“You are wrong there. Most of them are Carney’s old friends, here to protect me. Come, I will show you.”
She led her visitors around the big house. She rang a bell and two men appeared. They, too, had the pale, poker faces of gangsters.
Greta St. Clair conducted Betty and the Agent down a flight of steps to a big cellar room. There were heavy iron shutters across the windows of this basement chamber. At the far end of it, under an electric light, was a target made of white pasteboard and marked in black circles. A number of bullet holes showed in it. Greta spoke to her two men who had followed her into the cellar.
“Show my friends what you can do,” she said sharply.
The two men’s faces remained impassive. Simultaneously they drew automatics from armpit holsters. So rapidly that the shots seemed to form a continuous stream of sound, they fired — and a dozen more bullet holes appeared in the target, some directly in the center of the bull’s-eye.
“You see,” said Greta. “They are perfect marksmen, and,” she added hastily, “they have permits to carry their guns. They guard me night and day. That is why I am not afraid.”
Agent “X” drew the woman aside.
“Those men,” he said, “who raided the prison last night had bombs and machine guns. Even your alarm system, your dogs and your armed guards could hardly withstand raiders who use wartime tactics.”
“You have not seen everything,” she said. “There are other precautions I have taken.”
SHE led them to the second floor of the large house next. As they ascended the stairs she pointed back to a huge square of boarding like a hatch cover. It was hinged and arranged so that it could be lowered over the top of the stairs, then bolted into place. Its under side was sheathed with steel plating.
She took them next into her bedroom. This had the rich furnishings of a woman who loves luxury. A canopied bed with hand-embroidered coverlets; a rosewood dresser littered with expensive knickknacks; soft rugs on the floor. But the windows of the room were crossed with stout iron bars. Greta St. Clair closed the door. That, too, was sheathed in sheet steel, painted to look like the walls.
“I could shut myself in here,” she said. “Long before the DOACs or any one else could get me, the police would come in answer to my alarm. If a single one of those wires is touched along the fence an electric siren on the roof will sound. It can even be heard in the prison across the river.”
“All this is clever,” said “X,” “but I’ve told you the DOACs use bombs. Just how terrible those bombs are I can hardly tell you. I hope you never will see. But men were killed before my eyes. An auto was crunched like a child’s toy. If they come after you they would blast through your armor plate and your barred windows.”
Greta St. Clair drew herself to her full height and spoke coldly.
“Whatever the risk, nothing can make me change my mind. Warden Johnson told me something over the phone that perhaps you do not know. Michael, for my sake, wants to serve his sentence until he is pardoned, so that he can become a respectable citizen again. He voluntarily came back to his cell last night after he had escaped from the DOACs. He might have left the country, but he did not. He isn’t afraid to run any risk for me. Neither am I afraid to run any risk to be near him. I shall continue to live here and visit him daily. It is the least I can do.”
Agent “X” hid the sardonic gleam in his eyes, wondering what version of last night’s activities Carney had given to Warden Johnson.
Greta St. Clair served them cocktails, then they left. But not before the woman had given Betty Dale an invitation to dinner soon. She smiled upon Betty, but Agent “X” fancied that she was slightly cold to him.
HE drove Betty Dale back to the city, lost in deep thought. He was anxious now to get back to his office, anxious to extend the range of his operatives’ influence. Greta St. Clair’s house must be watched day and night to see that death and destruction did not creep upon her. And Betty had given him a valuable clue. He would post another operative near the residence of Benjamin Summerville, embittered industrialist who had voiced sympathy for the DOAC organization.
He said good-by to Betty, changed his disguise to E.E. Winstead, hurried to his office. In this campaign against the DOACs, the most serious menace to his country he had ever done battle with, he was moving with patience and strategy. One man, no matter how clever and versatile, could not be everywhere at once. Yet, through it all. Agent “X” was still playing a lone hand.
The men he had hired only collected facts for him, studied isolated evidences of DOAC activity. The whole country was “X’s” battle ground. He was prepared to rush to any state in the union at a moment’s notice. Prepared to go anywhere that the sinister lightning bolt of the DOACs might strike.
He put two more operatives on the job, selecting them from his carefully kept files.
One, a man named Chatfield, he sent to keep watch at night around Greta St. Clair’s estate. Another, Costigan, he dispatched to the town where Summerville lived. Both had orders to telephone or telegraph his office if anything should turn up. He stationed Ralph Peters, a former bellhop, now out of work, in his office to relay calls to him if he should telephone.
Then in his plane, the Blue Comet, Agent “X” took off for a tour of several states. There were many rumors to be investigated. DOAC activity was spreading like some sinister blight across the country. The Hooded Hordes were becoming more of a threat every day. Rumors were drifting in.
The papers were running scare headlines. Strikes were deliberately being fostered in many communities, it was said, with the aid of DOAC influence. Discontent was being wilfully encouraged. It was even stated that crops, in certain sections of the country, were being ruined at night by the armed and hooded terrorists.
All these reports Agent “X” weighed, investigated, sifted; landing at airport after airport. He visited farmers, industrialists, labor leaders; talked with his own operatives; planned new means of boring into the heart of the DOAC organization.
Every few hours he telephoned back to his office, and Ralph Peters gave him the information his other operatives in distant parts of the country had reported.
All this activity was costing Agent “X” thousands. For the first time in his career he was drawing heavily on the fund that had been subscribed and put at his disposal. But he was prepared to draw thousands more to fight the dread menace of DOAC activity….
It was on the afternoon of the third day of his protracted air tour that Ralph Peters relayed an exciting call to Agent “X.”
“That guy Costigan has been trying to get you for the last hour, boss,” Peters said.
Costigan was the man “X” had stationed near the home of Benjamin Summerville.
“What does he want?” the Agent asked quickly.
“I don’t know, sir. He left a number and said you could call him at four. He sounded excited.”
Agent “X” hung up, frowning. He flew to another town, looked at his watch and saw that it was just four o’clock. Then he called Costigan.
The man answered immediately, as though he had been waiting close beside the phone. His voice held a note of triumph.
“Boss, I been talking to one of Summerville’s servants. There’s something funny going on. A guy’s staying at Summerville’s house that nobody is allowed to see. One of the maids told the butler about him, the butler told the gardener, and the gardener told me. This guy calls himself Doctor Lorenzo, but he never goes out except at night. Summerville’s daughter is sweet on him, I think. She goes with him, sometimes. The maid says he’s writing a book, and she saw his real name on the manuscript. It isn’t Lorenzo at all, boss. It’s the name of a prisoner who was paroled from the big house a while back.”