Galaway smiled inwardly, then went on: “What I would like this morning is a little data on a former inmate of your prison. Did you have here at one time a convict by the name of Di Lauro?”
Galaway’s eyes gleamed as he asked this question. Warden Johnson looked relieved. At least the governor was withholding his criticism until the full details of the affair last night had been weighed. The warden became talkative at once, glad to change the subject.
“Leon Di Lauro is the man you mean. Yes, we had him here. The board saw fit to parole him over a year ago. This was done, though, over my objections. I never liked Di Lauro, never trusted him. He was a troublemaker; but outside influence was used to get him paroled. Di Lauro didn’t report to the parole board at the time required after his release, however. State detectives were employed in an effort to locate him; but he hasn’t been seen or heard of since he left my charge.”
Galaway made quick notes on a square of paper. The gleaming light in his eyes intensified. He tapped his chair with nervous fingers.
“If you please, warden, I’d like to look at Di Lauro’s record!”
“Certainly, Mr. Galaway. That’s easy!”
The warden rang for his secretary, and ordered the convict’s case history brought from the prison files at once. Galaway looked through them, made notes.
Leon Di Lauro, Roumanian origin claimed. Five feet five. Weight one hundred and sixty pounds. Black eyes. Low forehead. Broad nose. High cheek bones. Teeth uneven. Anarchist tendencies. Arrested in connection with bomb outrage, 1917. Propaganda subversive to government found in possession. Sentenced to Leavenworth, five-year stretch.
Here Galaway used his pencil to underline two words: “Bomb outrage.” Beneath the smooth-shaven contours of his face — another elaborate disguise of Secret Agent “X”— small muscles tensed. He recalled those terrible bombs of the night before. The ripping, tearing concussion. The torn bodies. The car he had seen collapse in the street as though giant, invisible fingers had crushed it.
Carney had mentioned Di Lauro as a possible leader of the DOACs. Di Lauro’s connection with terrorist bombers in the past made this possibility stronger. The Secret Agent went on taking notes from the prison record.
Charged with criminal syndicalism, 1925. Case dismissed for lack of evidence. Arrested for disorderly conduct, 1926, at conference of textile workers. Arrested for felonious assault and carrying gun, 1928. Paroled 1933. Emotional, violent type. Intelligence high.
Agent “X” pocketed his notes. The light in his eyes was steely now. As a character, Di Lauro was a good lead. Such a man might be guilty of building up a nation-wide terrorist organization like the DOACs. He had brains, he knew the power of words as proved by the charge of criminal syndicalism lodged against him. He was dangerous, fanatical.
AGENT “X” thanked the warden and rose. In saving Carney from the DOACs, he had run into a bit of evidence which might help him trace the leader of the murderous DOAC group. Warden Johnson spoke vehemently, breaking in on the Agent’s thoughts.
“The governor needn’t worry any more,” he said. “Nobody will take any prisoner out of this jail again.”
“You think Michael Carney is safe here then?” asked “X.”
“Yes. He’s yellow and whining for protection. He’d rather be in jail than out. He’s still scared stiff. But he needn’t be. We’re going to give him better protection than he ever had from his mob. We’re going to keep him in his cell from now on. The only visitor who will be allowed to see him will be that girl of his.”
“You mean his fiancée, Greta St. Clair?”
“Yes.”
“And what about her? Will she be safe — or will the DOACs try to hit at Carney through her?”
Warden Johnson shrugged.
“That’s not my affair, Galaway. If she’s fool enough to fall for a guy like Carney, and stick close by, the way she does, it’s her funeral, not mine.”
“She lives somewhere near here then?”
“Yes — there.” The warden rose from his seat, pointed out a window which gave a view over the prison wall. Agent “X” rose, too. He knew the location of Greta St. Clair’s place of residence from the newspaper story he had read. But he wanted to get the warden’s own reactions. The warden was gesturing through the window.
Beyond the prison walls, over across the river that swirled at the base of the grim wall, the roof of a house showed dimly through the tree-tops. It was a half mile away, but a dormer window commanded a view of the prison.
“That’s the house she lives in,” the warden said. “She takes the ferry across every Monday and Thursday, the days we allow visitors. She’s nuts about Carney and claims he was framed.”
Agent “X” spoke quietly, watching the warden’s face.
“Wouldn’t you say she was running a great risk?”
“Perhaps! Who knows? They say she has a bunch of servants to wait on her. There may be DOAC spies among them — waiting to see if they can get a line on Carney’s money from her, or bump her if they feel like it. But, as I say — it isn’t my grief. She’s smart enough to know she’s in danger from the guys that tried to get Carney. She’s got money of her own, and she’d better clear out — take a trip to Europe or something. If she were my gal that’s what I’d make her do.”
Recalling Carney’s fear that there was no spot on earth except the prison where he was safe, “X” wondered if this didn’t apply equally to the girl. She could be traced and followed even to Europe.
Again he thanked the warden, then left through the guarded entrance and the lines of troopers as he had come. He was glad he had got away before a call from the governor’s office came. That might have put him in an embarrassing situation.
His eyes turned toward the glinting surface of the river again; toward the house of Greta St. Clair. Was that where the ruthless, hideous lightning bolt of the DOAC power would strike next?
Chapter VIII
IN the busy city offices of the Herald a telephone jangled. A girl, blonde and winsome, seated before a desk covered with copy, reached out and lifted the receiver from its hook.
“Calling Betty Dale,” a masculine voice said over the wire.
“Miss Dale speaking,” the girl replied.
A shaft of sunlight from the open window fell on the girl’s head. The sunlight seemed to remain imprisoned there, as the golden hair, clustered low at the nape of her white neck, had caught some of its warmth and shimmer. The soft curve of her cheek showed a youthful, vibrant glow.
“You’re the lady who wrote a feature article about Greta St. Clair, aren’t you?’ the strange voice said.
“Yes. Who is this speaking, please?”
“A young man who’d like to meet Miss St. Clair. You had an interview with her and I thought—”
Betty Dale interrupted stiffly. There was an edge in her voice, proving that for all her gold-and-white girlishness she had a will of her own.
“You’ll have to think up a better excuse than that for an introduction. I’m very busy this morning. If you don’t mind—”
“Wait.’” The single word came low-voiced over the wire. There was a note of command in it that held Betty Dale wonderingly. Then she gave a sudden start, and the warm color in her cheeks paled.
In the receiver against her ear a strange note sounded. It was no longer a man’s voice. It was a whistle, musical yet eerie, a whistle that Betty Dale had heard before — the whistle of Secret Agent “X.”