The man’s putty-gray face was twisted with the indescribable agony that had been his while molten lead had cooked him into eternity — lead that now hung from his mouth in a grotesque, beardlike mass.
The Agent was shaken, beside himself with anger. He tossed his head violently to clear away the stunning effect of this latest DOAC atrocity. Chatfield had been a brave man, and a loyal, intelligent assistant.
Quickly “X” brought himself under control. Chatfield, whatever he had been, was beyond human help now. And there were others, living persons, who were desperately in need of help.
“X” galvanized himself into action. He must do what he could to prevent this ghastly thing from being repeated. Tracks swerved to the north from the spot where Chatfield’s body lay. Presently they cut westward, leading to the road.
Crouching low, the Agent moved swiftly, flashlight in hand, eyes burningly bright. Any sort of clue might help — a thread, a cigarette butt, a match used and carelessly thrown down. He prayed silently for something, anything, that would lead him to the head of that killer-clan of fiends whose methods were crushing justice and mercy from the earth.
Then he found a clue — a clue that shocked him with its hideous implication. His tongue felt dry in his mouth. His temples throbbed with the dull monotonous beat of triphammers as he stood looking at the clue he had uncovered.
That clue was a modish little powder compact lying by the side of the road. It was plated with silver and encrusted with imitation garnets, one of which was missing.
Betty Dale’s compact! There was no mistaking it. The last time he’d seen Betty, he’d noticed that one of the garnets had been lost from it.
For a moment the Agent felt as though his nerves were trying to burrow through his flesh like greedy maggots. Sweat oozed from his pores; his stomach felt empty, collapsed. For, soldered to Betty Dale’s little vanity case was an ugly chunk of lead — symbol of DOAC vengeance.
Chapter XII
FOR a while that globule of lead held his eyes with hypnotic fascination. His brain swarmed with conjectures. Was this a sinister warning, or had Betty’s red mouth been defiled by that gleaming, molten destruction?
His eyes sultry, stormy, “X” crossed the river to the penitentiary then — returning as Galaway, the emissary of the governor. He wanted to see Warden Johnson and Carney. Arriving in the warden’s office, he found the warden plainly agitated.
“Tough prisoners! Jail breaks!” the warden said. “I can handle them, Galaway. I’m trained to that sort of work. I know when to be hard and when to ease up on a fellow. I’ve put down some tough riots, and I’ve helped a lot of poor devils who came in here, helped ’em to go straight afterwards. But the DOACs have put the skids under all my confidence. I’ve got State troopers on duty, and a double detail of guards. Even with them I don’t feel easy. It looks to me like the DOACs haven’t finished with this place yet.”
“What are the developments?” asked the Agent tensely.
“Two things,” said the warden. “One you probably know. The sheriff across the river phoned a while ago to tell me Mike Carney’s girl, Greta St. Clair, had been grabbed, kidnaped. Then a few minutes back another phone call came. It was anonymous. We get plenty of them. But I can tell a fool and a crank as soon as he starts talking. The party who phoned this message wasn’t either one — and he wasn’t just satisfying a personal grudge. He meant business — big business.
“It was Carney he was calling — not me. He threatened that this girl of Carney’s will be killed unless Mike tells where his fortune is laid away. And suppose Carney won’t unbutton his lip? Suppose they not only kill the girl, but strike at this place again? It’s going to make it tough for me.”
“X” gnawed at his lip and mulled over the ugly prospects.
“Let me talk to Carney,” he said at last.
Warden Johnson nodded. He appeared relieved, glad to let some one else shoulder part of the worry. He took the Agent to the racketeer’s cell, a cell that was apart from the regular blocks, in a section where the moneyed class of fortune’s fools were located.
Michael Carney was pacing the floor, sleek face pale with strain. His protruding, frog eyes had the hard, brittle look of glass. His lips were stained with the nicotine of many cigarettes. Michael Carney, without Tommy guns and a pack of slinking, drug-soaked rats, didn’t seem to be the master of the situation.
Introduced as a representative of the governor, Agent “X” got an effusive greeting from the former czar of the beer traffic. Carney gripped the Agent’s iron-muscled hand with simulated warmth.
“Help me, guy,” he pleaded. “They got Greta — Miss St. Clair! They’ve threatened to do just what I figured they might. I’m the real target but it’s Greta who’s in the spot. They’re going to — to bump her — if I don’t come across!”
“Why not help her yourself then, Carney?” the Agent said quietly.
Carney ran a quick hand across his face.
“Geez, I want to, Mr. Galaway! I’ve denied right along that I had any dough laid away. Any guy in my place would have. But it was a lie. I’ve got the dough all right. And I’ll give it — every penny — to protect Greta. I’ve played a hard game, Galaway. I’m a hard guy, I guess. But it’d kill me if anything happened to Greta. Giving up my dough means nothing now — if she’s brought back O.K. Broadcast that, Galaway; spread it all over the headlines in all the newspapers!
“You can do it. You’ve got pull. But tell ’em this. Tell ’em I ain’t going to be double-crossed. I know the rackets. A lot of mugs who never heard of me or my gal will try to chisel in. They’re the ones I don’t aim to hand any cash to. Before I spill the works, I’ve got to know that the guys I’m dealing with are on the up-and-up — the same guys that snatched the girl. Get me?”
Agent “X” nodded. He saw in Carney’s distressed state a reflection of his own agitation over Betty Dale. He, too, would gladly give a fortune if he could be sure of getting her back. The DOACs had struck body blows at both Carney and himself. He gave the ex-gangster what assurances he could.
THE next morning Agent “X” was back in his office in the city. He had spent a sleepless night, a night of futile, feverish activity, following clues that led nowhere, investigating a dozen different leads that all ended in cul-de-sacs. With Betty missing, with no definite leads to follow, he stayed in his office, waiting, hoping, listening for the ring of his telephone and for the report of some one of his many operatives which might throw some light on the affair.
He bought early editions of the papers, shuffled through them feverishly. Then he gave an abrupt start and bent forward. Here was something of deeper significance than any mere clue. Here was a direct message from the criminals themselves.
It was in the personal column of the paper, written again in Playfair cipher. Those groups of letters, couched in the cipher that the slain Gordon Ridley had first used, seemed to mock him. The message was longer than any of the others.
“Secret Agent ‘X,’ it said. “We who hold your blonde friend demand an interview with you. At three-thirty this afternoon you are to stand on the fourth square in the king row, walking in the northern entrance on the western side of the Capitol’s rotunda, Washington, D.C. There a man will ask you the time of day. You will answer ‘thirty minutes short of four o’clock.’ He will set his gold, hunting-case watch. You are to follow where he leads.”
The Agent’s eyes burned brightly. Hope sprang into his heart. The DOACs had Betty. But learning that Betty was still alive pulled him out of the abyss of despondency into which he had sunk. Action lay ahead. Action was what he craved. The DOAC order was incisive, brooking no haggling or counter threats.