From outside the headquarters building which housed the auditorium they were in, a sudden racket had come. A dull, jarring explosion, that shook the windows and made the floor under their feet vibrate. There was a second of silence. Then the noise of distant shouting; and a spiteful crackling. Agent “X” was the first to recognize that second sound.
“Gun fire!” he said suddenly.
The eyes of Professor Beale were upon him. Beale’s voice snapped out as Agent “X” turned toward the door.
“Don’t make your actions more suspicious than they already are, commissioner. If there’s a disturbance outside, patrolmen and detectives are amply able to take care of it. We are here to attend a commissioners’ conference — and I might add that you haven’t shown us your fingerprints yet. Your attitude is making it rather trying for us all — putting Commissioner Foster and myself in a difficult position.”
“Why not drop the whole business, then?” said “X” sharply.
“Because, commissioner, I am frank to admit that I think you have some reason for not wanting to match your prints with those I have here on file. It sounds incredible — but I have made a study of human psychology — and your actions—”
The shrill, unmistakable blast of a police whistle cut across Beale’s words. Another series of sputtering explosions came. These were unquestionably shots.
Half the members of the conference had risen excitedly to their feet. Commissioner Foster was looking anxiously toward the door. The Agent’s eyes clashed for a moment with Professor Beale’s. The shrewd criminologist undoubtedly suspected him of being an imposter. But “X” had bluffed it out so far. He made a last, vehement gesture.
“While we stand quibbling here, professor, criminals are active under our very noses. I suggest that we stop our child’s play and do some practical work.”
BEALE made an impatient, irritated exclamation. But Agent “X’s” words, backed up by the noise outside, started a movement toward the door. Commissioner Foster strode excitedly through the assemblage, into the corridor. A dozen other commissioners from various cities crowded after him. An inspector of a detective division came running up the stairs, shouting excitedly.
“There’s a robbery being pulled off right on this block, commissioner. Those diamond brokers on the corner — there’s a bunch of bandits in an armored car parked outside. They’ve cracked the safe. They’ve got a Tommy-gun.”
His excited flow of words was punctuated by the vicious rat-tat-tat of a machine gun. The conference disbanded in an uproar. Commissioners and subordinates alike ran to the front entrance of the headquarters building. One of them gave a hoarse cry.
A cop, his blue uniform sodden with crimson came reeling across the sidewalk and collapsed at the commissioners’ feet. Down the block, Agent “X” saw a long, low armored car. From a slit in its side a winking pin-point of flame showed intermittently. A dozen cops had taken refuge in doorways and vestibules along the street, service revolvers snapping. As “X” watched, one cop threw up his hands and pitched sidewise into the street The bandits were ruthlessly slaughtering the police.
Curses, excited orders, took the place of Professor Beale’s calm, scientific tones. Commissioner Foster, white-faced, bawled orders to an inspector. The inspector marshaled a squad-of plain-clothes men with an arsenal of riot and machine guns. They poured into the street; were met by a withering blast of bullets from the car at the end of the block.
This was warfare — warfare between the dread, organized forces of the underworld and the valiant defenders of the law.
A cop with a riot gun cursed, groaned, fell to the pavement, his weapon clattering from his hands. One leg had been shattered under him. He tried to hunch forward to pick up his gun again, leaving a smear of crimson behind him. Another blast of bullets ricocheted against the curb beside him, ripped into his body with the sickening spat of flattened lead. He jerked for a moment as though in the contortions of some weird dance, lay still.
AGENT “X,” white with fury at the ruthlessness of this killing, heedless of his own danger, darted across the pavement and picked up the slain cop’s weapon. The other police had taken refuge in doorways.
Not often did the Agent use a lethal weapon. When he did he could shoot with expert marksmanship. He crouched, braced the curved butt of the rapid-firer against his shoulder, pressed the steel trigger, slammed bullets down the block at that sinister black car. A masked figure came running out of the diamond brokerage office; leaped into the car before “X” could swing the cumbersome muzzle of the gun. His bullets played a tattoo over the side of the car. But its armor plate prevented them from doing any damage.
The flame that was the bandit’s machine gun showed again. Leaden death hissed in the night air around “X.” He flung himself flat on the pavement, gun snuggled in the crook of his elbow, steady eyes trained along the barrel. He aimed as close to the other flame as he could; pumped more bullets into the darkness.
The firing stopped. The big car leaped away with whining gears. Cops came out from under cover and the wailing, hysterical note of police sirens began to shrill along the street The car with the bandits in it spurted away.
The street was a bedlam of excitement now. The fierce shouts went up. In the second story windows of the diamond brokerage office a glow showed. Smoke began to plume out. A flame appeared like a greedy red tongue. Agent “X” started to drop the machine gun he had snatched up, then hastily cleaned off the finger prints he had made. He put the gun down, ran forward with a crowd of police and commissioners.
The fire in the brokerage office was gaining headway, showing that the raiders had left some highly inflammable material there, adding arson to safe-blowing. The blood-red glow of the fire spread along the street, adding to the horror.
At least six cops lay dead on the pavement. The firelight glistened on their spilled blood. The criminals had left terror and destruction behind them. And this spectacular crime, in the very shadow of police headquarters, staged at a time when the commissioners’ conference was in session, seemed a mocking gesture — a bloody challenge to the forces of the law.
Chapter XIII
SECRET AGENT “X” slipped away into the darkness. No use looking for clues around the brokerage office where the raid had taken place. Seething flames were consuming the entire interior of the building. All evidence would be destroyed — even the method used in blowing the big safe.
And “X” wanted to escape further contact with the members of the commissioners’ conference. Neither Foster nor Professor Beale would forget that he had refused to show his fingerprints. As Baldwin he was a marked man now.
He looked at his watch. Ten o’clock. Signaling a cab, he drove to within a few blocks of his nearest hideout and once again changed his disguise to that of A.J. Martin.
Next he called the rooming house occupied by McCarthy, the old ex-dick who was watching the airport from which “X” had been kidnaped the night previous. But the wheeling, crack-voiced landlady told the Agent she had not seen McCarthy all day. A slight frown of worry between his eyes, “X” drove to the rooming house. Perhaps McCarthy had left a message for him.
The landlady admitted him and he went straight to McCarthy’s room. But there was no message, no sign that McCarthy had been in that evening. The ash tray was empty, just as the landlady had left it. The bed had not been slept in. McCarthy was evidently making good his promise, giving the man he knew as A.J. Martin his money’s worth. He had been on the job of watching the air-field for twenty-four hours. He was still on the job, unless—