“No, you weren’t, Kyle. You killed Crome. You got him out to that lonely beach on Staten Island. You tried to get him to tell you some secret by torturing him: you stuck a corkscrew into his body at spots where the tendons were located, and you twisted the tendons around till they snapped. But he didn’t talk — or else he lost consciousness before he could talk, because I don’t think any man could withstand that torture. So then you injected some poison into him that made him swell up and die. You did — you know you did!”
Kyle had grown pale during the recital. Even his brutal hulk had imagination enough to realize the fiendishness of the torture that had been inflicted on Crome. “God, no!” he exclaimed. “I wouldn’t do that to a guy. I’d shoot him, yes — a slug in the belly is bad enough. But that — not me!”
Burks bent close to him again. “All right, Kyle. Suppose you didn’t do it. I bet the man that hired you to attack the governor-elect is the same one that killed Crome. He wanted something that Crome or Mr. Farrell had or could tell him.”
Kyle let his eyes flicker, half closed them.
Burks saw that he had scored. He drove home his point. “All right. Suppose he does succeed in getting you out of here. It’s impossible. But suppose he does — what do you think’ll happen? You’ll get the same dose that Crome got! Do you think the man who hired you is going to leave you alive to maybe blackmail him for the rest of his life? Nix! You’ll get it in the neck. That’s where Crome got the injection of that devilish stuff that swelled him up.”
Burks stopped. He was breathless, sweating. “What do you say, Kyle? Do you talk? I’ll see that you get a break if you do. If you don’t, you lose anyway you look at it.”
Kyle appeared to waver. Apparently Burks had hit on the right note in stressing the ruthlessness of Kyle’s “boss.” But Kyle shook his head suddenly, growled, “Nix! You go to hell!” Then he started to laugh loudly, wildly. “You almost got me, that time, Burks. You’re foxy!”
The inspector was an old hand at this work. He glanced around at the others, winked at the D.A.’s man, and returned to the attack. “Wear ’em down,” was his motto.
He leveled a finger at Kyle, said, “Where’s this Sam Slawson that escaped from Riker a week before you did? Maybe he’s the one who killed Crome. Tell us where to find him.”
The prisoner leaned back in the chair, and showed his stained teeth in a grin. “I don’t know no Sam Slawson, inspector. And anyway, even if I did, you could still go to hell!”
Burks turned away, his face apoplectic.
Peters, the investigator from the district attorney’s office, a thin, precise little man, with a dapper mustache and a fishy eye, said, “Let me talk to him, inspector. I may have a new angle.”
He came and stood before the prisoner. “Look here, Kyle,” he said in his coldly incisive voice. “Let me analyze this for you. You are undoubtedly the tool of some political faction. We all know that there has been a bitter political fight. We here,” he looked around the room, “are all regular Conservative Party men, so I can speak plainly. We might as well admit that we would have lost the election and got thrown out of power in the state, if Boss Hanscom hadn’t had the inspiration to run Judge Farrell for governor. All right, Farrell runs and makes it in a landslide.
“But what happened? Lieutenant Governor Alvin Rice, who has been lieutenant governor for two terms, has been hoping like hell that he’d get the nomination. But he had to be sidetracked for a more popular man, and Hanscom ran him again in second place on the ticket. Now—” he spoke slowly, distinctly, directly at Kyle—“maybe it was some one who stood to gain by Farrell’s death that hired you. Am I right?”
Kyle wet his lips, stared back at Peters, and said, “You can go to hell, too, mister.”
Burks took Peters’ arm. “We’re wasting our time now,” he told the assistant district attorney. “We’ll leave him down here for a while, and when Commissioner Foster gets here maybe I can get permission to use more drastic methods on him. Let’s go now.” He said to Sergeant Nevins, “You, Nevins, detail two men to remain on guard here. You stay, too. I’ll hold you personally responsible for the prisoner.”
The officials filed out; Peters looked glum. “I’d like to get this all lined up so I can present it to the Grand Jury in the morning,” he said as they went out.
Burks clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Peters. We’ll have Kyle talking plenty before the morning.”
Kyle’s taunting laugh followed them out into the corridor. He called after them, “I’ll be out of here by tomorrow morning, Burks. I’ll lay you odds on it!”
Chapter V
SHORTLY after Kyle’s last defiance of Inspector Burks, Betty Dale walked down the steps of headquarters with the air of a conspiratress. She started guiltily when Lieutenant Fitzimmons greeted her genially.
“How’s the colleen today?” he inquired. “Sure the department lost a swell little mascot when you took to reportin’!”
She forced a smile, said, “Hello, Dan. How’s the missus, and the little Fitz’s?”
The burly, red-faced lieutenant needed little more than that encouragement. He got into a lengthy story of the latest scrape that Dan, Junior had got into. It was with difficulty that Betty finally broke away from him, and hurried down the three blocks toward Cherry and Grove.
While at headquarters she had received a phone call from the man she was going to meet, instructing her to try to get certain other information in addition to that he had requested before. She had only been partially successful.
But the thing that weighed on her most heavily was the seeming rashness, the danger of this plan Agent “X” had conceived. She found it difficult to understand his purpose in wishing to rescue Kyle. Yet she was sure of one thing — whatever that purpose was, there was nothing dishonorable about it. Fantastic, mysterious as it seemed, there must be some logical motive behind it.
She trusted, admired Agent “X” so much that her faith in him held no restrictions. She knew with appalling certainty, that she would do whatever he asked — no matter what. She loved him.
She walked more slowly now, tingling to the sweetness of the conscious realization that had come to her.
She passed the outer police lines, and approached the corner of Cherry and Grove. As she had expected, the coupé was there. The door opened, as she came up to it, and she entered.
She did not recognize the man who sat at the wheel, and looked at him with a momentary sense of bewilderment, until he spoke in the voice that he used for her alone — she had grown to recognize the peculiar inflections. Sometimes it was that voice only which reassured her that the man she was talking to was really Secret Agent “X.” Now he traced the sign of the “X” on the windshield with his finger, and she smiled.
“How do you do, Mr. — er — Anderson? You don’t look like yourself anymore.”
He smiled in response, and shook his head. “Anderson is gone — for good. Permit me to introduce myself. I am James L. Black.”
“That’s as good a name as any,” she said with a levity she was far from feeling. There was with her constantly the thought of the mad thing he was about to attempt. She put up a hand and touched his shoulder. “What broad shoulders you have, Mr. Black! And what a funny hooked nose. At a distance I would almost take you for Killer Kyle!”
HE nodded in satisfaction. “That was my intention. The nose, of course, is a work of art. The shoulders are mechanical. I have thin concave plates strapped under my shirt. They give the effect of broad shoulders.” He suddenly grew serious. “But never mind that. Let’s get down to business. What have you found out for me?”