“We’ll try to get the investigation over with as quickly as possible,” said Sinclair gravely.
It surprised Commissioner Baldwin to see that Sinclair drove his own roadster. The governor’s representative maneuvered expertly through West Foxbury’s main street, drew up before the one modern hotel.
“This isn’t the Board of Trade Building,” said Baldwin in puzzlement.
“For the purposes of privacy, the gentlemen have agreed to meet in my room, commissioner. You’ll appreciate that, I think.”
“Good lord, yes; if a whisper of this gets to the papers I’ll be ruined politically. Thanks for keeping it under cover. I can’t imagine what the Board of Trade is thinking of.”
Commissioner Baldwin was even more puzzled a moment later. An elevator whisked them up to Sinclair’s room. Sinclair opened the door for him, ushered him in. But no one was there, and there seemed to be no preparation for any sort of meeting. The commissioner looked around uneasily.
“I don’t understand. When are the others coming? You said—”
The commissioner’s tongue seemed suddenly clamped to the roof of his mouth, for the man who called himself the governor’s representative had drawn a gun. A look of fear and frenzy appeared on Baldwin’s face. He sensed suddenly that he had fallen into some sort of trap. This man wasn’t the governor’s representative. There was no investigation.
He stepped back, trying to jerk free the police special that he carried in a side holster, the only reminder of the days when he himself had been a cop.
But before he could even lay a finger on the butt of the gun the other man had fired. A cloud of vapor went full into Baldwin’s face, throttling the cry that rose to his lips.
Quietly, painlessly as a man going to sleep under an anaesthetic, his muscles went limp and he collapsed to tbe floor.
Sinclair pocketed his gas gun, crossed to the door, locked it. He came close and soberly contemplated the man at his feet. There was a shadow in his eyes. He regretted that he had been forced to trick and humiliate the commissioner like this. Baldwin seemed an honest, straightforward official. But daring and unconventional acts on occasion had always been a part of the Secret Agent’s technique.
The tall, gray-haired “Sinclair” whose make-up was just another of “X’s” ingenious disguises, believed that what he’d done was justified if it would in any way aid him to run down the vicious, nation-wide organization of criminals now preying on society. Baldwin would lie unconscious but unhurt here — and Secret Agent “X” would attend the commissioners’ conference in his stead.
Chapter XI
ARMED and vigilant cops stood outside the commissioners’ room that night. Each member of the conference was asked upon arrival to give proper identification, also to show the signed letter of invitation responsible for his being there. This letter was submitted to close inspection by an expert on counterfeiting and forging.
The police heads of a score of cities were getting a taste of their own medicine. They were learning how careful the law could be in excluding undesirables.
A police cordon efficiently ringed the building. Reporters were not even allowed inside. Behind the smiles and good humor of each commissioner there was realization of the serious import of this conference. Somehow they must arrange for a new and concerted drive against crime.
Agent “X,” disguised as Commissioner Baldwin, presented Baldwin’s credentials and invitation. He got in without trouble. Arriving early, he took a seat near the platform. Many other commissioners who knew Baldwin shook hands with him. But Agent “X” was guarded in his speech, careful to say nothing that might betray him.
Commissioner Foster, an old enemy of the Agent’s, was the master of ceremonies. It was he, with Professor Beale’s aid, who had arranged the conference.
Foster, tall, distinguished, with graying hair, and a black, close-clipped mustache, was dressed in full evening clothes. He spoke sonorously when the body of police heads was finally assembled.
“Gentlemen, we have come here tonight in response to a national emergency. We have come to discuss crime and crime prevention. We have come to review what has been done and to work out new methods of combating criminals along all fronts. As you know, gentlemen, major crimes throughout the United States have shown an appalling increase during past weeks. It seems almost that the lifting of the great depression has given our criminal elements new impetus.
“Whatever the cause, we are able to observe the effects. Bank robberies, kidnapings, extortions, murders, have all increased. This chart, gentlemen, behind me, will show you the statistics in graphic form.”
Commissioner Foster stood aside to let them see the huge chart on the wall in back of him, marked off in squares. Red and blue lines zigzagged across it. The red line at the top showed an ever mounting curve. A network of smaller red lines followed it.
“The small lines indicate the various types of major crimes,” said Foster. “The large line is crime in the aggregate. Both lines rise as you can see. And because of this emergency I have arranged to have our conference addressed tonight by a man outstanding in the field of practical criminology. Allow me to introduce Professor Norton Beale.”
The man who had been sitting in a chair on the platform while the commissioner made his introductory speech now arose. He was short, thick-set, with thin legs and immensely broad shoulders. He had the huge, leonine head and forceful air of a scholar.
There was applause as he stepped forward. Most of those present had read his books. All knew him by reputation. They were eager to hear his opinions on the alarming increase in criminal activities, hoping that he could suggest new and efficient methods of law enforcement.
But Agent “X,” watching and listening intently, doubted if even Professor Beale and this distinguished body of police officials knew quite what they were up against. Had whispers reached them that criminals had actually incorporated themselves and were selling stock to finance their vicious schemes? “X” was anxious to find out. He wanted to learn how much the police knew; see what methods of attack they had devised.
But Professor Beale’s speech was disappointing to “X.” Commissioner Foster hadn’t mentioned the possibility of the underworld organizing. Neither did Beale. He submitted his own statistics, showing the increase in crime. He traced sociological trends. He enumerated economic influence which made some of the commissioners yawn. Obviously, no one had seen the dread mark of the Octopus. Heavy-hearted, “X” watched as Beale directed two cops to bring out the latest police equipment.
Riot guns, gas guns, small and large caliber machine guns, were among the paraphernalia. Glittering, complex optical instruments of the latest design. A bullet microscope which could give conclusive proof as to what pistol a piece of lead had been fired from. The Greenough microscope for the scientific detection of dust. A micro-camera to give comparison of forgeries. A pressure microscope which could reveal numbers that had been filed off metal.
Professor Beale explained them all in precise tones.
“Criminals, my friends,” he said importantly, “grow more clever with every passing year. They employ science to outwit the law. We must employ science in turn to outwit them. The present crime wave is a challenge to the police forces of the entire country. We must press into service all available resources, moral, psychological, physical.”
BEALE walked to the back of the platform and drew forward a bulky apparatus on wheels which had been standing against the wall.
“Here, for instance,” he said, “is one of the most recent scientific aids in the field of practical detection. Two of my students helped me build it. Plans submitted to a number of European police departments have been approved. It will shortly be adopted in this country. I call it a fingerprint projector.”