Agent “X” thundered on, driving with fierce, reckless abandon. Then suddenly he gasped and stamped on the brake pedal. For something loomed directly ahead in the moon-bathed gloom. It was another fence, and this one, he saw just in time, was made of piled-up stone.
The car slued to a screeching halt, its radiator close to the uneven rocks. This wall could not be smashed through. It was a barrier that must be contended with — and, directly behind, roaring across the field, was a group of armed men, bent on the recapture of Carney and the murder of “X.”
Chapter VII
AGENT “X” flung the door open and leaped from the big car. He raced to the wall. Carney seemed to think he was trying to escape and yelled something, but Agent “X” paid no attention.
With the evil whine of bullets around his head, “X” shoved frantically at the rocks. It was an old wall, loosely piled, and stones toppled off under the quick thrust of his hands, others he pulled back toward him, leaping out of the way as they fell. Three machine-gun bullets struck the wall ten feet away and ricocheted off into the darkness. The DOACs couldn’t aim accurately in their speeding, jouncing car.
Deliberately “X” pulled other rocks toward him until the wall in front of the car had become a low mound loosely piled.
He got back into the driver’s seat, speeded up the engine, threw the clutch in slowly, and crept forward.
Like a tractor the front of the car reared up. Higher and higher it went till the headlights pointed directly toward the sky.
Mike Carney yelled again, crouching lower in his seat behind “X.” For a breathless instant the under part of the car’s chassis struck a stone. Metal grated, and it seemed that they would be stuck there. Then the rear tires gripped a rock, got traction, and the car shot ahead again. The front dropped sickeningly as the rear end flung skyward. Carney was hurled against the back of the seat. Agent “X” gripped the wheel desperately. The rear wheels, dropped off the rocks with a bone-shaking jar.
Then the car, with gathering speed, lunged ahead through the scrub trees, breaking and bending them. It ploughed through bushes with a sound like rushing ocean waves, broke at last into the open with a long, level stretch of road ahead. “X” had won his way to freedom, got himself and Carney out of the clutches of the DOACs. He pressed the gas button down, sent the big touring-car roaring ahead.
Looking over his shoulder, he could still see the spotlight on the pursuing car, screened by a barrier of bushes. The DOACs hadn’t even gotten over the wall. He doubted that they would, till they had flattened it still more.
Night wind streamed past as Agent “X” drove furiously ahead. It wasn’t pursuit by the DOACs he was seeking to avoid now. It was the State troopers, local police, and special detectives who would scour the country in search of those who had taken part in the raid on the prison. Before turning Carney over to the law again, “X” wanted to question the big racketeer. He looked around. Carney met “X’s” gaze searchingly.
The Agent still wore his DOAC hood. His disguise as A.J. Martin, newspaper man, had served him often and well. No use letting Carney see him now as Martin. The big gangster might spread whispers through the underworld that would prevent “X” from appearing as Martin again.
The Agent, watching the road ahead, saw an opening among some trees. A dirt road branched off here. “X” twisted the wheel, sent the car in, out of sight of the main highway. He slid to a stop and turned to face Carney.
His eyes, bright and penetrating, focused on the gangster. Carney began to look uneasy. He bunched his shoulders and fear showed on his face.
“What’s your racket?” he growled. “You must have something on your mind! What is it?”
“X” answered quietly. “Don’t go up in the air, Carney. I’m not after your money. But I figured what would happen if the DOACs got you.”
“How did you know they were coming after me?”
“I got tipped off.”
“If you ain’t one of ’em, where did you get that headpiece you’re wearing?”
“From a DOAC who was killed.”
Carney seemed to debate this, staring sharply at Agent “X.” Then he spoke again, sneeringly. “You’re telling me you got me away from those mugs just because you wanted to do a pal a good turn?”
Agent “X” shook his head. “That was only one of my reasons, Carney. I had another. You’ve got a lot of friends on the shady side of the law. The chances are you’ve heard rumors. Do you think the DOACs are just a bunch of gunmen? Or are they something else? Give me a little information and I’ll help you stay away from the big house.”
CARNEY shook his head again, fear shadows deepening in his eyes. “I don’t know much about the DOACs — but I do know this! You can’t put me where they can’t find me. There’s only one spot in the country where I’ll be safe now — that’s back in jail — and that’s where I’m going till things blow over.”
Agent “X” gave a short, humorless laugh.
“You weren’t very safe in jail tonight.”
The gangster had a ready answer. “That was the warden’s fault. I told him the DOACs meant business, but he wouldn’t do anything about it. That’s why the DOACs got in. Now he’s had his lesson. If I go back he’ll see that it don’t happen again. There’ll be enough guards posted to keep out an army. I know when I’m well off. And there’s a reason why I don’t want to get bumped. Maybe you’ve heard about a little lady I’m interested in?”
Agent “X” nodded.
“Greta St. Clair, your fiancée. The papers ran a story about her, Carney, when you were put in stir. Miss St. Clair took a house in sight of the jail and said she’d wait ten years if necessary for you to get out; didn’t she?”
Carney leaned forward, touching “X’s” arm. His voice was hoarse now.
“That’s the only thing I’m afraid of, mister. They’ll try to work on me through her, see? I can’t have that happen. It would drive me nuts.”
Again Agent “X” nodded.
“Tell me everything you knew about the DOACs,” he said. “I may be able to help break up their gang and help the girl, too!”
Carney took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. He spoke huskily. “I can’t tell what I don’t know, guy. I got a few suspicions; but that’s all.”
“And what are those suspicions, Carney?” asked “X” softly.
“There was a guy got out of stir just after they put me in,” Carney said. “His name was Di Lauro. He used to be a half-cracked anarchist nut. Then he tried to get tough with a gun. I heard he’d been paroled and skipped. He used to talk a lot about the hell he’d raise when he got out of stir. He said something about a secret gang of some kind. Maybe he’s the guy back of it, and maybe he ain’t.”
AGENT “X” stored the name away in his mind. Di Lauro. A half-cracked anarchist. Some fanatic might have conceived of that as a cunning way to build up a following. “X” started to speak; Carney beat him to it.
“That’s all I know. I been in stir a year and a half now. A guy don’t hear much in jail. But whoever you are, you seem on the up-and-up. Do me a favor! Go see Greta — and tell her from me to watch out every minute. I won’t see her again till visitor’s day at the jail.”
“You’re determined to go back then?”
Carney’s eyes probed the shadows around them fearfully. He leaned closer, spoke in a whisper.