Her eyes held a provocative challenge as she replied, smiling faintly, “I will forgive you fully, Mr. Anderson—if we meet again.”
Her eyes were enigmatic as she watched him enter the elevator behind the others, watched the cage descend.
And in the inner room, Governor-elect Farrell was staring with dilated eyes at the card that had just been handed to him. For the printed name of Mr. Anderson was disappearing; the surface of the card turned black under his gaze, and upon it appeared a gleaming white “X.”
The detective on duty outside came in with the princess, and saw the look on the governor-elect’s face. He exclaimed, “What’s the trouble, judge?”
Farrell shouted, “Call the commissioner. Have extra men assigned here! That editor — was Secret Agent ‘X’!”
MEANWHILE, the elevator had reached the lobby, and the reporters hastened to telephones to flash their stories to waiting city rooms. Betty Dale felt her arm taken in a strong grip. Mr. Anderson said, “Will you come outside with me? I want to talk to you — about some one you know well.”
The voice was so strong, imperious, that Betty felt herself impelled to go out in the street with him. He led her around the corner, to a parked coupé. “Get in,” he said.
She drew back. “Why—”
His laugh held a hint of faint triumph. With the index finger of his right hand he described the letter “X” in the air.
Her face lighted. “You!” she exclaimed. “And I was promising myself I’d surely penetrate your next disguise!” She felt a surge of emotion that always came when she found herself in the presence of this man whose true face she had never seen, yet whom, she felt, she knew better than did anyone else in the world.
He smiled. “The day that you do penetrate my disguise,” he said, “I’ll know that I’m slipping. Then it will be time for me to give up all this, and think of — other things.”
She put an impulsive hand on his sleeve. “I hope,” she breathed, “that that day will come soon.”
A newsboy passed at that moment, calling an extra, and the momentary look of relaxation passed from the face of “Mr. Anderson.” Again there came into it that grim firmness, that purposefulness, that sometimes frightened Betty Dale. He bought a paper, helped her into the car, and spread the paper open. The headline was about Killer Kyle.
Betty read it over his shoulder. “Killer Kyle silent!” it said. “Refuses to reveal name of person who hired him to attack Governor-elect Farrell. Claims he has no personal grudge against governor-elect. Boasts that he will be free within twenty-four hours!”
Betty shuddered. “He must have powerful connections to feel so certain that he will escape.”
The Secret Agent nodded. “I am afraid there will be more killings in the next twenty-four hours.”
He scanned the rest of the story with somber eyes. It went on to say that extraordinary precautions had been taken to prevent Kyle’s escape. Members of the bomb squad, and the riot squad, had been drafted for duty. Machine guns were placed at strategic points around headquarters. The Secret Agent put down the paper, and looked at Betty in a queer way.
She suddenly thrilled under his eye. She knew that look. “You — you want me to do something for you?”
He nodded. “I want you to go down to headquarters, and look it over carefully. Make note of all the points at which the machine guns are placed. Note how the guards are distributed inside the building, and also get all the information you can about the precautions that are being taken. In addition, I would like to know in what part of the building Kyle is being held. Meet me with the information, in one hour, at the corner of Cherry and Grove — three blocks from headquarters.”
Betty said, “Why — why do you want all this?”
“Because,” Secret Agent “X” said coolly, “I am going to rescue Killer Kyle.”
Chapter IV
DOWNTOWN that evening, headquarters bore the appearance of an armed camp. The police had drawn a living cordon of uniformed men around the area for two blocks in every direction.
The big building occupied a square block, and each of the four streets surrounding it was patrolled by radio cars and motorcycles with armored side-cars. The men in these cars were provided with riot guns. Posted in convenient windows in the houses opposite, were men from the bomb squad, the riot squad, the safe and loft squad, and from other departments. They were drafted for the emergency, and armed with sub-machine guns that could rake the streets at a moment’s notice.
These were no idle precautions. It was within the bounds of possibility that Killer Kyle’s old gang would try to effect a rescue by storming headquarters. He had once done the same for them when they were confined in the death house of a Middle West jail. The result had been a half dozen prison guards shot down and killed, and the escape of Kyle’s gang. If he had done it for them, it was natural to suppose that they would try the same means to free him.
Inside the headquarters building, plain-clothes men patrolled the corridors with guns openly hanging from holsters. No one was admitted without a pass from the highest authority. There was an air about all these men, of electric expectancy — an attitude of tense suspicion.
Two men with a sub-machine gun were placed in the rear of the ground floor corridor, commanding the staircase that led down to the basement. For it was down there that Killer Kyle was being held. He sat there, in a small room. There were a dozen officials present, but he was the only one seated. His wrists were handcuffed to the arms of the chair.
He was a big brute of a man, with wide shoulders and a deep chest. His muscles bulged under the wrinkled gray suit that he wore. He had a huge shock of black hair, a hooked nose, and close-set, beady, deadly eyes. His lips were thick, red, and they curled away now from stained teeth in a snarl of defiance.
There were present in the room, a representative from the district attorney’s office, several men from the homicide squad, including Lieutenant Fitzimmons. There were also present Sergeant Nevins of the headquarters detail, a warrant officer, and in charge of all, the lean, hard-faced Inspector John Burks.
Burks towered over Killer Kyle, feet spread wide, brow dewed with sweat, jaw jutting; a picture of bulldog tenacity. He shook a finger under Kyle’s nose, barked, “You better talk now, Kyle! It’ll be easier for you in the long run.” He bent low, his face close to the prisoner’s. “Give us the name of the man who hired you to attack the governor-elect, and maybe we can make it easier for you. If you don’t, you’ll have a hard road ahead of you.”
Kyle glared up at him, fairly spat, “You go to hell!”
Burks whirled away with an expression of disgust. He said to Lieutenant Fitzimmons, “I’d like to have him alone for a while. Too bad the commissioner’s so set against—”
Kyle broke into a taunting laugh. “I ain’t afraid o’ you, Burks. I can take it. Try it an’ see if I talk. An’ after I get out o’ here I’ll come back an’ even it up!”
BURKS swung back to him. “You crazy fool! The man who hired you is going to let you burn! Do you think he or anybody else could get you out of here? We’ll have a regiment around you, if necessary, till the day you burn. Your only chance is to talk — fast.”
Kyle grinned nastily. “A fat lot you know about it. I’ll be out of here in twenty-four hours!”
Burks suddenly rapped at him, “You’re the one that killed Michael Crome, too!”
Kyle said, “Nuts! I was in jail when he got bumped.”