Agent’s reply was clipped, brief.
“Stick close. I’ll be up!”
“You mean tonight, boss?”
“Yes.”
“X” dropped the receiver back in its cradle. He lifted a pencil, drew a clipping from his desk. A photo from a newspaper file was attached. It showed the hard, sleek face of Michael Carney, former big shot, serving a ten-year stretch for grand larceny.
AGENT “X” studied the face thoughtfully, familiarizing himself with every line and contour. If certain things transpired tonight, he wanted to be sure he would recognize that face if he saw it. For Carney was reputed to have “salted” away nearly five million dollars during his bootleg operations. He had been too smart to keep records or receipts. The federal government had failed to indict him on a charge of income tax evasion is it had other big shots. There’d been no bank deposits, no investments. His wealth was a matter of rumor only.
The grand larceny charge had come, some said, as an underworld frame-up. It had been proved in court that Carney had “borrowed” from friends and lost in bad investment the comparatively small sum of fifty thousand dollars. He’d offered to make restitution; but public sentiment had been against him. Carney, because of his character, had been sentenced to the ten-year stretch. The police, however, hadn’t been able to scare him into telling where his fortune was cached. Carney had stoically faced the long prison term.
But a threat had been made against him recently from another source — a threat more terrible than any the police had voiced — a threat from the DOACs.
A note had come to Carney in prison, written by the DOACs, demanding that he reveal to them the location of his hidden fortune. If he refused, the DOACs stated that they would remove him from prison and make him tell by a means of their own.
Carney, shaken, had begged for extra protection. The law could not make him tremble; but the threat of the DOACs did. Underworld whispers had told him of those men whose mouths had been stopped with lead. But the prison warden had laughed at the DOAC threat. The press had made fun of Carney for his nervousness. The DOACs, it was claimed, would never dare raid the state’s prison.
“X,” watching every sign of DOAC activity, had dispatched Hensche to Meadow Stream to report if the DOACs really attempted to make good their threat. Now that report had come.
“X” took another look at Carney’s photo, started to put it back in his desk, hesitated. Reaching a sudden decision, he shoved it into an inner pocket of his coat. Then he looked at his watch.
It was after eleven now. Hensche had said that the raid was scheduled for somewhere around midnight. Meadow Stream was two hundred miles away.
Once more “X” left his office and hurried to his near-by hideout. Here, behind a locked door, he seated himself before a triple-paneled, collapsible mirror. His fingers worked with deft assurance, removing again the disguise of E.E. Winstead.
Now for a moment “X” appeared as he really was. Here, uncovered in that locked and secret hideout, was the face that the police of a dozen cities would have paid thousands to see. Here was the face that the underworld had speculated upon at various times, the face that not even the Agent’s few intimates had ever knowingly laid eyes upon.
It was a remarkable face, as strange as the man himself. In direct light it appeared surprisingly youthful, even boyish. But when the Agent turned his head and the light beams fell at a different angle, the planes and contours of maturity showed. Power, inward strength, intelligence, were written on those features. Firm lips, a straight aquiline nose, a strong chin; the hair a gleaming chestnut brown.
A few seconds only it remained uncovered; then the Man of a Thousand Faces began creating another disguise. This was a quick one, taking him hardly a minute to build up.
It was a disguise he had used many times — the disguise of A.J. Martin, inquiring newspaper man. If he were to meet Hensche, this was the disguise he must wear. For it was the disguise under which all the Agent’s operatives knew him in the battle he was waging against the DOACs.
He left his hideout, chartered another cab and gave the address of the municipal flying field. He urged the driver to all possible speed, with a promise of double fare.
THE cab lurched through streets quieted now of the day’s activities. Down a long avenue, four blocks left, then out into the suburbs, where the undisturbed peace of night lay. But there was no peace for the Agent, no rest in his desperate struggle against the forces he had pledged himself to overcome.
The cab halted before a white-painted gate where a sleepy watchman challenged it. “X” paid the driver, showed a card in his wallet to the watchman and was admitted.
An air beacon swung a long finger into the night sky. A bulb burned in the operations office at the side of the field. Agent “X” stopped here, registered the fact that he was going up, strode quickly past a long row of locked and deserted hangars.
He paused by one, snapped open a padlock and plunged into the dark interior. An overhead light which he switched on revealed the trim lines of one of “X’s” crack planes.
Orange and blue in color, the ship was a single-seater, streamlined throughout. With staggered wings and a cowled radial engine, it had the grace of an Army or Navy pursuit job. Agent “X” called it the Blue Comet. It was a ship capable of the highest speeds.
He looked at it fondly for an instant, then went to the tail and began pushing it from the hangar. A dolly under the skid added to the smooth-running air wheels up front, made the plane easily manageable by one man on the ground as well as in the air.