He checked through his records of every single one of those twenty-five convicts who had escaped from State Prison, familiarizing himself with the habits and recorded peculiarities of each. He consulted voluminous indexes and cross-indexes, searching down every little detail that came to his attention.
IT was well on in the morning when he laid sway the last record with an air of decisiveness. Purposefully he picked up the newspaper once more and sought for a certain item. He found it, crowded to the second page by the news of Mabel Boling’s death. It announced that the so-called robot killer who had been captured the night before at the bazaar would be arraigned at eleven o’clock in the morning before a judge of the Court of General Sessions.
The reason for this quick arraignment, it was stated, was because of a writ of habeas corpus which had been secured by the defendant’s attorney.
And the name of the attorney, which stared up at “X” out of the printed page with a sinister implication, was the name of the man he had talked to at the bazaar — Edward Runkle! Runkle was defending the murder monster’s man — Runkle, the shrewdest criminal lawyer in the city, who boasted that no client of his had ever gone to the chair!
Automatically, the Agent read the last few lines of the item, which stated that though the defendant had been grilled intensely by the police and the district attorney, he had refused to make any kind of statement — had, in fact, sat there without opening his mouth, just like the robot he had been previously supposed to be!
The Agent consulted his wrist watch, noted that it was eight-thirty. He left the apartment, drove to a drug store a few blocks away that was just opening for the morning. Here he entered one of the phone booths and dialed a number. It was the number of the Hobart Detective Agency, a new and highly successful inquiry bureau. Its head was a young, red-headed former patrolman; and though he had only been in business for a short time, he employed more than fifty operatives all over the country. Nobody suspected that Hobart, though ostensibly the boss, took his orders from the obscure newspaperman, A. J. Martin. And Hobart himself did not know that A. J. Martin was — Secret Agent “X.”
Though it was only eight-thirty, Hobart was on the job, and his voice came cheerfully over the wire.
When he learned who was on the phone, he said, “Gosh, chief, there’s big doings. Did you see the papers?”
“I did. And there’s plenty of work for you.”
“On the murder monster case?”
“Yes. Here’s what I want you to do. Get hold of half a dozen of your men. Be sure they are well armed. Have them ready for duty in the corridor at the Court of General Sessions by ten o’clock, at the opening of court.
“Don’t use any local operatives who might be known to the police — phone out of town, have six or seven outside operatives fly in; they should be able to get here by ten o’clock. By the time they get here, you will receive by messenger written instructions as to what to do. Carry out those instructions to the letter!”
“Depend on me, chief.”
“The orders may sound peculiar, Jim, but it’s imperative that you follow them implicitly. It may even seem to you that you are acting in a way to frustrate the law — but you must carry the orders through. Do you understand?”
“I understand perfectly, chief. I ought to know by this time that anything you do is okay. You figuring to take that killer out of court by force? If you say so, I’ll do it.”
“Not exactly by force, Jim; but I suspect that the ‘Murder Monster,’ as you call him, will make an attempt to rescue him — or kill him. He has so far succeeded in murdering everybody who might be able to betray him. There is no doubt that he will try to do the same in court today. We must stop him!”
“Okay, chief. By the way — have you seen Leane recently? I’ve been so busy I haven’t had a chance. And I’m worried about her, working in that fast night club of Marcy’s, especially since he’s been tied up by the police with this murder monster. Also, I understand that this Mr. Vardis that you recommended her to has been hanging around her a lot. Is he okay?”
“Leane will be all right,” the Agent assured him. “She needn’t work at the Diamond Club any longer. And Mr. Vardis won’t see her any more — he’s gone on a long trip. From now on she can work with you, directly under my orders. How’s that?”
“Swell, chief!”
Chapter X
THE Court of General Sessions was a scene of bustling activity that morning. In Part 1, on the first floor, where the captured robot killer was to be arraigned later that morning, two uniformed guards stood at the door. Nobody was admitted unless he had business in the court room. Spectators were barred because of the dangerous character of the killer.
Inside the court room, though spectators were not admitted, all the seats were filled with attorneys and witnesses in the various cases scheduled on the calendar for the day. The judge had not yet appeared, but Chief Assistant District Attorney Fenton, tall, gaunt, stern, a relentless prosecutor, was already seated at the long table inside the enclosure before the bench. He was going through a sheaf of papers, stopping every few moments to converse with his two clerks who hovered around him.
He looked up, frowning, as the bald-headed, oily Ed Runkle approached him.
“Hello, Joe,” Runkle greeted him. “How’s tricks?”
Fenton grunted an answer. He had nothing but contempt for Runkle’s breed of lawyer, who would accept as a client the most vicious enemy of society, provided a fee accompanied the case. But Runkle’s tremendous political connections made it unwise to antagonize him.
“I’m busy, Runkle. Is there anything you want?”
“What time is my client’s case coming up this morning?” the lawyer asked.
Fenton ran his finger down the calendar to the line which read: “People vs. John Doe — motion on writ of habeas corpus.”
“It should be reached about eleven, Runkle — after the call of the calendar and the sentencing of convicted defendants.”
“Can’t you move it up a little, Fenton?” Runkle was smiling ingratiatingly now. “I have another case on in Brooklyn, and I’d like to get away early.”
The D. A. put down his papers, glared up at the little lawyer, and exclaimed impatiently, “Why should I do anything for you? You know damn well that this man is a murderer — he was caught red-handed at the bazaar. Yet you ask for a writ of habeas corpus! You know damn well that you’re only doing it so as to prevent the police from grilling him further. You know he’ll never be discharged.”
Runkle shrugged. “I’m only doing my duty as an attorney.” He added unctuously, “Every man is entitled to be considered innocent until he is convicted by a jury; and it’s his privilege to be brought before a judge within forty-eight hours.”
“Sure, sure!” Fenton said bitterly. “You know the law inside and out. Of course it’s your privilege. But did you consider that in forcing us to bring him here out of the security of the jail, you make it possible for his associates to rescue him? For all we know, they may be planning to attack us here the way they attacked the bazaar last night!”
“I’m sorry if you feel that way about it,” Runkle said, getting ugly. “If you don’t like the law, why don’t you get yourself elected to the legislature and change it? You don’t care if a man is guilty or innocent — all you want is convictions to build up your record!”
Fenton sprang to his feet, face purple. “You know that’s a lie, Runkle! For that matter, how about you? You’d use every quirk of the law to get your client out, even if you knew he was as guilty as hell! How about this case? Who hired you? Who paid your fee?” He shook an apoplectic finger under the little lawyer’s nose. “I’m going to put you on the stand and make you tell us who hired you! It’s birds like you that make it so easy for criminals!”