And as suddenly, her eyes grew moist. She gripped his sleeve impulsively. “You mustn’t do it. You can’t get Kyle out of there. Not even Burks could do it. It’s suicide!”
She stopped, and bowed her head. For she saw the adamant granite-like look that had come into his face. She had seen it before. Nothing she could say would swerve him from his purpose. He had dedicated his life to this work, and he risked it so often that she had even ceased getting those all-over cold feelings when she learned of his hairbreadth escapes from destruction.
Her head still bowed, she said in a low, choked voice, “I’m sorry. Don’t pay any attention to me. You will, of course, do what you think is right. And I shall help you to the best of my ability.”
His face softened — this strange face of Mr. James L. Black—
“Good, Betty!” he said. “Now, tell me what you’ve found out.”
She proceeded to relate in detail all the steps the police had taken to ensure that Kyle could not be rescued.
“It just can’t be done,” she finished. “They’d blast you into eternity before you even got to the top of the basement stairs. And if you did succeed, by some miracle, in reaching the main floor, there are guards all around the corridors, and machine guns and motorcycles outside. You can’t try gas, either, because they’ve foreseen that. The commissioner has ordered the men equipped with gas masks.”
“Is Commissioner Foster there?” he asked her.
“No. He’s at home. He’s given Inspector Burks full charge, but he phones every half hour or so to see that everything’s all right.”
“Were you able to discover whether Kyle talked?”
“He didn’t tell them a thing. Inspector Burks, Lieutenant Fitzimmons, and Mr. Peters from the district attorney’s office have just stopped questioning him. Kyle only kept repeating that he would be out of there in twenty-four hours.”
“Perhaps he will be out sooner,” Secret Agent “X” said softly. “And now, were you able to get that other thing I phoned you about?”
“Sam Slawson’s fingerprints? No. There’s something peculiar about that. You know Jack Price, the fingerprint man over there, lets me ramble in the fingerprint room. I went through the cards, and Slawson’s fingerprints are missing! They must have been stolen from the file! I couldn’t ask Jack about them, because that would have given it away. But I’m sure some one’s stolen them.”
Secret Agent “X” nodded thoughtfully. “I thought you would have something like that to report. It indicates that there is some one high in the government behind all this.”
“Why,” she asked, “are you so interested in this Sam Slawson? Is it just because he escaped from the same prison as Kyle?”
“It’s something much deeper than that, Betty. There is a hand of horror reaching out to crush the state in a terrible grip of murder and torture. Kyle is a tool. Slawson must be a tool, too. But Slawson is far more dangerous — because he is intelligent. We must find him — somehow!”
“Is there anything else that you want me to do? Can I help you — since you insist in going ahead with this impossible plan?”
“No. You will now go back to your regular work. Forget about this whole thing. From now on, anyone who appears to be remotely connected with this thing will be in danger of meeting the same fate that Crome met.”
She shuddered. “What about you?”
He smiled, “You ought to know, by this time, that I can take care of myself.” He got out of the car, came around to her side, and helped her out.
She said, “The police cordon starts at the next block. I don’t know what your plan is, but—” she whispered it, for her throat was choked—“good luck!”
She watched him walk down Cherry Street through the darkness, in the direction of headquarters — watched him until his figure blended with the night, and until she could no longer see because of the film of moisture that welled in her eyes.
Then she turned and walked in the opposite direction.
Chapter VI
JAMES L. BLACK — Secret Agent “X”—went down Cherry Street, whistling a tune from “Pinafore.” He appeared to be a man without a care in the world; a big man, heavily built, with a hooked nose and a shock of black hair over which a worn felt hat was pushed back from a high forehead. Only the piercing eyes, darting everywhere, would have revealed that his mind was working at lightning speed, storing away every detail of the situation.
At the outer line of police guards he was stopped by a scowling plain-clothes man who stepped out of a doorway, holding a riot gun in the crook of his elbow.
“Hey!” the detective demanded. “Where do you think you’re going?”
As if by magic there materialized from the shadows several other plain-clothes men, who surrounded the stranger.
Mr. James L. Black stopped, seemed to be surprised, then grinned. “Looks like you fellows mean business. I wish you’d turn that gun away from my stomach. I’d hate to have it go off by accident.”
“Never mind that,” the detective barked. “Who are you, and where are you going?”
“Why,” in a slow, drawling voice, “as to that, my name is James L. Black; and I’m going in to get Killer Kyle out of the clutches of the police.”
The detective grinned crookedly. “You got a funny sense of humor, buddy. This is no time for jokes. You better talk fast, or you’ll find yourself in a nice cell where you can spend the night cracking jokes to yourself!”
That seemed to sober Mr. James L. Black. He said, “All right, if that’s the way you feel about it. I want to see Inspector Burks. I’ve got some private business with him.”
The detective said, “You’ll see Inspector Burks, all right. But you’ll wish you hadn’t.” He turned to one of the men behind him. “Look, Cleary. Take this fellow down to the next block and turn him over to Lieutenant Fitzimmons. He’s acting too damn funny.”
Cleary, a chunky, powerful man, put a hand on the service revolver bolstered at his hip, and said, “Come on, feller. And don’t make any funny moves. Orders tonight are to shoot first and investigate afterwards.” He took the arm of Mr. James L. Black and piloted him down the street to the next corner.
Lieutenant Fitzimmons got out of the patrol car where he had been sitting. He was in charge of the outside arrangements, which he directed from the car. Cleary saluted, said, “Here’s a fellow that’s making wisecracks, sir. Says he wants to see Inspector Burks.”
Fitzimmons frowned. The genial Mr. James L. Black hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his vest, and surveyed the street, with the watching shadows in doorways, prowling cars from which protruded the black muzzles of riot guns, and the men stationed along the curb in groups of two and three.
The casual, almost joshing air seemed to slip from Mr. Black, and he became crisp, businesslike.
He produced a card from his wallet, which he handed to the police lieutenant. “It is important,” he said, “that I see Inspector Burks at once.”
FITZIMMONS glanced at him suspiciously, then at the card. At once, his manner changed. He looked up, smiled coldly. “I see. You fellows are always right on the job.” He returned the card. “I’ll have you taken to the inspector.” He ordered Cleary, “Show this gentleman to the Chief Inspector’s office — and stay with him till you get the boss’s okay.” He added apologetically to Mr. Black. “We have to take that precaution. Not that I think you’re phony, or anything, but those are orders — nobody goes into headquarters tonight, or comes out, without an escort.”