Devrite, cigarette trailing smoke between his long fingers, observed the second man. He was tall and broad at the shoulders; high cheekbones and depth of eye-socket gave him a distinguished foreign look. And when Devrite caught some of his words the tall man spoke with a German accent. Through a burst of other sounds he heard one of the girls cry: “Oh, Count von Hult, you’re so funny!”
“Count” von Hult — he wondered if the rangy man was really a noble. Von Hult was elegant in full dress with white tie and boiled shirt, patent leather slippers gleaming with the sheen of his carefully plastered black hair.
It was a tiresome wait. Devrite’s ears buzzed with talk and vibrations of swing music; he ordered drink after drink to justify holding his table. It was 11 P.M. when the party left but instead of breaking up they repaired to a smaller nightclub.
Close to 1 A.M. they dropped the girls at a cheap hotel. In a following taxi Devrite trailed them up Fifth Avenue to the 80’s. There were many private homes left here and von Hult and Evans stopped at one. Devrite shrank back in the seat as the count stared at the passing cab. He let his driver go on around the corner, dismissed the taxi and strolled back — the cab von Hult and Evans had come in was gone and so were the two men.
Devrite walked slowly toward Madison. There was a high grille gate at the far side of the house into which his quarry had gone. Cars hummed on the avenues and a passing man’s feet clacked in the side street. Devrite paused just an instant to try the gate but it was locked so he kept on, turned left on Madison and found a delivery entry. He could work through the rear courts — some of the houses retained vestiges of yards.
Coming to the graystone by this back route he could look along a narrow alley with the house to the right and the high blank stone wall of an apartment on the left and see the front gate.
Devrite was now suspicious. He thought it strange that a man of von Hult’s evident wealth should associate with a poorly paid young bank teller.
He wondered if Waite had discovered von Hult — or did Robert Evans have other companions. This might be a blind trail but his interest in “Count” von Hult justified fuller investigation. The house windows were barred — usual here. He passed along the narrow cement walk; there was the dark recess of a side door and he paused to crane up at a dim-lit window—
The pain was excruciating, the pain of that sharp pistol barrel raking down his temple and cheek, mashing his upper lip against his teeth; the shock to his nervous system was so sudden his cry choked off in his throat and warm blood spurted inside his macerated mouth.
For a moment he fought by instinct, the instinct an animal has to defend itself. Then he saw the dark blur of his attacker and just managed to get up his forearm between his head and the again descending pistol barrel. He realized he had to do with a criminal; an honest man on guard would not have attacked without warning in that virulent fashion — had Devrite not paused to stare up at the window the steel would have hit him square in the temple and he would now be through, finished, like Waite—
Trained in jujutsu and the fine tricks of disarming an opponent Devrite could act as well as think with lighting speed. The man evidently wished to knock him out and not disturb the neighborhood. A guttural German curse — Devrite spoke it as well as French and Spanish — told him he was dealing with a friend of von Hult’s.
“You sneag!” growled his enemy. “I seen you try de gate—”
II
In the light shaft from the window which hit the stone wall of the apartment next door he saw the frowning face of his adversary. For the moment, Devrite was underdog but he had stopped that second crushing blow and his wits had come back. He was a much faster man than the thickset German; his right hand caught the automatic pistol, thumb ramming between the flat hammer all the way back and the firing-pin of the cartridge.
He fell away, pulling the German with him and, landing on his spine, shot his bent legs into the other’s belly, carrying him on over. Since Devrite held to the gun, the German was violently slewed around and his head struck the house wall; he grunted and jerked at Devrite and the secret agent had his thumb torn as it ripped out from the hammer.
Devrite was down; he realized the German would fire as soon as he could raise the gun muzzle. His hands clawed at his enemy’s right arm — the German was coming to a sitting posture from which he could shoot. Devrite heard his teeth grit together and he threw his body weight in as the German pulled the trigger.
The big automatic roared in Devrite’s eyes and he felt the impact of ravished air. It stunned him. He found he still held to the German’s right wrist, pressing it in, but the arm was limp and the man’s head dropped on his breast — he had pulled the trigger to kill Devrite, but the secret agent’s swift move had caused the slug to enter the gunman’s vitals.
Devrite came up on his knees, shaking his head from side to side, ears roaring. To him the explosion had seemed scattering; he believed it must wake the dead to say nothing of sleepers in surrounding houses. But as the seconds ticked off he heard no cries for police — he realized that in a motor-ridden city cracking explosions passed as backfires. The public was used to detonating reports through the streets. The gun muzzle had been pressed against the German and the clothing would act partially as a silencer.
He was piqued. More than anything he had wished to avenge Waite, and to do all he could to aid Mrs. Evans. This untoward incident might well ruin his plans, warn the killers—
He swung as the window slid up overhead. Von Hult, a pearl-handled pistol in hand, looked out and demanded harshly in German: “What is it? Is Herman with you?”
“Excellency,” replied Devrite humbly — he knew von Hult must have been aware of that guard or he would not have used the German, and Devrite answered in that tongue — “Herman is not here.”
“So, he’s at the place then. He sent you to guard me. Very well. Did you fire a shot?”
“No, sir,” replied Devrite gutturally. “A car passing backfired.” He looked up at the dark shadowed face — the window light touched Devrite but the dead man was well out of von Hult’s angle of vision.
“Stay dose,” ordered von Hult in his Junker tone of command — he spoke as a highborn one to a serf. “I will need you.” He drew back and shut the window.
Devrite inhaled a deep breath of the cooling night air. For the moment he had staved off exposure. But the guard’s disappearance would alarm von Hult sooner or later. It was evident the count had an aide named Herman who supplied henchmen all of whom von Hult did not know.
He meant to solve Waite’s murder; and he could not get out of his mind the figure of Mrs. Evans who might suffer the worst of human agonies over her son. He was urged on by a burning, vital necessity; speed was now essential because of the dead guard.
Why had not Waite’s capture warned von Hult — provided von Hult’s bunch was responsible for the agent’s death? The German he had collided with might have been set because of Waite but they evidently were persistent with Robert Evans. He concluded that they could not have known Waite was a police agent, if they killed him.
He bent over the dead German, hoisted the heavy body on his back and staggered to the rear. He went through a gate and down steps, bent double under the load. Hidden from view by two converging walls he switched on his fountain-pen flashlight. The German was coarse of feature, of peasant stock. Devrite’s beam stopped at the thick hands: he had a distinct mental shock as he saw the fingernails were stained green.