Fowler and Grace had been killed coldbloodedly, no doubt to allow the killer or killers a free hand in the house next door. The Agent’s eyes were bleak as he stepped to the window through which Grace had been watching, and looked across the narrow driveway to Number Twenty-two.
He saw a room there, corresponding to the one he was standing in. It was furnished as a sitting room — evidently Runkle thought that a ground floor sitting room might be too accessible to eavesdroppers.
At first glance it appeared that the room in there was vacant. “X” wondered if Runkle’s guests had also departed with the little attorney — but if they had, they certainly had not come in the green coupé with him; for there had been no one else in the car with Runkle.
And suddenly, from that room; across the driveway there came a deep moan as of a man dying in agony.
Almost before that moan was ended, the Agent had swung himself over the sill and leaped to the ground. He landed on his toes, and was in motion at once, running around to the front of Number Twenty-two. The front door was unlocked, and “X” hurled himself through into the dim hallway within. He raced up the stairs to the upper floor, and as he reached the top landing, he saw the bloody, wabbling figure of a man stagger out of the sitting room. In the uncertain light it was impossible to identify him, but the Agent saw that the man held a gun. The gun came up, wavering, pointed at the Agent, and the narrow hallway rocked with the heavy explosions as the man in the doorway fired again and again, keeping his finger down on the trigger.
But “X” had dropped to the floor at first sight of the gun in the man’s hand, and the slugs whined over his head harmlessly, burying themselves in the opposite wall. Eight times the gun roared in quick succession; and then, when the Agent knew that the clip was empty, he launched himself from the floor in a flying tackle that brought down the man in the doorway, landed them both in a tangled heap inside the sitting room.
Secret Agent “X” grappled with the man, was surprised to find him offering no resistance; the man lay flat on his back, breathing heavily, gasping, almost sobbing. High above his heart was a bullet wound, and it was miraculous that he had lasted long enough to stagger through the doorway.
It was lighter in here, for the sun came in through the window on the driveway, and “X’s” lips compressed as he saw the man’s face. It was “Duke” Marcy!
Marcy’s eyes were assuming a glassy look. His chest heaved with each breath he took, and he expelled it with a long wheeze. His lips were moving weakly.
The Agent raised his head, demanded, “Who shot you, Marcy?”
The dying man tried to form words, in fact, uttered several faintly, but so low that they were indistinguishable. There was a raucous rattle in his throat, and his head dropped back. He was dead.
From outside now, “X” heard the sound of a police whistle, of excited shouts. There were heavy steps on the stairs, and a uniformed policeman burst in with drawn gun. He covered the Agent, ordering, “Get up, you, and raise your hands!”
“X” shrugged and obeyed. He knew what the policeman thought — that he had killed Marcy.
He said, “I did not kill this man, officer. I heard him groan and ran into the house. I found him here with a gun in his hand, dying on his feet.”
The policeman lowered at him. “Yeah?” He kept the revolver steady. “That’s a good story. You can tell it to the homicide men!”
Brakes squealed outside, more feet were heard on the stairs. “X” glanced around the room, and for the first time saw another form huddled in a corner where it had been invisible from the window across the street. The man was Brinz — he recognized him from the description Bates had given him.
The Agent’s brow wrinkled in thought. Fowler and Grace killed in cold blood; Marcy and Brinz murdered here — and Runkle driving away at breakneck speed. There were puzzling elements here that needed clearing up. Runkle had been in this very room, according to reports; it was inconceivable that he could have gone across to the empty house, shot Fowler and Grace, and returned to do the same to Marcy and Brinz. He must have had assistance, if he were the murderer. In that case, the thing must have been planned in advance — must have been a trap into which Marcy walked unsuspectingly.
Now, the room filled with uniformed figures. A precinct sergeant, several plain-clothes men, and in a few moments, Inspector Cleary, in charge of the Brooklyn homicide division. The policeman who had arrived first made his report to Cleary. The inspector heard it, frowning, then said to the Agent, “What’s your name?”
“I am Arvold Fearson, inspector, a private investigator. I did not kill—”
The inspector interrupted him gruffly. “Stow that. You’re under arrest, Fearson. The charge is murder. I warn you that anything you say may be used against you!”
Chapter XVII
ESCAPE was impossible now. The room was filled with police, they were swarming through the house, and more were coming. “X” permitted himself to be handcuffed, maintaining silence. Nothing he could say now would induce Cleary to release him. Later, perhaps, a method of escape would present itself. Now, he remained quiet while a sergeant “frisked” him.
The sergeant felt the texture of the custom-made suit he wore, and frowned, but said nothing. He ran big hands over the Agent’s person, and found the gas gun which reposed in an inner pocket built into the lining of the coat. He examined it curiously, and was about to ask a question, when Cleary, who had been phoning headquarters, returned from the phone.
Cleary told the sergeant, “Commissioner Pringle wants to question this man personally, Frazer. This man, Marcy, was wanted as a suspect in the robot murders, and the commissioner thinks this bird ought to know something about them.”
Sergeant Frazer saluted. “This gun, sir—”
Cleary waved him away. “Take it down to headquarters with you and give it to the commissioner. I’ve got nothing more to do with the case. It’s been taken out of my hands.”
The inspector was plainly peeved that he had been superseded in the investigation. His mood saved “X” the immediate necessity of explaining away the gas gun.
Sergeant Frazer and two plain-clothes men escorted the Agent down to a squad car in front of the door. Frazer sat in front next to the chauffeur, while “X” was placed in the rear seat between the two detectives.
“Over the Brooklyn Bridge,” Frazer directed the chauffeur, “to New York headquarters.”
As the car got under way, the Agent saw the medical examiner arrive together with a headquarters photographer. Nobody had mentioned the bodies of Fowler and Grace next door. Apparently they hadn’t got to the empty house as yet.
While they traveled toward Manhattan, Frazer leaned forward and turned on the button of the short-wave radio receiver. Several routine calls came over, and then after a few moments these were drowned out by a powerful sending set somewhere. The Agent stiffened as he heard the voice of Bates.
“Station ‘X’ calling. Station ‘X’ calling!”
There was a moment of silence after the signal, when the regular police calls became audible again.
Frazer swore. “There’s that damn station again! They haven’t been able to locate it yet. Some damn amateur. When they locate him, he’ll get plenty!”
The detective at the right of the Agent started to say something, but stopped as Bates’s voice once more drowned out the police messages.
Slowly the alternate French, German and English words came over the short wave, sounding like nothing but the meaningless jargon of a deranged mind.
Frazer grumbled, “Let him have his fun. They’ll let him fix radios in jail when he’s caught!”