Back in Quade’s den Secret Agent “X” went to work on the big desk. This was locked, too, but the Agent opened it easily.
He probed his light among the drawers and pigeonholes it contained. The first five minutes of search proved disappointing. The only documents were racing sheets and charts. Quade was evidently an addict of the ponies.
Then Agent “X” paused suddenly. He crouched and turned. To his alert ears had come distinctly the sound of cautious footsteps somewhere on the floor above. The carpet muffled them, but a board squeaked twice. Then he heard movement on the stairs.
“X” CROSSED the den on silent, catlike feet, moving behind one of the heavy brocaded silk draperies by the window. Here he waited while the footsteps roved about the hall. Suddenly a light clicked on in the hallway. Agent “X” reached into his pocket, took out a handkerchief, tied it over his face. There were two reasons for this action. He didn’t want his disguise of A.J. Martin revealed. And, if he were seen by anyone, the handkerchief over his face would give him the appearance of a common burglar or house thief.
Against the light in the hallway beyond the door of the den a bulky figure showed. The man was thick-necked, pink-faced; small, squinted eyes were sunk in rolls of flaccid flesh. He was wearing a blue tasseled dressing gown, thrown over wrinkled pajamas. Carpet slippers were on his feet. A huge, blue-steel automatic was clutched in his stubby fingers. Agent “X” recognized the face and figure of Bill “Diamond” Quade.
There was an ugly scowl on the ex-gambler’s face. The big gun was steady in his hand. He shuffled about the hall, started toward the side door which Agent “X” had unlocked.
Holding his lips in a peculiar position, Agent “X” made a noise in his throat — a dry, deliberate cough. But, because of his mouth position, the sound was ventriloquistic. It seemed to come from the other side of the den.
Instantly the sound of Quade’s shuffling footfalls ceased. For seconds there was complete silence. Then Quade approached the den stealthily. One pudgy hand stole around the door jamb, clicked the light switch, flooding the room with light. Once more Agent “X” made the coughing sound.
There were two sets of brocaded draperies in the room, one on each side of the big shuttered window. Both reached all the way to the floor.
The ex-gambler, Quade, eyes steely bright, pointed his gun at the one opposite “X.”
“Come out of there, rat,” Quads grated. “I hear you. I’ve got you covered.”
Agent “X” was silent, watching this obese product of the underworld through the semi-transparent fabric. He could see Quade’s face plainly, see the great bulbous features, the jowls almost like a dog’s, the glittering eyes. Quade was sure he had his quarry trapped, sure that the sound he had heard came from the drapery opposite “X.”
“Come out, I say, or—”
Still “X” was silent. Quade went forward resolutely, thrust the muzzle of his automatic against the drapery. His back was partially turned to Agent “X.”
At that instant, so quickly that Quade hadn’t even time to turn. Agent “X” stepped out of his hiding place and pressed the snout of his own gas gun against Quade’s pudgy neck. Under its cold muzzle the rolls of unhealthy flesh turned white.
“Drop that gun, Quade!” he said. “Go over to your desk and sit down. I want to talk to you.”
Chapter VII
QUADE’S whole flabby face had turned a pasty white. The gun dropped from his shaking fingers, thudded to the floor. Accustomed to using his wits to cheat his fellow man, Quade was no adept at physical violence. Now that his mysterious night visitor had the upper hand, the ex-gambler was cowed.
“Who are you?” he croaked. “For God’s sake don’t shoot. What do you want me to do?”
“Answer a few questions,” said “X” harshly. “Sit down.”
The former gambler slumped into the chair before his desk like a sack of meal falling over.
“Take that gun — out of my neck,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll talk — I swear I will.”
Here was the reason for all those locks, shutters and alarm systems that had impeded “X.” Quade was a coward. Soft living had shattered what little nerve he had left. Agent “X’s” eyes gleamed with grim humor. Quade’s craven spirit would make what he had to do easier.
“They say you’re a rich man, Quade,” rasped Agent “X.” “They say you’ve left your old haunts and your old friends and have put on a lot of swank.”
“I’ve got some money — not much — but I’ll pay you what you want if you won’t kill me,” said Quade wheezingly.
“You’ve got a nice tidy little income, I understand.”
“Investments,” said Quade. “I–I managed to save a little. I invested wisely. I’ve been lucky.”
“Splendid,” said Agent “X.” “That’s what I came for, Quade — to get a tip from you — about those investments. Maybe I’d like to invest, too. Just what investments do you recommend?”
Quade stiffened in his chair. His fat face was screwed up. He gripped the desk before him.
“I–I can’t say off-hand.”
“I haven’t found your name, Quade, listed in any broker’s office. The only stock you seem to have in your possession is Paragon Cosmetics — a small company few people have heard of.”
Agent “X” emphasized his words with another closer jab of the gun.
Quade almost screamed. “Yes — that’s it — Paragon Cosmetics. It’s a closed corporation — I’ve been most fortunate. They’ve paid me good dividends.”
“But you hold only a few hundred, Quade — don’t try to fool me.”
“My God — I’m not fooling you. They pay — nearly a thousand per cent. I’m not lying. They have made me rich.”
Agent “X” laughed harshly.
“I might think you were lying, Quade — if I didn’t know certain things. I was tipped off that you had a stock which was a bonanza. You talked, Quade, once when you were drunk. I want to get some of this remarkable stock, too. An issue that yields a dividend ten times more than the original price is worth having.”
Quade was silent for a second. He seemed to realize he had said too much. Agent “X’s” voice sounded softly in his ear:
“Better keep on talking, Quade, or—” Another jab with the gun made clear the meaning of “X’s” words. “Tell me more about this stock.”
“I can’t. I know nothing about the operations of the company. I bought it through a private broker.”
“His name?”
“It’s — it’s a woman. You’ve probably never heard of her.”
“Her name, Quade?”
“Tasha Merlo.”
Again Agent “X” laughed. There was no humor in the sound.
“So,” he said. “One of the underworld’s most brilliant women fences has become a stock broker, a promoter. Interesting, Quade!”
“You know her, then?”
“Only by reputation. Her specialty, I’ve heard, is disposing of stolen jewels. She is clever, beautiful. She mingles with society, finds customers in strange places. Am I right?”
“Yes — but she is no longer a fence.”
“I understand, Quade. She is a stock broker now. Give me her address.”
“It is useless,” said Quade. “It is a closed corporation, I tell you. All the stock has been divided.”
“Give me her address.”
Bill Quade shook his head. “Don’t ask me that! I — won’t.”
“You won’t?”
“No.”
Again Agent “X” laughed. Then he drew something from his pocket It was an apparently blank piece of paper — but one which the Agent had prepared. He laid it on the desk before Quade, handed Quade a pencil.