He picked up the phone once more, asked for Betty’s number. In a moment her soft, troubled voice answered him.
His own voice changed as if by magic when he spoke to her, assuming the mysterious phrasing that he often used. He said, “The hawk seeks aid of the swan. Have you any news?”
She exclaimed, “I’m so glad you called. I just got in. I was covering the story of Kyle’s escape. I was so happy to learn that you were safe.” Her voice took on a note of gayety. “And it was funny, too. Wait till you see tomorrow’s papers. They’ll all have pictures of Inspector Burks running out of headquarters in his underwear!”
“X” smiled a little. “It is too bad the inspector was humiliated that way. He should not have run out, though. Have there been any further developments?”
Betty’s tone became very serious. “Yes! The news is terrible, you’ll never guess what it is!”
“Perhaps I can,” said the Secret Agent. “Has it anything to do with Governor-elect Farrell?”
“Yes, yes. How did you know? Mr. Farrell has disappeared from his suite at the Clayton. Nobody knows what became of him. He was last seen about twenty minutes after his interview with us. The Princess Ar-Lassi saw him last, going into the bedroom of his suite. He said he would lie down for a short rest. He hasn’t been seen since! The Princess says the assassins of Egypt have struck at him instead of her. She is prostrated.”
“X” pursed his lips. “I was afraid something like that was next on the list. What other theories are being advanced?”
BETTY said, “Well, at the paper we’re all pretty sure that it’s a kidnaping tied up in some way with the murder of Michael Crome. We’re expecting to have the governor-elect’s body turn up horribly tortured, just as Crome was.
“But the officials of the Conservative Party think differently — at least they say they do. Boss John Hanscom gave out a statement to the effect that he was sure Farrell had just sneaked away for a couple of days’ rest after his trying experience, and that we would hear from him shortly. He said he felt sure there was nothing to worry about. But he didn’t look so happy himself. State Senator Thane said practically the same thing. But here’s something funny. I called up Lieutenant Governor Rice, and he refused to make a statement. Imagine that — after wasting ninety cents on a call to the Catskills!”
“Catskills!” the Secret Agent cried explosively. “What was the number?”
“I don’t know,” Betty told him. “The operator at the Herald has it on file. It was she who called the lieutenant governor for me. I can get it if you want it.”
“Yes, yes. Get it. I’ll call you back in five minutes.” He consulted his watch once more. Six minutes left, before Kyle’s friends would come. A plan was forming in his mind. “But first,” he said to Betty, “what other information have you? Were you able to get the fingerprints of Sam Slawson?”
“No. Jack Price hasn’t been able to locate them yet, over at headquarters. He says it would have been easy for one of the plainclothes men to take them out.”
“All right, Betty. Get me the number of Lieutenant Governor Rice’s place in the Catskills. If it’s the number I think, there’ll be a scoop for you tonight.”
He hung up. While he had talked to Betty, a full-fledged plan had taken shape in his mind. The Agent quickly stepped over to Kyle’s body, stooped and examined it. Kyle had got a pretty bad knock on the head. He would be out for quite some time, but to make sure, “X” gave him an injection from the hypodermic syringe.
Then he got out his flat case and mirror, and set to work once more, as he had done with Burks. He first stripped from himself the wig and bushy eyebrows of the inspector. He still wore the metal plates that gave him the heavy build of Kyle, for they had served as well in his impersonation of Inspector Burks. He put on the wig he had used in the case of James L. Black. Then he stripped the make-up from the face of Kyle, and proceeded to make himself up as the killer.
He was going to take the only course that he felt would bring him in actual touch with Kyle’s boss, perhaps lead him to the missing Farrell. He was going to go with the men who were coming to take Kyle to the boss.
He glanced at his watch. One minute to go. There was still the nose to prepare, and two plates that would raise the cheek bones.
He worked feverishly, finished, and then hurried into the next room where he prepared some additional material that might be useful later if it should become necessary to drop the impersonation of Kyle.
He had just finished this, and was coming back to dispose of the body of Kyle before calling Betty Dale back, when there came a knock at the door — three short ones and two long ones. Kyle’s friends were here.
Chapter XI
“X” HAD not had an opportunity to practice Kyle’s voice tones. There was no time to practice now, however. He had to take the chance. Simulating the killer’s voice to the best of his ability, he called, “All right, boys. Wait a minute. I gotta lock the back door.”
He used the extra time to drag Kyle’s body down the short hall into the bedroom. As he came back he heard one of the men call through the door, “Snap it up, will you. This ain’t no tea party!”
“Jeez!” he said, the way he had heard Kyle talk. “Give us a chance, will you!”
He unlocked the front door, and admitted the two men who waited there. “X” recognized them, for his memory was photographic. They were two underworld killers — small fry compared to the notorious Killer Kyle — by the names of Jurgen and Fleer.
Jurgen was small, thin, giving the appearance of having been dried out in some super-heating process. His cheeks were sunken, his hair thin, and his eyes were pin points of depravity. He was a typical cokie.
Fleer was also short, but squat, with long, prehensile arms. He was chewing on an unlighted cigar, and his chin was wet with brown tobacco juice.
They were both dressed in black, with black derbies.
The thought occurred to the Secret Agent that if his life should ever depend on his impersonation of either of these men, it would be most unfortunate for himself — there was a difference of almost six inches between his height and theirs. Differences in height of more than an inch or two were one of the few obstacles he had found it impossible to overcome in his study of characterizations.
Fleer was the spokesman of the pair. He betrayed a certain respect which an ordinary practitioner in any field might be expected to show to a master in the same field. He said, “Say, Kyle, that was some stunt — walkin’ outta headquarters. You sure can break away from them!”
Jurgen prowled around the room, hands in pockets, his restless eyes darting everywhere.
“X” said, “Never mind the taffy. How we gonna get outta the city?”
Fleer grinned. “Come on down. Wait’ll you see the swell layout we got outside, for foolin’ the cops!”
“Where we goin’?”
“Up to the boss’s place. Let’s go.”
“X” went out with them. Fleer went first, then the Secret Agent, and Jurgen brought up the rear. “X” felt a little uncomfortable with that dope fiend behind him. There was no telling what one of them would do, especially when they were primed.
“X” drew his hat down low over his face. He was Kyle, now, the man whom the police were seeking everywhere. There was an alarm out for him.
Just as they entered the self-service elevator, another door on the floor opened. A man, one of the neighbors, started to come out, saw them in the elevator as the door of the cage was sliding to. The man stopped short, eyes wide, then stepped back in his apartment, slamming the door.