Behind this, an open field showed with airplane hangars looming at its side. Agent “X” parked his car, strode quickly through the gate. A mechanic strolled out of a hangar door to meet him, nodded sleepily.
“Howdy, Mr. Martin. Off on an early start this morning!”
“Yes.”
“Another hot story broke some place, I guess?”
Agent “X” grunted noncommittally. Around this field he was known as A.J. Martin of the Associated Press. His mysterious comings and goings were put down to his newspaper work.
“Get my bus wheeled out there, Joe,” he said. “The open one.”
His quick, precise orders snapped the sleepy-eyed mechanic into action. The man walked along a row of hangars, unlocked a door and slid it back. He vanished into the dimness of the building. Presently the orange and blue nose of a plane appeared as the mechanic trundled it out, a dolly under the tail. This was one of the two ships that Agent “X” kept on this field. He called it the Blue Comet.
It was a small, single-seater biplane with staggered wings, low camber and plenty of sweep-back. It might have been an army pursuit job except for its bright coloring. There was a compact cowling of the latest design on the radial motor. Speed, power, beauty were in the plane’s lines. Graceful as a hawk, swift as an arrow, the Secret Agent had selected and purchased it after exhaustive tests of many others. He knew what it could do, knew it as a horseman might know all the habits and capabilities of a fine mount.
Each brace, strut and wire had drumlike tautness. The doped surface of the stout wings gleamed. The engine was always gassed, oiled, and tuned to the highest pitch of performance.
Agent “X” slipped into a soft suede jacket, adjusted goggles and helmet. The mechanic wound up the inertia starter. Its mounting whine sounded as the Agent climbed into the plane’s single cockpit with its heavy crash pad and military lines. A moment and he switched on the ignition. The motor broke instantly into a smooth-voiced rumble. The small, stout plane seemed crouching like a bird anxious to leap into the sky.
The Agent warmed the idling engine for a few minutes in the routine manner of an experienced airman, then raised his hand for the mechanic to draw the chocks.
The radial broke into a roar that awoke murmurs along the tops of the hangars and sent blasting echoes across the field. The plane leaped down the macadamized surface, gathering momentum each second.
The take-off was a thing of swift, effortless beauty. The plane’s blue wings slanted up toward the sky. Its engine, snarling now in throaty, gusty power, pulled it into the air. The ship hurtled upward toward the feathery, early morning clouds with the speed of the wind.
Forty minutes passed. He came down out of the morning sky, landed on Boston Airport, gave his plane into the hands of a mechanic who also knew him as Martin. Immediately he went to a Boston garage where he kept a car.
The tracing down of the telephone number was a relatively simple job. In so far as its mechanical details went, he could have trusted it to a subordinate in the crime-combating organization he was beginning to build up. But he dared not risk a slip-up in this, the most promising clue he had yet come upon.
A half hour later he had traced the number down, driven to the address behind it. It was the residence of a prominent attorney named P. T. Van Camp. The Agent called up a newspaper office; spoke to a reporter who knew him as Martin, and got the low-down on Van Camp.
“One of the cleverest criminal lawyers in the country,” was the report.
Van Camp then was a mouthpiece, a man who used his brains and his education to save criminals from jail and the chair.
The Agent drove quickly to another part of the city; visited a small boarding house. Here he called upon a middle-aged private detective. The man was one of two partners whose business had gone on the rocks in the depression. His name was Sloan. He was fat, slow-moving, but ploddingly patient and reliable. He could be trusted to carry out orders to the letter.
Agent “X” transported him back to within a block of Van Camp’s house and there posted him. Sloan, like McCarthy, was ignorant of the identity of his employer. He thought “X” merely a smart young reporter on the trail of some special scoop story.
“Shadow Van Camp today,” the Agent said. “Stick to him like a burr, but don’t let him get wise. Find out all you can about him — and be careful. I’ll give you a buzz some time this evening.”
Agent “X” had another important task ahead of him. The commissioners’ conference was scheduled to take place tonight in his home city. He had intimated to Betty Dale that he was going to attend that conference. Impossible as this seemed, he had every intention of doing it.
From the same reporter who had given him the low-down on Van Camp, Agent “X” got the names of the various commissioners from New England cities who planned to attend the conference. One from an obscure city near Boston interested him. This was Commissioner Baldwin of West Foxbury. All of them, including Baldwin, must have received official invitations. Otherwise they would not be permitted to attend.
AROUND noon that day, Police Commissioner Baldwin of West Foxbury received an unexpected visitor. A tall, somber-looking man with piercing eyes and shaggy brows was ushered into his office.
There was an air of mystery and ponderous gravity about the stranger. He took a seat before the commissioner’s desk, eyed Baldwin steadily, not speaking until the secretary who had showed him in had left. Then he leaned forward in his chair and presented an engraved card to the commissioner. Baldwin took it wonderingly.
The card said: “L. Landors Sinclair, Special Representative of the Governor.”
Baldwin looked up quickly to meet the stranger’s steady gaze. Baldwin was tall, dignified himself; but somehow Sinclair seemed to tower over him.
“What can I do for you?” the commissioner said. There was a slight edge of uneasiness in his tone. The light in the stranger’s eyes and his manner seemed faintly accusing.
Sinclair cleared his throat importantly. “Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “There is no direct implication in my visit to you. You must view this purely in the light of an investigation.”
Commissioner Baldwin tensed. “An investigation, Mr. Sinclair? I don’t quite understand.”
Sinclair leaned forward, tapped the desk impressively. “Unknown to those most concerned, commissioner, the governor of this State is making a private check-up on police graft in this and other cities. Certain rumors have brought me to West Foxbury.”
The commissioner started visibly. The ruddiness of his face paled a trifle. “There must be some mistake,” he said. “My term in office, Sinclair, has been a spotless one. I challenge—”
Sinclair held up a formidable hand. “Your subordinates must be considered, commissioner. I’m making no charges. I’m investigating. But remember that the chief executive of this State holds you responsible for the inspectors, captains and lieutenants under you. The board of trade of this city has made a request that I—”
Commissioner Baldwin’s face turned white. “Good God! It can’t be! I—”
“If you don’t mind I suggest that you come with me, commissioner, and hear what the members of the board have to say. I want to record their assertions and your answers. Then I will have something to show his excellency, the governor.”
COMMISSIONER BALDWIN, now thoroughly on the defensive, picked up his hat and left word with his secretary that he did not know just when he would be back.
“This is most unfortunate, Mr. Sinclair, coming today,” he said. “I plan to leave this afternoon for the commissioners’ conference. I have an invitation in my pocket.”