“Oui, ma chère,” he said in a voice husky with weariness, “the terrorists had me trapped. They caught me at Union Station, and took me into the country to kill me. I fought hard and got away, but — they shot me. It is only a flesh wound as you see.”
The girl’s cheeks flushed suddenly. “We’ll go to South America or China,” she said. “We’ll disappear from sight. In some far-off place we’ll find our happiness, living for each other. I don’t ask for anything more, Remy dear. My social life would be so empty, so meaningless, without you. My guardian would send us money. Then, when the terrorists have been put down by the police, we can return!”
“X” saw that Paula Rockwell visioned herself in a romantic role. It seemed as though she were quoting gushy motion-picture dialogue. He wondered if she would feel like a heroine after six months of obscurity in a Shanghai hideout, such as she probably pictured. How much would she have loved de Ronfort without his title? The girl was frightened, but the Agent believed her tears were more the product of hysteria than sorrow.
“I can’t go out of the city, Paula,” said “X” bitterly. “Every station, every road, every ship will be watched by the terrorists. I am lost, my dear, lost!”
He told of the capture, omitting the part he himself had played, and painting de Ronfort as a hero. No use disillusioning the girl now.
Paula’s eyes flashed when she heard the story. It added glamour to her Count. She could not prevent an expression of disappointment, though, when she learned that the China trip was impossible. She was a gullible creature, with merely a surface sophistication that was sufficient for her own trivial set. Knowing nothing of de Ronfort’s criminal activities, she believed all “X” told her.
“You must come home,” she pleaded. “You need me now. Daddy will know what to do.”
“No,” responded the Agent. “You are kind, ma chère, so kind. But that is too much. Your guardian is a man of position, of wealth. And he has troubles of his own. With his affliction and his age, it is unfair for me to burden him with my problems. Let me fight this out, Paula. It seems hopeless, but I’ll face the danger stoutly.”
The Agent said that for effect, knowing that the girl would be insistent. He wanted to be seen with her. And, if Karloff had any doubts about de Ronfort’s death, he would have spies watching the Blake penthouse. This would further the Agent’s desperate plan of using himself as human bait to get on Karloff’s trail again.
Shortly he was entering the Blake apartment. The old financier was sitting in his wheel chair on the terrace. Whitney Blake had a guest, and the person was Silas Howe, the reformer.
Howe was still ranting about the drug evil, which was spreading like a plague. Newspapers were filled with murders, riots, scandals laid to the deadly drug blight. Howe had a flare for publicity. Daily he appeared in the headlines with his latest outburst. A dark thought suddenly came to the Secret Agent’s mind. Could it possibly be that Howe’s vehemence was a beautiful pose, an almost perfect cover? Not one word of suspicion had “X” heard against Howe; but Howe had come carrying a gun on the night of the party. Was it solely fear of the drug ring that made him go about armed?
The Agent watched the reformer closely while the girl blurted out the story of the terrorists. Howe’s reaction was one of shock. Either he was a marvelous actor or his manner was genuine, for “X” could detect nothing false in it. If he were connected with the gang that had killed de Ronfort, the long-nosed crusader would know about the shooting. Yet not by so much as the flicker of an eyelid did he betray that he might have such knowledge.
Whitney Blake pounded his cane on the tile floor of the terrace and kept shaking his head while the girl talked.
“Bad,” he muttered, “bad. You must stay here, Remy, I’ll hire detectives to watch the penthouse night and day. You must have an armed bodyguard.”
“I couldn’t think of staying here, air,” answered the Agent quickly. “It’s my own battle. I don’t want you and Paula endangered, too. Why, those terrorists might even blow up this building.”
Blake mulled over the prospect for a while.
“I’ll have to take that risk,” he said grimly. “I’ll employ more watchmen, and take every precaution. But I insist that you stay. After what you’ve been through, you need rest and quiet and care.”
But “X” refused. There was so much to be done. He wanted to find Karloff’s band again. He had proved to his own satisfaction that Paula Rockwell knew nothing of the dead Count’s criminal activities.
WHEN the Secret Agent left the penthouse, to the protests of old Blake and his ward, Silas Howe went with him to the elevator.
“Count de Ronfort,” said the reformer, “I think you are very unwise to go about in public, while these terrorists are at large. You are in danger of assassination. I beg you to come to my apartment right here in this building. There you will find refuge, and there you will be able to visit your fiancée whenever you like.”
The Agent’s pulse quickened. He looked into Howe’s eyes,
“I am deeply grateful for your offer,” he said politely, “but my nature forbids me from imperiling others. I will go to the French consul for advice. Perhaps I will leave the country with a bodyguard via airplane.”
Howe’s eyebrows raised a little. “X” noticed a sudden flare of interest in the man’s eyes. He wished he knew what thoughts were running behind them.
After “X” spoke of fleeing by airplane, Howe did not press him to stay at his apartment. The Agent took his leave quickly.
On the street he got into a taxi. Midway up the block he drew a small mirror from his pocket and held it so that it reflected what was on the street behind him. Then his heart leaped.
Not far behind was a car carrying two vicious-looking men. By their manner “X” knew they were following him! To make sure, he directed the cabman to drive around the block. The other car kept close in the rear all the way.
The Agent’s lips tightened to a hard, thin line. A tingle of apprehension went through him. Those men might drive up alongside, and blast away with a machine gun. Then not only his own plans would be defeated, but an innocent cabman would meet death. Such an attack was easily possible. To their minds, they had failed once, and this time they would be out to do a thorough job. Yet he was pleased, too. His disguise had served its purpose. These men must be some of Karloff’s gang, set as spies to verify the Count’s death.
A couple of blocks farther on, the cars stopped for a traffic light. One of the mobsters got out of the pursuing auto and ran toward a cigar store. The Agent believed he had gone to telephone other members of the mob.
The second man drove on when the lights changed. At the next intersection, a big truck cut in ahead of the gangster car. “X” was quick to take advantage.
He left a bill on the seat of the taxi, and with the truck cutting off the gangster’s view, the Agent quietly and dexterously opened the door and slipped out. He moved rapidly through the crowd on the sidewalk and entered a large drug store on the corner.
In a telephone booth, he hurriedly changed to one of his stock disguises, put on a light-haired wig, and reshaped the hat. When he came out he was a blond, with none of the characteristics of a Frenchman.
He rushed out an exit that led into the corridor of an office building. The entrance opened onto the sidewalk below the cigar store the gangster had entered. “X” stood inconspicuously in the doorway of the haberdashery until the mobster emerged from the cigar store.
Then the Agent stepped out and followed the man. Once again he was on the trail of the Karloff gang. What would be at the end of that trail? The finish of the drug ring? Or a marble slab for the bullet-riddled corpse of Secret Agent “X”?