“Yes — and what prisoner was that?” The Agent’s tone was vibrant as he asked the question.
“A guy named Leon Di Lauro, boss. That ought to make a good story for your paper. I remember reading that Di Lauro jumped parole, and the dicks are after him right now!”
Chapter X
A TINGLE of tense excitement coursed up the Secret Agent’s spine. Benjamin Summerville harboring Leon Di Lauro. Michael Carney’s suspect and Betty Dale’s suspect together. Here was a development worth investigating at once.
The Secret Agent cancelled his scheduled visits to other communities where DOAC activity had been reported. He sped to the airport in a taxi, climbed into the cockpit of the Blue Comet, and headed the cowled nose of the fast plane eastward.
Villages, cities, and open country streamed below him. He studied his map as he flew along. Summerville lived now in the town of Norwick, in southern Connecticut. A small municipal landing field was marked there on the map. The Agent made quick time across many states.
It was just at dusk that he landed at Norwick; but he did not go directly to Summerville’s home. First he got in touch with Costigan, receiving a more detailed report of all that the man had learned. Costigan, formerly attached to a small detective agency, had done his part well. Posing as an unemployed man he had actually gotten work on the grounds of the Summerville estate. It was from the gardener that he had picked up his information.
“It’s a big house, boss,” Costigan said to the Agent, who came in the disguise of Winstead. “Lorenzo or Di Lauro stays somewhere in the left wing. I couldn’t see his room. And you want to be careful if you talk to Summerville. He’s got a couple of huskies working for him inside. They look like ex-pugs or bouncers in some tough joint. They gave a couple of reporters the bum’s rush yesterday.”
Agent “X” nodded. “You can take the evening off, Costigan. You have given me the information I wanted.”
Costigan looked troubled. “You don’t want me to hang around the place then in case somebody gets rough with you.”
“No. I’ll take care of myself.”
There was assurance in the Secret Agent’s tone. By one means or another he intended to interview Summerville. He would judge the man’s character for himself, and get a look at his mysterious guest.
A taxi took “X” to the suburbs where the former senator and industrialist still lived. Summerville claimed to have lost his fortune in the depression. His mills were closed down. But there were those who said it was because he was too niggardly to pay decent wages. He’d been a bitter opponent of the NRA, refusing to conform to any code. Now, shut away in his big estate, he lived a feudal-like existence, out of touch with his political party and his former friends.
Agent “X” dismissed his cab and walked boldly up the drive of the Summerville residence. At his ring a tall, beefy man opened the door. “X” remembered Costigan’s words. This man, for all his smartly cut clothes, had the ugly face of a small-time pugilist who had been battered in the ring. One eye was squinted. There was a scar across his lip. His right ear was enlarged and had cauliflower crinkles. He scowled at Agent “X.”
“Whadda you want?”
“To see Mr. Summerville. I’m certain he’ll want to talk to me. I represent the Associated Press.”
Without waiting for a reply Agent “X” shouldered his way in. He was past the big butler before the servant could stop him. But the man slammed the door and overtook “X” in three strides as he was crossing a tiled hallway.
“You gotta wait here!”
The servant muscled “X” toward a small reception room at the left. Ungraciously he took the card “X” handed him, pointed to a chair, turned on his heel and left.
The Agent did not sit down. He started to move about the small room, stopped. Another servant had appeared as if by magic and was standing in the doorway regarding him.
The Agent took out a cigarette and smoked it as he waited.
TWO minutes passed and the servant who had been set to watch him did not move. As silent and immobile as a statue, he remained in the doorway. Then footsteps sounded. The butler returned. He held “X’s” card in his fingers. Deliberately he tore the card in fragments and flung the pieces toward an unlighted open fireplace.
“This way,” he said harshly. “You can’t see Mr. Summerville. He’s busy. He don’t want to talk to the press any more.”
Agent “X” didn’t move. Calmly he puffed on his cigarette. The big butler made a sound in his throat that might have been an order or a growl of irritation. He nodded to the smaller man. Both of them stepped forward and grabbed “X’s” arms.
“X” did not protest as they led him to the door. Faster and faster they propelled him, while a third servant, a scared-looking little man, opened the big front door. The two who held “X” tried to heave him across the front steps so that he would stumble and fall.
At this point he jerked away, then struck out deftly and quickly with both hands. His knuckles hit just above the belts of the two men, knocking the wind out of them. They staggered back, making strangling noises, clutching their middles, while the Agent sauntered nonchalantly down the drive.
Out of sight of the house, he turned quickly and walked beside the iron fence that encircled the huge estate. At a point where shadows were darkest he suddenly reached up and grasped the topmost spikes of the fence. Strands of barbed wire were twisted around these spikes. The Agent, moving cautiously as he drew himself up, was careful not to stir them. He stepped across the wires, balancing expertly, then jumped down and dropped to the lawn below.
He was now inside the Summerville estate. Looking through screening trees, he could see the house. Most of it was dark, but here and there a window glowed with light.
He stopped suddenly as his sensitive ears heard footsteps. A man, burly as the two servants inside, moved across the lawn. His silhouette showed against a downstairs window for an instant. He carried a heavy knobbed stick in his right hand and, on a leather leash, a big police dog strained.
The Agent heard the animal’s low growl. It swerved, pulling the man directly toward the spot where “X” stood. The man stopped, unsnapped the dog’s leash and spoke gutturally.
“Go get ’im, boy!”
The next second “X” sensed rather than saw the dog bounding forward. “X” drew his strange gas gun from an inner pocket. There wasn’t time now with the man urging him on, to try his usual trick with animals.
He crouched, so as to see the dog’s silhouette also against the illumination of the window. Then, at the last minute, “X” fired his gun full into the animal’s snarling mouth and leaped aside.
With a barely audible growl the big animal continued straight forward but his legs grew weaker and weaker, he stumbled, flopped to the grass and lay still; out peacefully for the next half hour.
The man was obviously puzzled. He stood listening, head cocked on one side, unable to see “X” among the shadows.
“X” STOLE forward, making a sudden, silent rush out of the darkness. The scream of fright that rose to the watchman’s lips was silenced by another charge of gas. Almost instantly, he, too, staggered and toppled.
The Agent’s face was grim. He hadn’t injured either man or dog; but he didn’t intend to be balked in his plan to see Summerville. If Summerville were connected with the DOACs, “X” wanted to know it.
He replaced his gas gun, took a ring of delicate skeleton keys from his pocket and continued on toward the house. Two windows interested him at once. Old-fashioned blinds had been drawn across them. Through the shutters faint light was streaming.