Somewhere in the study quick breathing sounded. The Agent moved quietly to the spot where the light switch was located. He pressed the button, flooding the room with illumination.
Summerville was standing near his desk, his face ashen. He stared at the Agent and spoke slowly.
“He didn’t kill you then! I’m glad. I didn’t want a murder in this house.”
The relief in the man’s tone was unmistakable. Agent “X’s” eyes were bleak as he stared at Summerville.
“You aided him to escape, didn’t you?”
“You mean I saved your life.” There was a sneer on Summerville’s lips.
As the two men faced each other, quick footsteps came along the hall outside. The door opened and a girl entered the room. She was followed by the two strong-arm servants who now stared at the Agent in open-mouthed amazement. The girl spoke hoarsely.
“What’s going on here, father? Who is this man?”
“X’s” eyes traveled over the girl. She was tall, raw-boned, and bore a striking resemblance to Summerville. Unbeautiful, but intellectual, she had weak gray eyes that peered at the Agent near-sightedly.
“Nothing has happened, Bertha. Run along and don’t bother us.”
“But I heard a shot — and— Where’s Doctor Lorenzo? I called him. He’s not in his room.”
“He got excited and left,”
“It was he who fired that shot then. I knew it!”
The girl’s words came in a gasp. She clenched her hands, standing tensely, staring first at Agent “X,” then at her father. Summerville made an impatient gesture at her and the two servants.
“Go away. I want to talk to this man alone.”
THE servants, their faces heavy with scowls, shot hostile glances in the direction of “X.”
“Get out, I say!” roared Summerville again, and in a moment the two servants, shrugging, turned on their heels and left. But the girl came closer, a stubborn look on her face.
“Where’s the doctor gone?” she demanded. “Why did he shoot? You must answer me. I have a right to know.”
Her homely face was screwed into a frown of anxiety. Agent “X,” shrewd judge of human nature, saw that this raw-boned girl had a more than casual interest in the bearded Di Lauro.
“I can’t answer your question, Bertha,” said Summerville harshly. “Leave it alone now. Mind your business and go back to your room. Everything will turn out all right if you don’t meddle.”
With a venomous glance at Agent “X” she left. Immediately her father fixed the Agent with a hard stare.
“You see the trouble you’ve caused in coming here,” he said gratingly.
“You’ve got to expect a little excitement of this sort,” said the Agent dryly, “if you insist on harboring ex-convicts, Summerville.”
“By God, sir — what are you driving at now?”
Fear had leaped into Summerville’s eyes.
“Perhaps you don’t know who your guest really is, Summerville. His right name is Leon Di Lauro. He was recently paroled from the state penitentiary. Suppose you tell me why he is staying at your house?”
The look of fear on Summerville’s face increased; but he maintained stubborn silence. The Agent continued.
“What if I let the police know you’ve been harboring a man wanted by the parole board for failure to report? That wouldn’t do much to correct the bad reputation you’ve been building up for yourself lately.”
Summerville appeared suddenly to reach a decision. He thrust his jaw out aggressively.
“Tell the police any damn story you want to,” he said. “I’ve one of my own. You broke into this house. A guest of mine, Doctor Lorenzo, fired at you in self-defense. I’ve never heard of this other man you mention. I don’t believe your story. The doctor is a friend of my daughter’s. She met him some weeks ago, found he was writing a book and suggested that he stay with us in order to have a quiet place to work. That’s all I know, and—”
He stopped speaking abruptly, for there came a sudden sound at the study door. It was thrust open violently and one of the servants stuck his head in. There was a strained look on his face. He spoke with harsh excitement.
“We just found Rheinhart and that dog of his knocked out cold, Mr. Summerville! They’re out on the lawn, and that guy there must have done it”
The eyes of both men focused on the Agent. Summerville swore, then stabbed a quivering finger at “X.”
“You’ve broken into my house!” he shouted. “You’ve knocked out my servant! You’ve tried to intimidate me! Now it’s my turn for a little action. Hold him, Garrick, while I telephone for the police.”
The big servant strode into the room, and, hard on his heels, was the other smaller servant who had helped to eject “X” when he visited by the front door.
Summerville made a grab for the phone as his men stepped forward to make a prisoner of “X.” The Agent’s hand moved like a streak.
He whipped the gas gun from his pocket, waved it menacingly at the two men, then backed toward the shuttered window. With one hand groping behind him, he quickly raised the sash.
HE found and opened the catches that held the old-fashioned blind. While Summerville stood helpless, hand poised over the telephone, afraid to move, Agent “X” stepped easily through the window and dropped to the dark lawn below.
He left the grounds of the Summerville estate, climbing dexterously over the spiked and wired iron fence. He kept to the shadowed streets till he sighted a cruising taxi which took him back to the center of town.
Here he plunged into a telephone booth and called his own city office. The voice of the young man stationed there answered him.
“No reports, sir, in the past two hours.”
Agent “X” frowned and looked at his watch. The hands showed nine o’clock.
“You mean to say Chatfield didn’t call at seven?”
“No, sir. He did not.”
The Agent hung up, a furrow between his brows. Chatfield was the operative stationed by “X” outside Greta St. Clair’s establishment.
“X” put in a direct call to Greta St. Clair’s house, prepared to question her in the pose of “Claude Erskine.” But the voice of the telephone operator sounded in his ears.
“Sorry, sir, the number you called does not answer. It is temporarily out of order.”
“Out of order?”
“That’s right, sir.”
Agent “X” dropped the receiver back on the hook, left the booth in three quick strides. He took several deep breaths. His eyes were bright. He looked up Costigan, gave the man instructions to continue his shadowing of Summerville, then went to the municipal flying field. Fifteen minutes later he was winging through the night again in his hurtling, rocketing ship, the Blue Comet.
He did not swerve from a straight line till he picked up the blue and silver streak of the river that flowed by the state prison’s fortresslike front. He followed it, sweeping lower as he made out the glaring beams of the searchlights that burned on the prison walls, turned on since the raid. He crossed the river and side-slipped into a small field beside a highway. Greta St. Clair’s house was a half-mile down the road.
AGENT “X” strode quickly through the darkness. A grim sense of foreboding filled him. A sense that Chatfield’s silence, his failure to report, indicated another act of terrorism on the part of the DOACs.
He crossed fields and woods making a short cut, till the high wall of Greta St. Clair’s estate rose before him. Then he paused, holding his breath.