Agent “X” shook his head. “I couldn’t see their faces. There were a half dozen, I should say. I never saw them before.”
“You couldn’t identify them in court if they were arrested then?”
“No.”
Burks stabbed a finger at “X.” “It looks funny, Garrison. Private investigators don’t wear vests like that one you’ve got on — and they don’t happen to be around when robberies are being pulled off. More likely you’re in with the guys who did this, and they double-crossed you because they thought you’d squeal. You expected it might happen and got dolled up in that vest.”
Burks turned to two of his men. “Take him down to headquarters, boys. Hold him there till we’ve had time to investigate him.”
A big detective marched “X” toward the door. Two cops moved up on either side of him, guns in their hands. Burks rasped another order.
“Keep a gun at his head. That’s one spot bullets can reach.”
The cops obeyed, seizing the Agent’s arms. An electric company truck was replacing the light outside. A sizeable crowd had collected. They goggled at Agent “X” with curious eyes. A half dozen police were strung along the curb.
He let himself be shoved into a big headquarters car. This wasn’t the moment to attempt a get-away. But he had no intention of going to a cell in the station house. Many times the police had tried to arrest him. Many times they had failed. In a prison cell his usefulness as a criminal hunter would be thwarted. To save himself from this he carried many unique defensive devices in the inner linings of his coat.
The police car leaped away from the curb. A cop and a plain-clothes man flanked “X” on either side. The other cop drove.
“How about a cigarette?” the Agent asked casually, but the detective shook his head.
“You’ll have plenty of time to smoke down at the station house.”
“X” smiled grimly again. They had denied him the use of his special gas-filled lighter, cut off one avenue of possible escape; but there were many others. His fingers crept up to toy with the innocent looking fountain pen that reposed in his coat pocket. The cop who was driving gave a sudden exclamation.
“What do those guys think they’re doing?”
AGENT “X” stared ahead over the driver’s shoulder. Through the glittering windshield he saw a large and powerful black car lurch past and cut in ahead. The car stopped suddenly with a squeal of brakes.
The police car’s driver jammed on his own brakes, narrowly averting a crash. He was swearing now; but his curses ended in a surprised intake of breath. For three men had leaped from the car ahead. They were masked, and they carried guns in their hands. One was a sub-caliber, rapid firer.
Agent “X,” tense with excitement, recognized the gun as the same used on him in the bank. Its muzzle held the cylindrical silencer that reduced its reports to mere pops.
One of the masked men approached and spoke sharply.
“We want that guy you got. Hand him out!”
Dazedly the detective on “X’s” left opened the door. The cop started to lift his gun.
“Cut it!” the masked man snarled. “You’ll take a one-way ride to hell if you don’t. We got a typewriter here.”
This was gangster talk. The cops’ faces froze. A masked man reached forward, grasped “X” by the arm.
“Come on, feller, make it snappy.”
He was hauled out of the police car. His eyes were bright with excitement. These men had left him for dead. Now, learning that he was still alive, they had come back for him. Some one had tipped them off. Death glared from the muzzle of the machine gun aimed at his head. Another of the masked men pressed his automatic against Agent “X’s” neck.
“No funny business, or you get it sure.”
He was marched forward toward the other car which waited, its engine running. The man with the machine gun covered their retreat. Agent “X” was thrust into the big, closed sedan.
Then the cop who was driving the police cruiser ducked behind his dashboard and cut loose. Agent “X” admired his nerve. The blue coats had courage all right.
But the vicious, muffled thudding of the silenced machine gun sounded. “X” heard the slap of bullets against the police car’s windshield, followed by the gasping cry of a wounded man. Another burst ripped the headquarters car’s tires; made its engine hiss to a clanking stop. The machine gunner leaped into the sedan. Its door slammed shut. The sedan spurted away up the street, powerful engine roaring.
Chapter III
THEY did not speak until the car had covered several blocks. Then the man holding the gun to the base of “X’s” brain ordered abruptly:
“Take off his coat and that damned vest!”
This, too, hinted at a cold intent to execute him. “X” waited, measuring his chances of escape. They were slight at this moment. For the man with the sub-machine gun sat facing him, straddling one of the sedan’s small, collapsible seats. The snout of the rapid firer was inclined toward his face. A slight pressure on that curved trigger and his head would be torn to pieces.
The gangster on “X’s” left peeled off the Agent’s coat, unsnapped the fastenings of the bullet-proof vest. He removed the vest quickly. The muzzle of the sub-machine gun pointed straight at the Secret Agent’s heart. For once he was utterly helpless, his life suspended by a slender thread.
He could not see the men’s faces. They still wore their masks. He knew that these were not the only ones who had robbed the bank. The others must be somewhere ahead in the darkness.
One of the men held up the vest that had saved the Secret Agent’s life.
“Some gadget,” he remarked. “I never seen one like it before. We’ll have a bunch like this made.”
They did not question “X.” That surprised him. But abruptly one of the masked men took something from a side pocket of the car. It was a roll of strong adhesive tape. He gave an order.
One of the men held “X’s” wrists while the snout of the machine gun pressed ruthlessly against his flesh. There came the ripping sound of tape, the coolness of it against “X’s” skin. They were taping his eyes so that he could not see. Another strip was pressed firmly across his mouth.
The big car roared on, the men in it silent for the most part. Once “X” heard the thin, complaining note of a police cruiser’s siren far behind. The sedan turned sidewise, moving off at a tangent from the course it had been following. The police siren’s note faded out.
Agent “X,” his masterly sense of direction vividly alive, took note of each turn made. The hollow sound of the street crossings came plainly to him. He counted them. After a time he felt the car moving at an upward incline. There came the rumble of a long bridge. He had crossed every bridge into the city many times. Each had a different angle. This one was familiar.
The complicated route that the car took after leaving the bridge didn’t entirely confuse him. When it stopped at the end of nearly forty minutes, Agent “X” could make a guess at its approximate location.
It nosed over bumpy ground — and to “X’s” keen ears came a new sound. This was identifiable, too. It was the low, distinctive hum of airplane motors.
He listened carefully as the sedan’s door opened. The motors were synchronized. They were all on one plane; three of them. A big, tri-motor ship was warming up. He was at some hidden airfield at the outskirts of the city.
His pulses tingled. Here was more evidence that this was a huge, well-organized group.
Cool night air beat against his face. Mingled with the popping rumble of the plane’s warming motors came low-voiced orders, the crunch of footsteps. The sub-machine gun’s muzzle pressed firmly against his spine. Two men grabbed his arms, pushing him roughly forward.