“She’s as safe as any one could be,” said Betty. “You’ll be surprised. She knew when I saw her that she was in danger from the underworld just because she is in love with Carney. That’s why she took that strange old house. It’s almost like a fortress, and she has guards — former friends of Carney’s, I think. Even the DOACs would think twice before they tried to kidnap her.”
“You haven’t seen any reports of the raid on the prison, then?” asked “X.”
Betty Dale shook her head.
“No. Two of our men are there now. But the warden won’t see them. And all the eyewitnesses are afraid to speak. I know that some guards were shot. That’s all.”
The Agent’s answer was harsh. “Not only shot, Betty — bombed! The DOACs have some kind of new explosive. What it does isn’t pretty. That’s why I say Greta St. Clair is in danger. She may not know it; but she is. Carney himself asked me to warn her.”
“Carney? Then you are the one—” Betty Dale stopped speaking. She made it a point not to inquire into the Agent’s affairs.
“Yes, Betty. I took him away from the DOACs. I knew — I saw what would happen to any man who fell into their clutches.”
Betty Dale’s face went white — white with sudden fear now for the safety of the Agent. The love that she found so hard to conceal showed in her clear blue eyes. For a moment her slim fingers pressed his arm.
“You must be careful,” she said huskily. “If they ever found out— Perhaps the DOACs are responsible for those terrible murders that have taken place all over the country — the men whose mouths have been stopped with lead.”
“Perhaps,” echoed the Agent softly.
IT was after one when Betty Dale and Agent “X” came in sight of the house at Meadow Stream where Greta St. Clair lived. The Agent got a better look at it now. He’d been across the river when he had first seen it that morning. Only the roof and that one dormer window had been visible. Now, as he left the main highway and turned into a side road, he saw the main part of the house rising above a high brick wall.
The house was of brick, too, French colonial in style, ivy grown. The wall ran around the entire estate. No ivy grew on this. It had, he saw, been carefully cleared away, and on top of the bricks were strands of barbed wire, stretched tightly erect by steel posts. A wrought iron, old-fashioned carriage gate barred their way. The place, as Betty had said, was like a fortress.
And the man who came to the gate when “X” pressed the bronze electric button, was like a fortress guard. He had sharp eyes, a pock-marked face. One side of his coat bulged slightly. He was, “X” knew at once, a former denizen of the underworld. But at sight of Betty Dale the man broke into a genial grin.
The man touched an elaborate lock mechanism which had recently been riveted into the iron, drew back the big gate.
“Drive in, Miss Dale. The lady’s expecting you. She said you’d phoned her you was coming.”
The pock-marked guard gave Agent “X” a sharp glance which “X” returned.
The Agent drove slowly up the long driveway toward the house. He heard the iron gates clank behind them. Around the lawn, acting as gardeners, were several other sharp-eyed men. It was plain that several of Carney’s old mobsters had found a quiet refuge on this estate, guarding Carney’s fiancée. Were there, he wondered, any DOAC spies among them?
White columns held up a large carriage porch. The front doorsteps led up beneath it. Agent “X” drove under this. Betty Dale leaped lightly out.
Then suddenly she gave a piercing scream. Agent “X” whirled. He heard the scratching of claws on gravel and a chorus of low growls. Then he, too, leaped out and stood close to Betty.
Like streaks of tawny lightning a half dozen gigantic mastiffs came around the corner of the house. They stood in a semi-circle around “X” and Betty, hackles stiffly erect, fangs showing, and slowly, with menace in their greenish, heavy-lidded eyes, they crept closer.
Chapter IX
BETTY DALE screamed again. At almost the same instant the door of the house burst open. A woman stood framed in the threshold — a woman of thirty, chestnut haired, slim figured, delicately beautiful.
For an instant only she was still, then she took three quick strides in her slippered feet, moving out onto the top step. In her right hand was a small plaited whip of red-and-white rawhide.
“Mogul, Prince, Captain — get back!” she cried.
Her voice came with brittle precision as she spoke to the dogs. She stamped a slippered foot.
The animals did not move quite fast enough to suit her. Her hand nicked out like the hissing dart of a snake’s tongue. The lash curled around the nearest dog’s neck. The big animal gave a sudden yelp and leaped away. The others vanished with him, padding off softly on their huge paws. The woman on the steps smiled down at her visitors, showing white teeth between lips that were touched with crimson.
“I’m sorry to welcome you like this, Miss Dale. The dogs weren’t here when you came before. Michael made me get them — after that threat against him in prison. They’re a nuisance, but a protection. Won’t you and your friend come in?”
There was the gracious poise of the perfect hostess in the manner of Greta St. Clair. Looking at her stunning figure and soft features, hearing the refined modulation of her voice, Agent “X” marveled that such a woman had ever fallen for Mike Carney.
He studied her covertly, recalling how quickly she had brought the lash down on the dog’s neck. Perhaps for all her delicate beauty and apparent refinement there was a strain of cruelty, hardness, in her make-up. Perhaps she was more interested in Carney’s money than in the man himself. Whatever her motive for sticking close to Carney the risk she was running was real enough. The wall with its barbed wire, the armed guards, the dogs, could hardly protect her from the fiends who used the might of disintegrating, mangling bombs.
At the top of the steps, Betty Dale, still pale from her fright, introduced Secret Agent “X.”
“My friend, Claude Erskine,” she said. “He’s a reporter, too. He has it in mind to do an article about you for a movie magazine.”
Greta St. Clair laughed, brushing a strand of hair from her high, white forehead.
“But I am no longer in the movies,” she said.
Agent “X” leaned forward, looking into the woman’s eyes, his own bright and intent.
“Writing an article about you was only an excuse I gave Miss Dale in order to get an introduction,” he said. “My real purpose in coming here was to warn you — and question your servants.”
“Warn me?”
“Yes. The whole world knows that you love Michael Carney, Miss St. Clair. And since the whole world knows it, certain enemies of his know it, too. You are running a great risk in staying so close to him at the present time. Do you know it?”
Greta St. Clair drew herself up a little stiffly. An edge crept into her voice.
“I am no fool,” she said. “I know what I’m up against. You needn’t have come to warn me. Carney has told me enough — and I have taken every precaution. You saw those dogs. You may have seen the wire I’ve put around the wall. Among the barbed wires is another part of an alarm system. This place is like a fortress.”
“But the servants,” said “X,” dropping his voice. “You have no assurance that there are not spies among them.”