Chapter XV
THE terrific blast of the bomb was followed by a second of silence. Then bits of metal from the shattered plane rained down making a spatter like hail on the trees. The motor whine of the dark ship was plainly audible. It was circling overhead.
“Don’t move!” hissed Agent “X.”
The biplane dived low, so low that its tail assembly almost fanned the foliage that concealed them. Three times the plane circled. Then the drone of its motor faded into the distance.
“God!” breathed Hobart. He wiped sweat from his face, turned wide eyes on “X.” “There must be something big going on, Mr. Martin. They tried to knock us out of the air. You cracked up a plane worth more dough than I’ll ever have if I live to be a hundred. What the hell’s it all about?”
“I don’t know exactly myself, Jim. I flew out to Chi to find out.”
“Did the paper send you or did you come on your own?”
Secret Agent “X” smiled, tapped the lanky ex-dick on the shoulder. “Don’t ask too many questions.”
Hobart’s steady eyes met “X’s.” He flushed, spoke with quiet vehemence. “I ain’t trying to stick my mug into your affairs, Mr. Martin. Any dope you want to hand me, O. K. But you’re the boss — and I know you’re on the level. All you gotta do is tell me what to do, and you can count on me to do it. I’d just like to get a line on who these damn killers are.”
The Agent rose, faced the other soberly for a moment. “Those men up there were small fry, Jim — just paid gunmen. Get that. Somebody hired them to do a job. It’s that somebody I want to get the low-down on.”
Jim Hobart nodded, dusted loam off his clothes, and followed as the Agent struck off through the woods, suitcase in hand. “X” was careful to keep in the thickest cover till they were a good distance from the spot where the Oriole had crashed. He turned suddenly on Hobart.
“We’ve got to get to Chi now. Those birds think we’re dead. They’ll report to their boss that they got us. That gives us the start on them.”
There was a highway about a half mile from the spot where the Oriole had blown up. Cars lined it and several men, attracted by the noise of the explosion, were running across the fields to investigate.
Agent “X” turned and walked in the opposite direction, motioning Hobart to follow. At the end of half an hour they came to another road leading into Chicago, followed it to a suburban village and there chartered a taxi.
“X” directed the driver to one of the better known hotels in the heart of the city. He spoke quietly to Hobart as the cab rolled through the streets.
“We’re a couple of traveling salesmen from New York, Jim. Your name is Calvin Prentiss, mine’s B.J. Morgan. Those are the monikers we’ll sign on the register.”
“You should have been a dick instead of a news shark, Mr. Martin,” said Hobart admiringly. “You’d have been a wow.”
A grim smile twitched the corners of the Agent’s mouth. The cab drew up before their hotel.
“Remember,” he said. “Calvin Prentiss and B.J. Morgan.”
It was a big hotel, popular with transients. Agent “X” engaged adjoining rooms under the names he had mentioned to Hobart. He looked at the clock. The plane from the East, bearing Van Camp, was due to arrive in Chicago in about an hour. That would give him plenty of time to get out to the airport; but there were certain things to be done first.
HE started toward the elevator with Hobart at his side; then paused and glanced quickly across the lobby.
His fingers dug into Hobart’s arm. He spoke without moving his lips; spoke so softly that the ex-dick alone could hear. “Take a look at that woman over there, Jim — the one in the green dress, sitting on the left side of the column. Don’t let her see you.”
“I get you, boss. A swell looking dame! I’ve always heard there was plenty of fast steppers in Chi.”
“She isn’t from Chicago. She must have arrived here yesterday or today. We’re in luck.”
“You can have her, boss. I’m a redhead myself, and I’d rather play around with a blonde, or maybe a nice little brunette.”
“Sorry, because I’m going to turn her over to you, Jim.”
“Say—”
Secret Agent “X” motioned for silence as they entered the elevator. When the bellhop had shown them to their rooms, Agent “X” spoke quickly, tensely.
“That woman, Jim — her name’s Tasha Merlo. She used to be one of the cleverest fences in the East. Now she’s doing something else. Your work’s cut out for you. I want you to find out where she goes, who she talks to and what she does. Don’t lose sight of her. But be on your guard every minute. She’s poison.”
“You know her then, boss?”
“I do; but she doesn’t know me.” “X” laid a hand on Hobart’s arm, added a sudden word of caution, remembering certain tendencies that Hobart had. “Don’t try to make up to her, Jim. Just keep her in sight — and you’ll need every trick you ever learned on the force.”
“O. K.,” said Hobart. “But I thought you said you was trying to get a line on the gang who hired those killers to knock us down.”
“I am, Jim, and this woman’s with the gang. Now do you understand?”
Hobart’s young face hardened. “I savvy, boss. Fly paper won’t have nothing on me when it comes to staying glued to that jane.”
“Good. I’ll see you here again at noon — or if not then, at six. If you don’t get a chance to come back to the hotel send me a telegram — B.J. Morgan.”
“Where are you going, boss?”
“Places.”
With no further explanation, Agent “X” left, removing a brief case from the suitcase and taking that with him. He took a taxi to a small, old-fashioned apartment, let himself in with a key on his ring. Here was another hideout, established many months ago.
In the privacy of this he changed his disguise quickly. If A.J. Martin had been traced to the airfield where he had that morning taken off, then A.J. Martin was no longer an adequate disguise against the members of the Octopus organization. The criminals thought that Martin was dead in the crash of the Oriole. “X” would let him stay dead so far as they were concerned. The dark-haired, solemn-faced young man who emerged under his skilled fingers was utterly different from the brisk looking, sandy-haired Martin.
Changing his suit to another in the closet of his hideout, he left the apartment and took a taxi to the airport.
Sloan in Boston had given him an exact description of Van Camp. When the big tri-motor passenger plane landed on schedule, Agent “X” had no trouble identifying the lawyer.
THE man was quite thin, stoop-shouldered, with graying hair and deep-set gray eyes that glowed piercingly behind thin-rimmed glasses. He was a man with a poker face, a man whose high cheek bones had the set rigidity of an Indian’s.
The Agent’s pulses tingled. Unless he was mistaken he was looking at a member of the mysterious Octopus’s gang. Or was Van Camp himself the Octopus? There was as yet no way of telling. But that he was connected with the strange stock promotion scheme Agent “X” had sufficient proof.
Van Camp signaled a taxi, got in, and left the field. Agent “X” followed in another cab. The lawyer went directly to one of the most expensive Chicago hotels. Agent “X” strolled into the lobby a moment later. He saw a bellhop start toward the elevator with Van Camp’s luggage, saw Van Camp himself receive some mail from the hand of the desk clerk, proving that he had made reservations in the hotel before he started this morning. Van Camp pocketed the mail, followed the bellhop into the elevator.