Once more he was in the role of John Harder, fugitive from justice, friend of Gilly, the gunman. He had confidence in the perfection of his disguise, in his knowledge of the characteristics of the man he was impersonating, for he had studied them thoroughly. He would have felt a good deal less confident, however, had he possessed knowledge of a fact not yet reported to the police — the fact that John Harder, the man he was impersonating tonight, was dead! Harder had accidentally shot himself in the leg while examining a machine gun. Harder had fallen on the Tommy, had for two days lain in the lonely hut where he was hiding out, until two of his gang returned. But Harder was dead when they found him — for gangrene had set in. The two pals took his body and buried it in a barren field near the hut. That was the end of Harder.
Gilly, many miles away in State Prison, got word of that event by means of the grapevine telegraph of the underworld, because he was known to be a one-time pal of Harder’s. And so, though Secret Agent “X” did not know that he was impersonating a dead man, others did…
The Agent strolled up and down the street in front of Haley’s, wondering whether Linky Teagle had been there and gone, or whether he would soon appear. “X” was not unconscious of the possibility that this appointment might be a trap of some sort. He kept a wary eye out for passing automobiles from which a sub-machine gun might spout lead. He now carried an automatic holstered under his left armpit; and few could use it with a dexterity to equal his. He did not intend to inflict death if he could help it — yet it would come in handy if he were being “put on the spot.”
No overt attack was made, however. And soon a shadowy figure approached out of the misty night, came close. It was Linky Teagle. Teagle scanned his face, and grunted. “You got nerve, wandering around the city with a fat reward posted for you in every post office in town!”
“X” brushed the remark aside. “Well?” he demanded “How about Gilly?”
Teagle took his time about answering. “You got that two grand you promised?”
The Agent nodded. “I got it, right here.” He tapped the breast pocket of his coat.
Teagle’s face was eager. “Okay. Give us it, an’ I’ll take you to him!”
“X” brought out an envelope and handed it to the other. Teagle almost snatched it from his fingers, opened the flap and drew out the contents. Twenty crisp one hundred dollar bills. He looked up suspiciously. “This ain’t — swag from some hold-up, is it? Will I get my neck in a sling if I try to pass it?”
The Agent reassured him. “That ain’t hot money, Teagle. It’s good cash. You can change it in any bank in the city. Think I’m a sap?”
Teagle pocketed the money. “Okay, Harder. Come along.” He turned, proceeded up Eighth Avenue.
The Agent swung in beside him. “Where do we have to go?”
“Don’t ask so many questions!” the other growled. “You’ll see.”
They walked up two blocks, turned the corner and stopped before a small store with windows which had been frosted to prevent passers-by from looking in. The street was deserted, but “X” noted two doorways across the street, where the shadows seemed thicker than elsewhere. Also, as Teagle rang the bell at the door, the Agent saw two men appear out of a hallway several doors down.
These men strolled casually toward the store with frosted windows, their hands in their overcoat pockets. At the same time, the two shadows on the opposite side moved, resolved themselves into men, and started across. The Agent did not appear to notice all this, but he crowded closer to Linky, slid the automatic from his shoulder holster and put it into his coat pocket. He did not take his hand out of the pocket, but he looked significantly at Teagle.
Linky looked down at the bulge the automatic made close to his own side, looked up at “X”, and said, “What’s the idea, friend?”
“X” laughed harshly. “Just an old habit of mine when I go into strange places. You can never tell what’s on the cards.”
The door of the store opened to Teagle’s ring, and a big, heavy-set man with a walrus moustache looked inquiringly at them, then said, “Oh, hello, Linky. Come on in.” He turned and went back down the short, dark hall, motioning them to follow him.
Teagle said to the Agent, “This is where we meet your friend. You don’t have to worry about nothin’ happening. This joint is okay.”
“X” crowded in beside Linky, shut the door behind them so quickly that anybody outside who might have been waiting for a clear potshot at him would have been disappointed.
OUT in the street, the four shadows converged before the door. They did not ring the bell. No word was spoken among them. They seemed to be acting according to prearranged plan, and waited silently.
In a few moments the door opened, and the big man with the walrus moustache appeared again, stood aside for them to enter. They filed in past him and walked down the short hall. The big man closed the door, followed them into the lighted room at the end of the hall.
This was a barroom, with a small bar at one end. Near the bar was another door, which was closed. This other door led into a private room where guests could drink undisturbed, transact whatever private business they had.
The big man stepped behind the bar, saying nothing to the four who had entered. They stood near the wall now, hands in pockets, unmoving, their eyes on the door to the inner room. There was something peculiar about them — something that caused the bartender to shudder. They looked like brothers — and they walked stiffly, mechanically. There was nothing to indicate that they were human except four pair of eyes that glittered out of those faces with a merciless light that made the man with the walrus moustache feel, somehow, cold and clammy.
The four men waited stolidly, never speaking.
Presently the door of the inner room opened and Linky Teagle came out — alone. A shadow crossed his face — was it a shadow of fear? — as he saw those four silent figures. He gulped, looked away from them with an effort, and said to the bartender, “He took the doped drink like a fish: he’s out cold already.”
The bartender grinned nervously, rubbing his hands. “A Mickey Finn always works, Linky. Only I was afraid that guy was too slick to take it. He certainly fell fer the whole lay, just like a sap — expectin’ you to lead him to Gilly!” He glanced at the four men. “You can go in an’ get him now, boys.” He spoke diffidently, as if he almost thought they would not understand him.
But they did. One of them produced from his coat a capacious sugar sack, which he unfolded and shook out. It was large enough to hold an unconscious man. The four of them then advanced into the inner room.
The bartender peered over Teagle’s shoulder, glimpsed the inert form that lay with head on table, unconscious. He poured out two stiff jolts of whisky, handed one to Teagle, and downed his own at a gulp, sighed gustily. “I’m glad that’s over. Did you scratch his face to see if he had make-up?”
Teagle nodded. “It’s make-up all right, and damn clever. If I didn’t know for sure that Harder was dead, I’d swear it was him.”
The four men closed the inner door behind them as they went about their gruesome task of stuffing the inert form into the sack. The bartender shivered slightly. “God! Those guys give me the heeby-jeebies — they don’t seem to have no soul. They don’t talk or anything; they just look at you with those killer-eyes!”
Teagle’s eyes were on the inner door. He seemed to share some of the walrus-moustached one’s feelings, but he said nothing. He appeared tense, alert.