The paleness of her cheeks was followed by a flood of rich color that suffused her whole face and neck for a moment. That strange whistle seemed to touch some responsive chord in her heart. It came from the lips of the man she admired and respected above all others in the world. For Betty Dale was one of the few persons on earth who knew the amazing, mysterious character of Agent “X’s” career.
Often they had faced danger and death together. And, though Betty Dale never to her knowledge had seen his real features, she had come, deep in her heart, to love Agent “X.” His visits were the high spots in her life. When he was away, probing some sinister crime, Betty Dale plunged into her own newspaper work harder than ever, to keep worry from her mind. For she had pledged herself never to hinder the Agent’s work by letting him see how much she cared. All she asked was a chance to help him.
“You!” she breathed into the telephone, a tremor, which she couldn’t quite conceal, on her lips.
“Yes, Betty. I’m sorry if I disturbed you when you were busy.”
The girl flushed again. “I only said that because — because I thought you were some one else.”
“Then you can meet me sometime this morning?”
“Yes — any time. I want to see you anyway. I’ve got something to tell you.”
“Good, Betty! Walk along Carter Avenue, then, between Tenth and Eleventh Streets at ten-thirty. There’s a sporting goods store in the middle of the block. You’ll see a young man looking in the window at the fishing tackle. Stop and look in the window, also.”
Betty agreed, then rose quickly and went to the managing editor’s office to obtain leave of absence. She said she’d just had a hot lead on a story and was going out after it. There was a good deal of truth in this. On almost every one of the Agent’s cases Betty Dale had been able to obtain a scoop. Her intuitive intelligence told her that the Secret Agent might be on the trail of the DOACs.
If he succeeded in tracing down the heads of the organization and having them arrested, Betty knew she’d be given inside details before anyone else. Working with the Agent, she had become invaluable to her paper.
She tried to finish correcting a sheet of copy; but the words blurred before her eyes. She continually glanced at her wrist watch. The hands seemed to crawl.
Ten o’clock came and Betty began dabbing powder on her face. She smoothed her hair, put her hat on at a saucy tilt. She wanted to look her best when she met the Man of a Thousand Faces.
A graceful, energetic figure, she left the newspaper building, took a taxi to Carter Avenue and strolled along in the early fall sunlight. Her blue eyes continually darted ahead. Her heart was beating rapidly. She got to the block between Tenth and Eleventh Streets too early, walked past it and came back.
Then her heartbeat increased still more. A young man was standing outside the window of the sporting goods store. Slouching, dressed in a suit that had a slightly collegiate cut, he was staring through the window at the fishing tackle. A limp cigarette hung from his lower lip. His hat was on the back of his head.
BETTY DALE had never to her knowledge seen this young man before. As she approached she wondered if there’d been some mistake or if she were still too early. The young man had a sleepy look. He seemed to be engrossed in the display of tackle. Surely this couldn’t be Secret Agent “X.”
But Betty Dale smiled to herself. She’d been fooled dozens of times before. The Agent had tested his genius for disguise on her. In spite of her keen powers of observation and her feminine intuition he had tricked her again and again. Staring sharply from the corners of her eyes at this young man, she was ready to swear that she did not know him. But she walked up slowly, stopping to stare in the window too.
She trembled as she bent her golden head to look at the fishing tackle, which didn’t interest her in the slightest degree.
“You fish, lady?”
The young man’s drawling voice startled her. It was as unfamiliar as his appearance. She turned, flushing. His sleepy gaze was fixed upon her. He was grinning a lazy grin. She shook her head slowly, staring at him — waiting. Doubt began to assail her as the young man continued to grin. Everything about him looked strange, unfamiliar. The young man, seeing her perplexity, took his wallet from his pocket.
“I sell fishing tackle, lady,” he said, in the same drawling voice. “Here’s my card.”
He handed her a white card on which was written the name “Claude Erskine.” Betty’s eyes widened as she looked. For, under the light of the open sky, a letter X, large and superimposed, was appearing over the name.
She needed no more proof than this. Slowly she tore the card into tiny pieces and let them trickle from her fingers. Then she raised her eyes and smiled.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Claude Erskine.”
The stranger’s eyes were no longer sleepy. They had changed in the space of a second to steely alertness. Betty knew then that some deep purpose lay behind the Agent’s request to meet her.
“That’s the name I want you to use when you introduce me to Greta St. Clair, Betty,” he said. “Tell her I’m a fellow reporter, thinking of doing an article for a movie magazine.”
Betty Dale searched the Agent’s eyes. If she hadn’t known what his strange work was, if she hadn’t guessed the deep motives that lay behind everything he did, she might have been jealous. For Greta St. Clair was an exotic woman, and Agent “X” seemed determined to meet her.
“You think she’s in danger from the DOACs, don’t you?” said Betty suddenly, speaking hardly above a whisper. “You’re working against them, I know.”
The Agent nodded. “I’m glad you’re not one of their spies. I wouldn’t stand much chance with a person of your cleverness,” he said.
Betty grew serious. “We get stories on the Herald about the terrible things the DOACs are doing. I guessed you would fight them — from the first. And yesterday I heard something I thought you’d want to hear. That’s why I said over the telephone I had something to tell you.”
The Agent touched her arm. “I’ve got a car up the block. You can tell me as we drive along; it will be better than standing here.”
They got into the Agent’s small coupé and Betty Dale began to talk quickly.
“If you’re fighting the DOACs you’ll want to know this. There’s a man the Herald suspects now. He’s a well-known figure. You must have heard of him. His name’s Benjamin Summerville.”
Agent “X” nodded instantly. “An ex-state senator and big industrialist.”
“He was a big industrialist. But he claims the depression ruined him. He’s a bitter critic of the New Deal, too. Yesterday, he told a Herald reporter he was half in sympathy with the DOACs. He says this country needs a new party with strong-arm methods. He’s been making a lot of violent speeches, so violent that even his own party has thrown him out.”
The Agent stared at Betty for a moment, eyes filled with speculation. He remembered the propaganda pamphlet he had found in Ridley’s room. Here certainly was another hot lead.
“Thanks, Betty,” he said quietly. “The Department of Justice is probably investigating Summerville now; but I’ll put one of my own men on his trail. What you tell me checks up with something I learned myself.”
Di Lauro and Summerville — it was conceivable that either might be operating the hidden mechanism behind the DOAC organization.
“I was at the state prison last night, Betty,” the Agent went on. “I saw the DOAC raid. I flew back to the city this morning just to get you. I want to get a line on Greta St. Clair and give her a word of warning. But, without somebody she knows to introduce me, I doubt if she’d let me in. She must be terrified at what happened to Carney last night. She’ll be suspicious of every stranger. I want to save her if I can from being kidnaped or killed by the DOACs.”