Secret Agent “X” strolled by the desk, letting his eye fall on the open register. He got Van Camp’s suite number, 806, strolled on through the lobby to a waiting elevator. There was no time to lose. The grilled door clicked shut as he stepped into the car.
“Eight, out,” he said.
When he emerged in the eighth floor corridor the bellhop who had shown Van Camp to his rooms was just leaving. “X” watched him enter a descending elevator, leaving the corridor empty. Quick as a flash, Agent “X” went to the door marked 806.
His kit of chromium tools was already in his hands. But he put it away when he saw the lock, took out his key ring instead. On it were six fragile skeleton keys of assorted sizes. One of these would do the job.
So deftly and softly that there was barely a scrape, he tried two keys. The second one fitted, turned in his hand. The door opened.
Van Camp had taken one of the hotel’s more pretentious suites. “X” had figured on this. There was a hallway, three rooms opening off it. In the farthest of these was a light, the shadow of a man on the wall. Silently Agent “X” ducked into the nearest darkened room. His gas pistol was in his hand. He waited, heard the rustle of paper. Van Camp was opening his mail.
When he had finished he walked to the telephone. The number he called was that of the hotel where Hobart and Agent “X” had registered an hour before. Van Camp’s voice was well modulated, but slightly nasal.
“I’d like to speak to Miss Tasha Merlo, please.”
There was an instant of silence, then the lawyer spoke rapidly.
“This is Van Camp, Miss Merlo. Remain where you are until I call you again. You are to act under my instructions. A new territory will be assigned to you, possibly in the West. The matter which you called to my attention has been taken care of. It was troublesome; but gave no serious cause for alarm. Because of your promptness and efficiency in handling the matter I shall recommend you for promotion at our meeting tonight. That is all.”
The receiver clicked up, terminating the conversation. But the Agent’s pulse beat had increased. The lawyer’s matter-of-fact words had told him several things. The most important was that there was to be some sort of secret meeting tonight in Chicago. The “matter” which Tasha Merlo had brought to Van Camp’s attention was in the Agent’s mind undoubtedly his own visit to her house. It had been “taken care of” when two killers had been engaged to shoot him out of the sky. Did this mean that Van Camp was the Octopus?
THEN the lawyer phoned again. This time the conversation seemed more cryptic than before.
“All our directors will be there, I understand, Mr. Harding. The same place at the same time. No, nothing serious. Yes, a very good gesture. It should promote interest and faith substantially.” Van Camp’s laugh sounded, a strange, dry chuckle.
The receiver clicked up a second time. Van Camp broke into a tuneless whistle. Agent “X’s” thoughts raced. A board of directors. A chairman. Van Camp then was only one of several directors. But the place where the meeting would be held had not been mentioned. And if he waited and followed Van Camp this evening it might be too late.
One of the fantastically daring plans that made Agent “X” an investigator extraordinary formulated in his mind. Gas pistol in hand, he walked softly along the hallway. He was in the very doorway of the room where Van Camp was, before the lawyer turned and saw him.
An expression of utter amazement made Van Camp’s face muscles sag. Then, with a movement fast as the head of a striking snake, the lawyer reached toward his open bag.
“Don’t,” said Agent “X” harshly. “Lift your hands, Van Camp.” The muzzle of his gas gun emphasized the command. The tone of his voice was unrelenting. But it was the strange, piercing quality of the Agent’s eyes that seemed to hold Van Camp spellbound, as though they radiated a force and magnetism which the lawyer could not combat. Slowly his hands went up. The gaze that he fixed upon the Agent was like that of a cornered rat.
“What — what do you want?” he gasped.
“A little information,” said “X.” “Just where is this directors’ meeting you came to attend tonight, and what time does it take place?”
All color drained from the lawyer’s face. The skin seemed to tighten along his cheek bones till his head looked like a skull.
“Who are you?” His voice was so low that it barely whispered through the still air of the room.
“Never mind — answer my questions.”
Van Camp’s lips pressed together. Slowly he shook his head. He waited rigidly like a man who expects death, a man who knows there is no possible alternative. For long seconds Agent “X” stared into his eyes.
“You will not speak. You are afraid of the Octopus!”
The words only deepened the deathly look on Van Camp’s face. Agent “X,” a masterly judge of human actions, knew that here was a man whose lips were sealed by a fear so great that no threat could open them. Fear would not make him babble like the craven Quade. He knew more than Quade. For that reason he would say less. Agent “X” acted quickly.
His finger tightened around the trigger of the gas gun. A jet of vapor spurted into Van Camp’s face. His body sagged, and he fell soundlessly to the floor. To all intents and purposes he was dead; but the effects of the gas pistol would wear off in twenty minutes. Van Camp would then be himself again.
Agent “X” went through the lawyer’s luggage quickly, studied everything in his pockets including the mail he had received. There was nothing which could in any way prove that Van Camp was other than he appeared — a respectable, hard-working criminal lawyer.
Agent “X” had half expected this. The brain behind this criminal was too clever to let any member carry incriminating evidence. But “X” had come prepared. Knowing that all depended on finding out Van Camp’s connection with the stock-selling scheme, he had brought an instrument of investigation which he seldom used. This was a bottle of small greenish capsules; a preparation of that drug known to the medical profession as sodium amytol. The Agent knew its history. It had been used successfully in psychopathic clinics. Often it was used in place of ether as an anaesthetic for minor operations.
It had a peculiar effect similar to that of hypnosis. The patient, with no sensation of pain, no consciousness that he could remember after he awoke, would answer truthfully questions put to him. This was why psychiatrists had employed it to get at the root of fixations in their patients’ minds.
“X” poured a glass of water, lifted Van Camp’s head, deposited two of the capsules on his tongue and made him swallow them. He propped Van Camp up on the sofa, looked at his own watch. In a matter of twenty minutes he would learn the location and time set for the Octopus’s strange board of directors’ meeting.
Chapter XVI
THAT night a man who appeared to be Van Camp drove along Roosevelt Road. He was headed toward the suburb of Cicero, a peaceful section of manufacturing plants, homes, schools, churches. Once it had been the scene of the bloodiest gangster battles in American history. Swaggering overlords of crime, in the palmy days of prohibition, had ruled here until underworld bullets cut short their careers. The faces of many buildings were still pock-marked with machine-gun slugs. Citizens could still point to the precise spots where famous racketeers had dropped in their tracks.
Secret Agent “X” had obtained the information he wanted from Van Camp. He had learned where the meeting of the Octopus’s strange band was to take place. He had learned the time schedule, memorized the mysterious passwords and signals. Now, disguised daringly as Van Camp, he was on his way to face death.