Agent “X” sent the V-shaped nose of his roadster plunging toward the suburbs. It was strange that McCarthy should have stayed on the job so long without sending him any word.
He came to within a quarter of a mile of the lot from which he had taken off in the tri-motor, a prisoner of the criminals. He passed by a row of run-down houses, came to the edge of the lot itself. It was a desolate place of refuse and junk. A lean, green-eyed cat slunk out of his path. Somewhere a loose piece of roofing on one of the buildings around the lot squeaked mournfully in the wind. This was the only sound. The cat was the only living thing.
A sense of definite foreboding gripped the Secret Agent. He moved forward cautiously, wraithlike in the gloom, coming at last to the spot where he had stationed McCarthy.
Flashing a tiny light with a bulb no larger than a grain of wheat he stared at the ground. In one spot his sharp eyes detected McCarthy’s footprints. Here were the wide heavy soles that the old dick wore. Agent “X” gave a low whistle, listened. If McCarthy were about he would come to investigate. Expert and silent shadower as the ex-detective was, he would make a noise that the Agent would hear. But there was no sound.
The Secret Agent’s sense of uneasiness grew. He moved along the edge of the lot toward the old building which might conceivably have housed the big plane. Once again he flashed his light and spotted McCarthy’s footprints. Then suddenly he stooped and tensed. Something dark showed against the brownish dustiness of the earth.
The Agent bent down, cupping his hand over the end of his small light, examining the spot on the ground. It was a circle, its coloring gruesomely suggestive.
He moved his light, found another spot a few feet farther along. His eyes were grim now. These spots were unmistakable to his experienced eyes. They were drops of blood, sunk into the ground, dried. They seemed to be about twelve hours old.
He bent all his efforts to following them now. Once he lost them among sparse turf. In patient, ever widening circles he located them again. A chill ran across his skin. Here were not only the drops but parallel grooves in the dirt; plainly discernible. His movements quickened as he followed these. They led in the direction of a cluster of sheds. The human body had been dragged there.
The grooves ceased, but drops of crimson marked the trail. Some one had picked the body up, carried it. The spots on the ground led to a pile of old boarding between the two sheds. There they ended.
Lips compressed in a tight grim line Agent “X” began shifting the boards. He swore at last, and bent sharply. The last board he had picked up disclosed the head and shoulders of a man.
White hair gleamed like silver under the thin rays of his flash. The still features of a white face showed. It and the hair were streaked with crimson. It was McCarthy — dead.
SOME one had sneaked up out of the darkness and bashed in the detective’s skull with a vicious blow. Some one had dragged the old dick here, buried him like carrion under a pile of boarding.
The Agent’s fist clenched. Out there under the dim light of the stars he made a silent pledge. Then he stopped, searched McCarthy’s pockets. The fifty dollars that he had given McCarthy was still intact. No robbery had taken place. McCarthy had been killed merely because some one wanted him out of the way. Again Agent “X” saw the hand of the man whose mark was a loathsome Octopus.
Carefully he gathered the old man up, carried him to his parked car. His eyes and ears were alert for any movement in the darkness. But there was none. The lurking criminal, or criminals, who had done the detective to death might be miles away now. Knowing the field was under suspicion there would probably be no more activity from it.
“X” drove McCarthy back to the rooming house, told the landlady in a few words what had happened. While she went to notify McCarthy’s nearest relative, Agent “X” drew his wallet from his pocket. He took out a sheaf of bills totaling nearly two thousand dollars. Lifting McCarthy’s keys from his pocket, “X” unlocked the old detective’s battered strong box.
Inside were a few yellowed letters written by his dead wife. A tarnished badge he’d worn for years as a cop; an old police whistle hallowed by association.
Agent “X” stuffed the bills in here, locked the box again. This money would go to his beloved grand-children. McCarthy would be pleased if he could know it.
“X” did not wait for the arrival of McCarthy’s relatives. There would be a police investigation into the man’s death. He couldn’t afford to have the name of A.J. Martin mixed up in that. And the death of McCarthy had made him think at once of Sloan, his agent in Boston.
He hurried to a telephone booth, put in a long distance call. The heavy voice of his Boston operative answered and “X” gave a sigh of relief. The responsibility of one man’s death rested on his shoulders tonight. He was glad it was not two.
“What’s the report, Sloan?” he demanded.
“Nothing much, boss,” Sloan answered. “It don’t look like there’s anything phoney about this bird Van Camp. He’s got an office down on Tremont Street. He spent most of the day there, lunched at his club. He was in court a while this afternoon. Tomorrow he’s flying out to Chi. He booked his passage today.”
Agent “X” was careful to hide the excitement he felt. Van Camp flying out to Chicago. With crimes being perpetrated in every state of the Union, it was plausible to think that the evil genius who directed them would have some central headquarters. Chicago would be a logical place — and now Van Camp, on the heels of his significant phone call to Tasha Merlo, was going there. Here was a hot lead.
“Thanks, Sloan,” “X” said. “I guess I was wrong about that bird.”
“You want me to trail him some more when he gets back?”
“No, not unless I give you the high sign. What time is he leaving tomorrow?”
“The plane takes off at eight thirty, boss.”
AGENT “X” hung up. Sloan was a good shadower; but he was too slow moving and slow thinking to be of much help against such men as the Agent was going up against. Yet if “X” went to Chicago he’d need aid perhaps; and it would be better to import a helper unknown to the Chicago underworld.
“X” took from his pocket a notebook in which he kept the names of several possibilities, flipped the pages intently, then paused and nodded. James Hobart was the man he wanted. Young, alert, fearless, Agent “X” knew Hobart to be honest, even though a black cloud of disgrace now hung over his name. Hobart had been dishonorably discharged from the police force after it was proved he had accepted bribes in a famous racketeering case.
Because he knew Hobart’s calibre, the Agent had made secret investigations. These had revealed that Hobart had been framed by a notorious gangster. His dismissal had been accomplished because he was becoming a source of danger to the gangster in question.
“X” got into his roadster. At Hobart’s address, a pleasant-faced, gray-haired woman let him into a small neat apartment. A raw-boned young man sat slouched in a chair, reading a paper. A stiff crest of reddish hair surmounted his forehead. Clear blue eyes lighted at sight of Agent “X.” He thrust out a freckled, big-knuckled hand, gripped the Agent’s.
“Hello, Mr. Martin…. Mom, this is Mr. Martin, the big newspaper guy I told you tried to pull strings and clear me when I was framed by Madder.”
Agent “X” smiled at the ex-detective’s mother. He gazed approvingly at the young man. He’d thrown a couple of small jobs Hobart’s way. The job he had in mind now might call for everything the boy had. But before Hobart’s career with the police had been abruptly ended, his promotions had come quickly because of his bravery and energy. Here was a man who could be depended upon in any emergency.