“X” went back to Renfew’s office and paced the floor. Senator Rathborne had given an accurate description of him. There was danger if he appeared abroad in the disguise of Renfew, danger that he might be held and questioned. There was no doubt that Rathborne would identify him. It complicated matters. But he felt fairly secure in Renfew’s house.
He again took up his study of the code papers which Peters’ visit had put a stop to the night before. And again he was interrupted. This time by the jangle of a telephone somewhere in the house. Agent “X” had not known of its existence. He located it concealed inside a cupboard in an otherwise empty room on the second floor. He took the instrument out. It was evidently a private wire. His hands were tense as he put it to his ear.
A husky voice came out of the receiver: “This is Shank reporting. Anything for me to do today, boss?”
Agent “X” thought quickly. He understood now. A man in Renfew’s position would have some sort of secret organization, someone to help him collect the things he bought and sold.
“Yes,” “X” said. “I think so. Come over.”
“O.K.,” said the voice at the other end. “How about Zeb?”
“Where is he?”
“Right here.”
“Bring him along, too.”
The Agent hung up, eyes gleaming. In disguising himself as Renfew and coming to this establishment, he was acquiring a ready-made following. Shank and Zeb. There might be others, too. He wanted to see them. It was possible they would be of aid in finding out what he wanted to know. But it was ironic that he should be using Renfew’s men.
They came within twenty minutes, two shifty-eyed, dapper individuals. He watched closely to see whether his disguise would arouse their suspicion. But it didn’t.
Shank was hatchet-faced, flat-chested, with a stooping, furtive sort of gait. Zeb was smaller, stouter, an inoffensive-looking little man, except for the cold gleam in his eyes.
“X” wondered what dirty work they had helped Renfew in. Their clothes indicated he had been able to pay them respectable salaries.
Zeb grinned, took out a file, and commenced manicuring his nails. He turned them this way and that, inordinately proud, it seemed, of their glistening polish. Shank chewed gum steadily.
“Stick around, boys,” said “X.” “I’ve got irons in the fire.”
They went to a rear room of the house, drew a pack of dirty cards from a table drawer and began a listless game of pinochle. The Agent went back to his reports.
But the bell of the hidden telephone jangled again. This time when he answered it was a woman’s voice. There was a note of excitement in it.
“Hello, boss. There’s a gent wants to see you,” the woman said.
“Is that so?” The Agent spoke cautiously. He would have to watch his step. A slip, and one of these mongrel hangers-on of Renfew might grow suspicious.
“Yeah!” the woman said.
“Whereabouts is he?”
“Here in the restaurant. He was asking for you. I said I’d call you up.”
“What’s his name?”
“He won’t give it. He says you’ll know him.”
Agent “X” pondered tensely. He didn’t know where the restaurant was. If he asked the girl it would give his ignorance away, excite her suspicions. And “X” wanted to make sure who this man was who had called for him. It might be a police detective or a Government operative looking for Renfew. It might even be a trap.
“Tell him to go to Garfleld Park,” “X” said suddenly. “Tell him to take a bench in the west end. I’ll meet him there in twenty minutes. I’d like to look him over first, you understand?”
“Yes, boss.”
Risking police detection, Agent “X” slipped out of the house. The roadster he had hired was still parked down the block. He got in and drove to the east end of Garfield Park, where he stopped again.
His movements became as cautious as a stalking cat. He lighted a cigarette, turned his collar up and his hat brim down and shuffled slowly along imitating a weary down-and-outer. His eyes were piercingly alert.
Then, as he approached the west end of the park, his pulses quickened like suddenly released triphammers. There was a figure on one of the benches — a well-dressed man, wearing spats and carrying a stick. He was big, blond, and he had coldly penetrating blue eyes. Agent “X” recognized him at once.
The man was Otto von Helvig, embassy attaché and ex-Prussian spy.
Chapter XI
FOR the moment Agent “X” continued his role of down-and-outer. Half of his face was hidden by the collar of his coat. He moved toward von Helvig at the same slow shuffle. When he came opposite the attaché he spoke in a husky croak.
“A few pennies for a cup of coffee, mister?”
Agent “X” thrust out one hand, shaking it as though he were afflicted with palsy.
Von Helvig cursed under his breath and waved him away. But “X” stood his ground, staring at the attaché fixedly. The Prussian lifted his head angrily, glaring at the man he took for a panhandler. Then his expression changed. He leaned forward, smiled suddenly, showing gleaming white teeth.
“You old fox, Renfew! You fooled me — even though I was expecting you.”
“Herr von Helvig,” said the Agent respectfully. “This is a great pleasure!”
The attaché eyed “X” sharply.
“You’ve changed very little since I saw you two years ago, Renfew! And you’re still up to your old tricks.”
Agent “X” bowed. “A man must make a living, Herr von Helvig.”
Von Helvlg touched “X’s” arm. “I am due at the legation now,” he said. “My time is brief. But there’s something I want to ask you, Renfew. You are a man who keeps his ear to the ground. You are a fox who listens at the rabbit holes. You don’t miss much. Have you heard recently of any great theft from the United States Government?”
It was a surprising question coming from von Helvig. “X” knew that the man’s clean-featured blondness and the babylike candor in his blue eyes hid a cunning, crooked brain. He hedged.
“Perhaps,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“Just a matter of curiosity,” said von Helvig evasively. He opened his wallet, took out two century notes, folded them, and held out his hand.
“Here is the price of your cup of coffee, Renfew. Now come on — loosen up and tell a fellow what you know.”
“X,” playing the role of Renfew, waved the money away.
“I have changed, my dear von Helvig, since we last met. My business, if I may say so, has grown. I no longer accept — ah — small gratuities.”
Anger reddened von Helvig’s blond face. He hastily pocketed the money.
“My mistake,” he said. “I’ll be frank with you. A lovely woman has come to me with a certain proposition. She claims to know where something of singular importance, stolen from the Government, may be recovered. She has asked my cooperation in securing it. Do you know to what she is alluding, Renfew?”
There was an odd, avaricious glitter in von Helvig’s eyes. “X” was puzzled. Was von Helvig really seeking information; or was he trying to lay a trap? “X” must watch his step, impress von Helvig with his knowledge. He bowed very low and spoke softly.
“If the lady in question is very lovely, she has done well to ask the cooperation of the gallant — Karl Hummel.”
It was as though “X” had struck von Helvig a blow. Every muscle in the man’s body tensed. His eyes narrowed to points of steel. His hand moved across his face where a miracle of plastic surgery had been performed. Only the tiny scars in his cheek were reminders of it.
“You are crazy, Renfew,” he said harshly. “What do you mean by calling me that name — Hummel?”