“We seen you slip into the cottage,” the man with the gun said. “We heard Peters hollerin’. What’s goin’ on here?”
“Look and see,” said “X” quietly.
The man in the chauffeur’s uniform did so, while the other held the gun unwaveringly on “X.” A hoarse, horrified curse came from the open door of the cottage.
“Good God! — Peters has been murdered!”
“Murdered!” the gardener’s eyes glinted. “We got the killer here, Jake. Hold the gun on him while I take a look.”
The chauffeur came out, trembling violently. The whites of his eyes were showing. His lips were blue. When he took the gun, his hands shook so that “X” thought he might pull the trigger accidentally.
The gardener went in. He, too, swore and came out like a man who has seen a ghost.
“Tortured,” he said. “This devil scratched him up first and killed him afterwards.”
He jerked the gun from the chauffeur’s hands, jabbed its heavy muzzle against “X’s” body.
“Who are you? What did you do that to Peters for?”
Agent “X” spoke quietly again.
“I didn’t. It was another man — a man in a green mask!”
The gardener’s voice was a disbelieving snarl. “A likely story. Get going, you buzzard. We’ll wake the senator up — an’ tell him about this. We’ll turn you over to the cops.”
The Agent’s eyes burned like fire. He said nothing more — and he did not try to break away. He wanted to learn whose estate this was — which senator it belonged to. The dead man, Peters, had said that he worked for a “big gun.” In a moment “X” would meet the man — the person whom Peters thought had stolen the plans.
The gardener and the chauffeur conducted “X” along a path to the big house which loomed in the trees ahead. A light was burning in one of the top-floor windows.
“The senator’s still up, Jake,” said the gardener. “Run and get him down. Then open the back door. I’ll take this killer in.”
He held the shotgun close as the chauffeur sped off.
“I’d like to pull the trigger,” he snarled. “I’d like to blow you in two after what you did to Peters.”
TWO minutes passed. Lights flashed in the lower floor of the house. The kitchen door swung open.
“Bring him in. The senator’s down,” the chauffeur called out.
The gardener, still prodding “X” with the gun, marched him into the house and through the kitchen.
In a front room, a gaunt, saturnine-looking man in a dressing gown and slippers was waiting. Agent “X” recognized him at once. Senator Haden Rathborne.
The man’s deep-sunken eyes were burning. His thin lips were twisted. He fixed his piercing gaze on “X.”
“Who are you? What’s the meaning of this? They tell me you murdered Peters.”
Agent “X” was silent, and Senator Rathborne strode across the floor and came close.
“Keep the gun on him, Benstead. Shoot if he makes a move.”
Chin thrust forward, eyes glaring, Rathborne seemed to be trying to bore into “X’s” very soul. Agent “X” returned his stare calmly. He in turn was sizing up the senator. It was a dark rumor he had heard about Rathborne. Peters had said that the senator had threatened Captain Nelson’s life. But was it possible that Peters had made some mistake?
“Speak up,” said Rathborne. “Who are you?”
Still “X” was silent, and Rathborne gave an abrupt, harsh order.
“Search him, Jake.”
The chauffeur went through “X’s” pockets, brought out a wallet. But there was no name in it. He shook his head and passed it to the senator. Rathborne cursed angrily.
“I never saw him before. Did you, Jake?”
“No, sir.”
Senator Rathborne strode to a table, opened a drawer, and took out a gleaming revolver. There was a hard light in his eyes as he came back. He fingered the gun, came close and jabbed it against “X’s” chest.
“Speak now,” he said, “or I’ll kill you. What did you murder my superintendent, Peters, for?”
The expression on “X’s” face did not change. His disguise was still that of Renfew, the spy. So perfect was his make-up that even at close range it was not detectable as such. His eyes burned with a steady flame as he returned Senator Rathborne’s gaze. The man was strong-willed, almost a fanatic. “X” knew his political reputation as he did those of all United States senators. He made it a point to follow such things. He had well-catalogued files, innumerable notes.
He was facing one of the hardest-headed lawmakers in the country. Rathborne was a man of great independence, a senator of the old school. But would he dare kill a man in cold blood, even a man he thought was a murderer? Agent “X” spoke then, his voice a soft drawl.
“I wouldn’t shoot if I were you, senator,” he said. “Circumstantial evidence isn’t always reliable. You’d have a lot of explaining to do if you killed me — and perhaps your own life may not bear investigating.”
It was a shot in the dark, bait thrown out, and Senator Rathborne rose to it. A trembling seized his body. His head came forward on his short neck like the head of a predatory bird.
“What do you mean?” he shouted. “What is there in my life that I can’t tell the whole world about?”
“You know better than I do, senator. But if you should kill two men—”
The Agent’s eyes were probing the senator’s, trying to read his thoughts. A mottled hue of fury came over Rathborne’s face. It did not seem to be the fury of a killer. It was the fury of outraged pride.
“The man is crazy,” he shouted.
He lowered his gun, stepped away, then strode swiftly across the room to a table. With trembling hands he picked up a phone, clattered the receiver on its hook. He put his white lips close to the mouthpiece, barked into it.
“Get me the police!” he said.
Chapter X
A THIN-LIPPED smile twitched the corners of Agent “X’s” mouth. Either Rathborne was the finest bluffer in the world — or else Peters had been wrong. “X” was inclined to believe the latter. There was no time to verify it now. He must get away before the police arrived. They might recognize him as Michael Renfew. If they did, it would put an end to his espionage work.
But the shotgun in the gardener’s hand was still pointed at his heart. A slight twitch of the man’s finger would literally blow him in two.
Rathborne, his face still mottled with fury, lighted a cigar. He had laid his gun on the edge of the telephone table. He advanced toward “X” again, blowing a cloud of smoke from his nostrils.
“We’ll see about your circumstantial evidence,” he said harshly. “They’ll send you to the chair or to an asylum where you can’t commit any more such atrocities.”
Agent “X,” face expressionless, slowly let his body sag. The movement was calculated, almost imperceptible. His arms were still raised above his head, but his knees were bent.
“Stand still,” said the man with the shotgun.
The Agent’s eyes had swivelled side-wise. He saw that a window in the room was half open. Suddenly he tautened his lax muscles, leaping to the left, toward the spot where Rathborne stood.
The gun in the gardener’s hand roared. The noise, in that confined space, was terrific. It seemed that a bomb had gone off. The charge of buckshot whistled past the place where “X” had been. It crashed into a glass-doored bookcase, shattered the glass, and riddled the books. Before the gardener could swing his gun, “X” had grabbed the senator.