“I don’t like to take anything till the job’s done,” said McCarthy, pocketing the bills. “But I’ll give you your money’s worth, boy. Lead me to that field.”
GIVING instructions as he drove, Agent “X” went back along the route that the gangsters had followed when they had taken him prisoner in their closed car. Though his eyes had been taped, he followed it accurately, coming at last to the field from which the big tri-motored ship had taken off.
This proved to be nothing more than a huge open lot where a real estate development had fallen through. But the marks of the ship’s air wheels in the turf showed plainly. A barnlike building at one end of the open field held sliding doors. There were other buildings around the field’s edge; old sheds, a neglected junk shop, a warehouse with windows boarded up.
“Keep out of sight,” whispered “X.” “Watch that big building over there. I’ll stop by at your place tomorrow.”
“O.K.,” said McCarthy. Then he drew Agent “X” back into the shadows for a moment spoke eagerly.
“I’ll put you wise to something since you’re a bright lad. I was talking to Captain McGrath over at the Tenth Precinct Station this afternoon. There’s gonna be a commissioners’ meeting in this city tomorrow night. Police chiefs are coming from all over the country, and a big gun named Beale is gonna give a talk. He’s a professor of criminology or something. Maybe if you could get into this meeting, young feller, you’d get a lot of hot copy for your sheet.”
Agent “X” grinned and nodded. “Thanks for the tip, Tom — but I happen to know about it already. There’s only one thing wrong — the press is barred. This commissioners’ conference is strictly secret. There’s been a lot of crime lately — and they’re going to see what can be done about it. Any newspaper man who tried to break in would get shot.”
McCarthy winked. “I’ll speak to McGrath, anyway. Maybe I can pull some strings and get you a side seat. You’d get a scoop on all the other sheets in town then.”
Agent “X” shook his head, patted McCarthy’s arm. “No use, Tom. It’s private, I tell you. Unless you’re a commissioner you don’t get in. Don’t go getting yourself in hot water on my account.”
McCarthy did not know that, because of the alarming spread of crime throughout the United States, the police heads of a score of cities had come together to work out some unified method of combating the criminals. He did not know either that Professor Norton Beale was classed as the cleverest, criminologist in America.
Agent “X” left McCarthy posted, returned to his parked car, and headed back into the city. As he drove he wondered about that important conclave scheduled for the following night. The public at large would never know what transpired behind those locked doors. The police were desperate. They would be instantly suspicious of any outsider seeking to gain admittance.
Secret Agent “X” knew that. But he also knew that he would find out what happened at that meeting — by a method all his own. He doubted that even the combined brains of a score of police heads and a great criminologist could trap the nationwide organization of criminals now operating. He’d had overwhelming proof of their originality and daring already tonight.
IT was just two hours after the raid on the Union Bank Safe Deposit Company when Agent “X” drove once again to within a few blocks of that institution, parked his car and walked forward. Several yards from the bank he stopped in the shadows. Police were still outside. Newspaper men still hung about. Inside all was confusion and activity as insurance investigators and special men from the bankers’ association went about their work.
Agent “X” made no attempt to re-enter the bank till nearly two thirty in the morning, when the building was again left alone except for two special watchmen outside and one within.
The city lay dark and still; and this time Agent “X” advanced slowly along the street on which the bank faced. When the patrolling bank guard came opposite, “X” swiftly drew his gas pistol and fired it in the man’s face.
The guard collapsed as the harmless gas instantly took effect. Agent “X” carried his inert body to a vestibule near by, propped it up. The guard would be out for at least half an hour — long enough for “X” to work. He waited at the corner till the other guard came around it, disposed of him in the same way.
Then he once more went to the bank’s doors. A special chain and heavy padlock now protected them. Agent “X” easily opened this with his tool kit. The slow steps of the third guard sounded inside. Agent “X” gave this man a dose of the anesthetizing gas.
Quickly then he continued the secret work that the criminals had interrupted, the daring and unconventional activities that he believed were necessary tonight, justified by the fact that he was on the track of something so vast and dangerous in scope that a whole nation lay helpless in its grasp.
All valuables had been taken from the big vault upstairs, but the safe deposit vault was intact. He went directly to the latter, opened the grille, and found a metal box marked 3071. Guarded by the bank and the full majesty of the law, this box nevertheless contained the property of a former underworld character, a gambler known as Bill “Diamond” Quade because of his fondness for headlight-size diamonds. A special tool with pivot extensions was necessary to open this box.
With eager fingers Agent “X” went through its contents. There was the deed to Quade’s house, his will, a packet of receipted bills. The Agent passed by these, came at last to several books of stock certificates. They had all been issued by the Paragon Cosmetics, Inc., a small wholesale firm, the shares of which were not even important enough to be listed on the exchange. Yet Quade had seen fit to buy many hundreds of these shares. Why?
That was what Agent “X” sought to find out. It was the tip-off that Quade was receiving a fabulously big income from a certain obscure stock that had brought “X” to the bank in the first place. Quade in a drunken moment had boasted to an underworld crony. A whisper of that boast had reached the Agent’s ears.
He pocketed one certificate, slipped the others back into the box and closed it. In a moment he was shutting the grilled doors of the safe deposit vault behind him.
HE drove swiftly to the vicinity of another hideout now — one that was far uptown. He had not had cause to visit it for weeks. But it contained the most complete equipment of all. He parked his car blocks away, walked along a wide drive that skirted the river, turned down a side street by a high wall.
Over the wall rose the roofs and gables of a stately house left vacant by the litigation of heirs. This was the old Montgomery Mansion.
For a moment his body seemed to blend with the shadows along the wall. Then he inserted a key in a hidden lock, passed through a low door. He entered a once beautiful garden, now fallen into ruin. He crossed this to a rear door of the old house, entered through the basement, and continued till he was close to the butler’s pantry. Now suddenly he swung a tier of shelves outward, slipped through the opening, and closed it after him. He was now in a small and windowless chamber, the existence of which no one searching the house would ever guess.
He clicked on an overhead light, disclosing shelves and cabinets of complex chemical and electrical paraphernalia. Here also was a small, dark room for developing photographic films and prints. Here were microscopes and equipment for studying fingerprints. Here were the things that made the Secret Agent master of a dozen sciences.