He could see lights along the beach, however, and here and there the riding lanterns of vessels. Sensing the direction of the wind he allowed himself to go as the waves went, in toward the shore, husbanding his strength.
The huge steel side of a yacht loomed out of the darkness, shutting off his view of the shore. It seemed endless as he slid along its length. A single red riding light winked down at him. He might have called for help, but he didn’t.
The plane had landed in this small harbor. Here somewhere was the solution of the terrible mystery of the torch murderers. In this vicinity they had stored their loot. He would not risk his chances of finding them by calling anyone’s help now.
But the last half-mile to shore was a nightmare. Part of the time Agent “X” was half unconscious. He was battered, bruised, swirled by the waves. He felt as though he were swimming along some limitless watery treadmill, climbing numberless swells, descending into the hollows, rising to the top again. The sting of salt spray in his eyes almost blinded him.
When at last his feet touched bottom and he reached the shore, he could only crawl up it on hands and knees. He fell forward on his face, lay still, then heaved himself up again. This wouldn’t do! He mustn’t be discovered here. He struggled to his feet, stumbled up the beach. Then his knees bumped something. He groped blindly until, through smarting lids, he saw the dim bulk of a big shed against a background of light beyond.
He moved along it until his fingers found a door. It seemed loose, and, tugging against it, he found that it slid back on rollers. The air inside was warmer. It was heavy and musty with the scent of twine and tar. He sank again to his hands and knees, groped, and his fingers encountered a pile of old sails. On the rough canvas, with the wind shut out, he sank into exhausted slumber.
THE cold, gray light of dawn was filtering into cracks in the sail shed when Agent “X” awoke. He had the remarkable faculty of sleeping as soundly as a child when he slept at all, and of restoring weary nerves and muscles. In spite of his wet clothing and the exhaustion of a few hours before he stretched, rose, and felt fit again.
With quick, cautious steps he strode to the wall of the old sail shed and looked through a crack. A stretch of cold, gray harbor with boats floating on it met his eye. But the seaplane was nowhere in sight. For a moment he stood debating.
He knew that, wearing the disguise of Andrew Balfour, he must be an incongruous sight. The salt water had ruined the shape of his suit. Wet and wrinkled it was draped around his body. But, so perfect was the material used in his facial make-up that even the submersion hadn’t washed it off.
He was still Andrew Balfour, still the middle-aged business man — but a man in appearance very much the worse for wear. If he were seen around here it might arouse the suspicion of the very people he didn’t want it to. He couldn’t say who they were. But he was certain now that the hiding place of the stolen jewels and currency that the torch robbers were taking in their wholesale banditry was somewhere around here — perhaps on one of the yachts.
That was the most logical place for it, and it instantly gave him an idea, a plan of action. But first he must get away and change his disguise.
He walked to another wall of the shed, looked along the shore. There were many bungalows and cottages, closed because of the earliness of the season. Smoke rose from the chimneys of a few built for all-year-round use. But no one was in sight. He judged it was still very early in the morning. His watch had stopped.
He opened the door of the shed, slipped around its side, and, keeping it between himself and the harbor, walked inland as fast as he could. Not until he got five hundred feet away from the water did he spy anyone. Then he saw a sleepy-looking milkman making his rounds. He ducked out of sight till the man and his horse and wagon passed by. There was a trolley track, but no trolley seemed to be running. The Agent wanted to get away from here as quickly as possible. But how?
There was no way out except to borrow someone’s car. It could be returned later. He saw several parked before houses along side streets. One was in front of a hedge, hidden from the windows of the house. It was a touring car with the side curtains down. The ignition was locked, but Agent “X” quickly raised the engine hood, found the ignition wires, broke them off, joined their ends together, and established a circuit.
While the people in the house still slept he got into the car and drove off rapidly. He could leave it anywhere, and the police, through the Motor Vehicle Registry, would see that it was returned to its owner. To catch the band who had taken the lives of over a dozen men, Agent “X” felt he was justified in commandeering this car.
Back in the city, in one of his own hideouts, he changed his disguise to that of Elisha Pond, the mythical character in whose name a vast sum of money was on deposit in the First National Bank.
When the bank’s doors opened at nine Agent “X” presented himself at the paying teller’s window and drew out ten thousand dollars, asking mainly for bills of large denomination. The bank was accustomed to the eccentricities of “Mr. Pond.” His account was of such size that all employees had been instructed to be especially respectful.
With the money in his possession, Agent “X” made another quick change. He put on a suit of expensive, sports tweeds, molded the lines of his face into the appearance of a well-groomed, well-fed, prosperous-looking bachelor in his late thirties. He placed a handkerchief in his upper coat pocket, the corner showing jauntily, put a huge solitaire diamond ring on his finger, and selected a Malacca walking stick. Attired thus, he set out again.
IT was nearly ten. He called Betty Dale and asked her as a favor to him to keep an eye on a certain Marie Rosa, registered in a down town hotel, the address of which he gave.
He next called up the offices of “Andrew Balfour” and told his office managers that he expected to be out of town for part of the day. He considered dropping in on Banton, but gave up the idea as profitless. First of all he wanted to establish a base at the yacht harbor from which he could operate without arousing anyone’s suspicion. To do that he was prepared to splurge on a grandiose scale.
Under the name of K. K. Parker, one of many aliases he was accustomed to using, he hired a large limousine and chauffeur for a week, to be at his beck and call whenever he might want them.
In this handsome vehicle, reclining on the soft cushions, Agent “X” drove back along the suburban roads to the yacht harbor where he had so nearly met death a few nights before. His eyes were hard and bright as he stared through the speeding limousine’s crystal-clear windows. A glow of excitement filled him as the harbor came into view.
Sunlight was breaking through the clouds now. The water was blue and sparkling. The storm winds were subsiding, but, to Agent “X,” that bright expanse of water held sinister significance. There somewhere, killers lurked. There loot that had been paid for in men’s blood was hidden.
As K. K. Parker he had his limousine draw up before the office of the town’s boat works. A sign in the window read: “Reconditioned Yachts For Sale.”
Smoking a cork-tipped cigarette, Secret Agent “X” strolled into the office and presented his card. “I’d like to look over some of your boats,” he said.
His name obviously meant nothing to the manager of the shipyard, but the limousine standing outside, the cut of Mr. Parker’s clothes, his appearance and commanding air were impressive.
The manager nodded, spoke deferentially. “Come this way, sir, I’ll show you what we have.”
On this lengthy tour of inspection the Agent asked endless questions. What was the seaworthiness of this boat, the speed of that, the fuel oil consumption of such and such an engine.