Bates’ voice betrayed a slight tinge of excitement. “It’s one of my operatives, sir, who has been shadowing the men who were present at headquarters today. We’ve got dictographs planted in their homes and this operative who has been working on John Lacey, overheard him telling his wife the contents of a message which he had just received from Commissioner Foster. It appears that Foster wants all of them to meet him tonight. It seems that there is some development that is so important he can’t even tell them about it in the letter.”
THE Agent thanked Bates, instructed him: “Continue to have all those men shadowed. Will get in touch with you again.”
After he had said good-bye to Bates, the Agent dialed Betty Dale’s number at the Herald. Though it was quite late, she had not gone home, but had waited for his call.
“I can’t meet you now, Betty,” he told her. “But there is a point you may be able to help me on. Do you know anything about Lola Lollagi, the Paraguayan dancer?”
“Yes. I handle most of the interviews with women, and it happens that I was getting up a little feature article on her for next Sunday. There isn’t much known about her. She has been very reticent since she came to this country, not disclosing much about her past life. Of course we know that she was a great attraction in Asuncion—”
“I know about that,” the Agent told her. “What do you know about her doings since she arrived here?”
“She’s very beautiful. Many men have been interested in her, particularly Oscar Stanton, the stock speculator. For the last month since she has been in this country, he has managed to meet her every night when the theatre closed, but she never permits him to take her home. They go out a little together, but that is all. The doorman at the stage entrance told me that much about her. Beyond that, little is known about how she spends her spare time. I was anticipating having a tough job dragging information from her.”
“You say,” the Agent repeated thoughtfully, “that Oscar Stanton has been very much interested in her?”
“That’s right. But it doesn’t seem as if she returns his interest.”
“Thank you,” the Agent said. “Suppose you go home now, and get some rest.”
Betty’s voice was eager, lively. “I’m not the least bit tired. If you think I can be of any further use, I’ll gladly—”
“No, Betty. I think that the matter I am working on will rush through to a swift conclusion now. Your aid has been invaluable.”
“Well then, if you don’t think you’ll need me any more, maybe I’ll run over to the Gotham Theatre and try to get that interview from Lola Lollagi.”
“No, no,” the Agent said hastily. “Suppose you put off getting that interview for a day or so. In exchange, I’ll promise you a first page scoop.”
“It’s a bargain,” Betty laughed lightly. “I’ll go home. But don’t forget your promise. And—” her voice lost its banter, grew suddenly serious—“you will be careful? If anything should happen—” a close listener might have detected a hint of a sob—“I—”
“You must not think of those things, Betty.” The Agent’s voice was hard, deliberately stern. He had schooled himself long ago to repress every softer emotion within himself, to kill it, to subordinate it, to the duty he owed to society.
He walked slowly from the store, reentered his coupé.
Chapter XI
SECRET AGENT “X” drove to another one of his apartments, changed his disguise back to that of Victor Randall. He left by a side door, and did not use the coupé again, but took a taxicab. If he had been followed without his knowledge, the watcher would continue to keep an eye on that coupé.
Once in the taxicab, the Agent gave the address of Oscar Stanton’s home. Stanton was the one man who had refused to stay at headquarters for the conference with Secret Agent “X.” It was Stanton who had announced his intention of paying Doctor Blood rather than rely upon police protection or upon the assistance of Secret Agent “X.” The fact that Stanton was interested in Lola Lollagi further made him a focus of interest for the Agent.
When he arrived at Stanton’s imposing home, “X” was admitted by the manservant who recognized him at once as Victor Randall. Randall and Stanton, of course, knew each other well.
Stanton was apparently in a state of great excitement. He greeted “X” loudly and effusively — a little too loudly, and a little too effusively, the Agent decided.
Stanton’s face was flushed, his collar wilted from perspiration. His eyes did not meet “X’s,” but kept wandering about, never resting upon any one object. However, the hand with which he offered a whiskey and soda to the Agent was quite steady. “X” wondered if he was really as excited as he appeared.
“What’s been happening to you, Randall? What’s this about your being kidnaped from headquarters after Patterson was killed?”
“X” shrugged. “I don’t know any more about it than you do, Stanton. He knocked me unconscious, and carried me out — must have been as a shield for him, because I came to about an hour later lying in an alley not far from headquarters.” The Agent watched Stanton carefully as he told him this story, to see if he believed it
Apparently the stock speculator did, for he said casually: “You were pretty lucky, Randall. The others didn’t get off so easy when they got in his hands. But maybe he only kills on schedule, and you’re number seventeen. You have another week to live.”
They sipped their drinks in silence for a few minutes. Then Stanton said in a queer voice: “What brings you here anyway, Randall? I should think you’d be traveling around with a police guard, or staying safely at home.”
“X” appeared to be hesitant about speaking. Then he said: “I’ll tell you, Stanton. Ever since I came to in that alley, I’ve been thinking about this business, wondering whether it pays to defy this Doctor Blood. You’ve been talking about paying up—”
Stanton nodded. He said slowly: “I’ve already made arrangements to pay.”
“That’s why I came,” “X” told him. “Suppose I also wanted to pay. Could you arrange it for me?”
Stanton held his glass arrested in mid-air. For the space of perhaps two minutes, he did not speak, but his eyes suddenly lost their shiftiness, studied “X” as if he would probe to the very depths of his innermost thoughts.
He said, rather as a statement than as a question: “So you want to pay, too. I think — it can be arranged.”
“X” acted the part of Randall to perfection. He assumed an air of terrified anxiety. “Do you think he’d take my money — and leave me alone?”
Stanton nodded slowly, still studying his guest “Yes.”
“When — would I have to pay it over?”
“Tonight, Randall. If you can get the money and bring it over in an hour, I will pay it over for you.”
“Everything — is arranged? You’re sure it’ll be all right?”
“Quite sure.” Stanton nodded toward a theatre ticket that lay on the end table beside him. “See that ticket? It’s for the balcony box at the Gotham Theatre tonight. I go there often.” Stanton’s eyes again avoided “X’s.” “There’s an actress there that I’m especially interested in — and Doctor Blood seems to know it. I’m to sit in that box, and place the package of money in my hat which I will put on the floor. After the show, I am to stay in the box for ten minutes. During that ten minutes, some one will reach in and take the money from the hat. If you bring me your cash, I’ll put it in with mine, and place a note there saying it’s from you.”