“X” nodded to himself, and decided to try the experiment. He picked up the commissioner’s gun, and locked it in the secretary.
Kyle was starting to open his eyes when “X” crossed the room and went out into the corridor, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter X
INSTEAD of going away, however, he quickly made his way around a bend in the corridor, and let himself back in to the apartment through the service door. He went through the kitchen, making no sound, into a bedroom. There was an extension phone here. He picked it up slowly and gently, so that if Kyle were already talking on it he would not hear the click.
Just as he had expected, Kyle was already at the phone. He must have come to at once, and pounced on the instrument, for “X” heard him giving the number, but was able to catch only the last three words: “Four-two-three.”
What had the number been? He waited tensely, his hand over the mouthpiece. Soon a voice said faintly: “Yes?”
Kyle spoke eagerly. “Boss! This is you-know-who! I got away!”
The voice at the other end exclaimed, “Yes, yes! I just heard about it. You shouldn’t have called.”
Kyle said, “Shouldn’t have called! I ain’t outta the bag yet. You gotta help me. I’m right in the city, an’ there’s a dragnet around the town by this time.”
The other’s voice bore a trace of culture, education. It was not the voice of a lowly plotter, but of some one who must wield power, have influence. “I don’t see how I can help you, right now. Why don’t you lay low till the search quiets down—”
Kyle’s coarse laugh interrupted.
“Lay low! I’m in a spot right now. The guy that saved me—”
“Yes — I meant to ask you that. Who was it? Why did he do it?”
“I don’t know, boss. But I got a hunch. Whoever he is, he wanted to know a hell of a lot about you.”
“Did you — tell him anything?” This anxiously.
“Not yet. I’m in his place now. He thinks I’m knocked out. I guess he’ll be back. You better get me out of here, or I’ll spill everything to him. An’ make it snappy, too.”
There was a short silence. Then, “All right, I’ll take care of getting you out of there. What’s the address?”
“Seventeen Green Street, apartment eight-o-six. How you gonna work it, boss?”
“I’m too far away to get there myself, but I’ll phone a couple of the boys in the city, and tell them to get to work at once. I’ll have them there in fifteen minutes.”
“Okay. An’ listen, boss, they better be here. What I mean, otherwise I open up to this guy — an’ he’s plenty anxious to get the dope on a couple of things — including Crome’s—”
The voice at the other end rapped fiercely, “Shut up, you fool, keep mum. The boys will be there.”
“That’s jake with me, boss. Tell ’em to knock on the door — three times fast and twice slow — so I’ll know it’s them.”
There were two faint clicks, and the conversation ceased.
“X” tingled with the awareness that he was close now to the solution of the murder of Crome. The man at the other end was the answer. He had to trace that call, find out who it was.
But first he had to attend to Kyle.
HE stepped out of the bedroom, walked through a short hall, and entered the living room. Kyle was at the secretary, trying to pry it open. At the sound of “X’s” step, he whirled. For a moment his face bore a look of astonishment, then he snarled, “You tricked me! You were listening in!”
“X” crossed the room with the lithe stride of a panther. “Yes,” he said softly. “The last time I put you to sleep for a short time. You got over it quickly. Now my friend, it is going to be for a little longer.”
Kyle was like a cornered animal. He had acquired a healthy respect for the Secret Agent during the last hour, but he had his back to the wall now. The steady purpose that he saw in “X’s” eyes lent him the courage of desperation.
With a low, animal-like growl, he launched himself at the Secret Agent. He was some thirty pounds heavier, as was evidenced by the fact that “X” had found it necessary to use the metal plates to pad his shoulders and chest. If his body had struck “X” as intended, the fight would have been over, for the wind would have undoubtedly been knocked out of the lighter man. But “X” sidestepped gracefully. He was no amateur at these tactics himself.
Kyle, however, was an old-timer at the rough-and-tumble game. The sobriquet of “Killer” had been earned by him, not as was popularly supposed, through his criminal activities, but had been bestowed years earlier, when he had been a barnstorming wrestler. His career as a wrestler was marked by the death of two opponents in a year, and he had earned the moniker that stuck to him through the following years.
Kyle’s rush ended just as “X” sidestepped. Kyle sprang upward, jolted “X’s” midriff with his elbow, and at the same time stuck a foot out behind him. “X” tripped backward. The back of his head struck the wall jarringly. In another moment Kyle had him in a deadly headlock.
The sweat stood out on the foreheads of both men. The agony of that grip was almost unbearable. Kyle knew it, and grinned wickedly through the sweat. “X” knew its deadliness, and did the only thing that would save him. It was a trick he had learned years ago in Yokohama.
He pressed his thumb into a spot in Kyle’s body just below the left armpit. Steadily he increased the pressure, until Kyle had to release the hold or suffer excruciating pain. Kyle gasped and loosened his grip involuntarily. Immediately, the Secret Agent broke the hold, and rolled away. Before Kyle could attack again, the Agent was on his feet. He stepped in, exhibiting superb footwork, feinted once; then his right fist flashed in too fast for the eyes to follow, there was the crack of bone on bone, and Kyle went jolting backward till he hit the wall, where he sank down. He was unconscious before he struck the floor.
“X” lost no time now, though his breath was coming short and fast. He had heard Kyle’s boss say that some one would be there in fifteen minutes.
He got to the phone, jiggled the hook till the operator answered. “What number,” he demanded, “was just called from this phone?”
The operator said, “Just a minute, sir.” It was two minutes before she came on again. “That was a long distance number, sir. It was Catskill 423.”
“X” said, “Thanks,” and asked the operator to give him information. To the information operator he said, “Kindly give me the name and address of the subscriber at Catskill 423.”
He waited impatiently. In another moment he would have the name of the man who had paid Kyle to attempt the life of Governor-elect Farrell, of the man who had tortured and killed Michael Crome in that hideous manner. And then information came back on the line to say, “I’m sorry, sir, but Catskill 423 is an unpublished number, and we are not permitted to divulge the name of the subscriber.”
“X” HUNG up in deep disappointment. It was useless to pursue the inquiry further along those lines. There were ways of getting that name and address. But they would take more time than he could afford.
His eyes rested moodily on the form of Kyle who, though unconscious, was breathing stertorously. His mind was working out a dozen alternate plans. None of them would click. He glanced at his wristwatch. Nine minutes before Kyle’s friends were scheduled to arrive — if they were prompt. Time to call Betty Dale, anyway, see if there were any developments that had a bearing on the case.