At last he located a craft that seemed to please him. This was a large cabin cruiser that had formerly belonged to a millionaire shoe manufacturer. The Agent paid a five-hundred-dollar option on the vessel, announcing that he intended to arrange for certain alterations and redecorations. The manager didn’t know that the man who called himself Parker was interested in the cruiser solely because of its position.
From its portholes Agent “X” could command a view of the harbor in both directions. With a pair of compact, high-power prism binoculars he read the name on every yacht within sight. There were nearly a dozen drawn up beside piers, covered over as this one had been. These drew his particular attention.
Having established a base to which he could come unmolested and without rousing anyone’s suspicions, Agent “X” started back for the city early in the afternoon. First he put in a long-distance call to Betty Dale.
Her answer wasn’t too satisfactory. The girl, “Marie Rosa,” or Rosa Carpita, was still registered at the hotel where Agent “X” had seen her, but she had slipped out before Betty had got there and had not been back as yet. Her luggage, Betty had ascertained, was still in her room.
Frowning, Agent “X” went back to his parked limousine. The patient chauffeur backed the car around, headed for the road that led to the city. But he had gone only a mile when Agent “X” barked abruptly into the speaking tube. His eyes, looking out of the car, were suddenly steely with alertness.
“Stop,” he said. “Turn around and go back.”
The chauffeur nodded glumly. The whims of rich men were never very understandable.
But it wasn’t a whim that had prompted Agent “X’s” sudden change of plan. A small flivver was parked in a side street. Agent “X,” who missed nothing down to the smallest detail, had got a glimpse of the car’s license plate. It was the flivver belonging to Private Detective George Banton.
Chapter XVII
AGENT “X” spoke to his chauffeur as the car approached the harbor town’s central parking space.
“Stop here,” he said.
At a swift stride he struck off along the street. But, once out of sight of his chauffeur, he went back toward the spot where he had seen Banton’s car. The car was empty. The side curtains were down. Agent “X” touched the motor hood. It was cold. This meant that the flivver had been parked there for some time.
The side street in which it stood led up toward the summit of a small hill overlooking the harbor. Summer bungalows on wooden foundations lined each side of the street. They appeared to be empty.
Flicking his cane, smoking a cigarette, and strolling like a stranger looking over the town, Agent “X” walked up this hill. When he reached its top he ducked out of sight between two deserted cottages. Peering through a screen of leafless bushes he stared in both directions. The harbor lay peaceful at his feet, dotted with yachts at anchor. A path led along the shore to another cottage colony on a neighboring hill.
Agent “X” waited, watched, then raised his small, powerful glasses to his eyes. He might have been a rich sightseer looking over the yachts in the harbor. But he turned his glasses away from the harbor toward the many bungalows. For minutes he searched, then suddenly tensed.
On the side porch of a bungalow a quarter of a mile distant were two figures — a man and a woman. He caught sight of the woman’s head first. It was heavily veiled. No features were visible, but the set of the head, the carriage, were familiar to Agent “X” who noticed such things.
The man’s face came sharply into focus. It was Detective Banton. And the girl with him, “X” was certain, was Rosa Carpita. He became more certain as the girl touched her companion’s arm and said something. The lithe swing of her body, the studied poise of her which had become unconscious and instinctive, gave her away in spite of the heavy veil.
They, too, were looking out over the harbor. But “X” saw that the porch on which they stood was screened by a low bluff with bushes on the top. Only their heads would be visible from the water. They didn’t want to be seen.
Excitement tingled through Agent “X’s” blood. Step by step he was creeping closer to his goal. Two of his chief suspects were here before him. Somewhere out on the blue harbor was one of the bases of operations of the torch-murdering band. His face set grimly. He must move cautiously now. Everything depended on stealth and strategy until he was sure of his ground.
When he saw the two on the bungalow porch leave at last and start back toward the hill on which he stood, he preceded them down the narrow street. He went back to his own car, got in, and told the chauffeur to drive slowly ahead and stop. Not until he saw Banton’s flivver back out of the side street and head toward the city, did he give further instructions.
“Keep that car in sight,” he said, “but don’t get too close.”
The shadows of afternoon were lengthening into evening. Banton’s little flivver was making good time, lurching and bobbing over the road. Agent “X” felt secure in the belief that his own presence in the limousine with the chauffeur would not arouse suspicion.
WHEN they reached the city, Agent “X” considered whether to follow Rosa Carpita or Banton. He was certain they would separate, and he decided on the latter. Betty Dale would keep watch of Rosa Carpita’s movements for him. Banton seemed the more sinister.
He was right about their separating. Rosa Carpita got out in a dark block and hurried off. Banton continued on to his office in the bank building. Agent “X” drove by in his limousine, then dismissed it, telling the chauffeur he would not be needed until the next morning. At a brisk stride Agent “X” went to the nearest of his hideouts.
He changed quickly to the disguise of Andrew Balfour and hurried to his office. In his pockets this time he secreted many strange objects — not knowing what emergencies he might have to meet in the next few hours.
The girls were just leaving his office, their day’s work done. He nodded to them curtly and went to his own sanctum with the air of a man preoccupied with weighty business matters. But when the last of his help had gone, he tiptoed quickly to the door and peered out into the corridor. As he stood watching he saw two of Banton’s assistants go into the private detective’s office. In ten minutes, two more arrived. There seemed to be a gathering of the clan.
Banton had evidently summoned them. What for?
Agent “X” was glad he hadn’t been able to locate Banton the night previous, directly after seeing the flaming torch murderers kill another cop. At that time he had been all for bluntly approaching Banton and making him talk. Now, calmed down after his strange experience of the night, he was ready to use caution and strategy again — ready to look first and leap afterward.
When another of Banton’s sinister-looking aides had come, Agent “X” saw the detective’s shadow on the frosted glass of the door, heard the click of the lock. Banton had assembled his men for a secret conference.
Agent “X” worked quickly. People were passing by in the corridor every few minutes, leaving their offices. They would be doing so for the next half-hour. To stay outside Banton’s door listening with the portable amplifier that he had used effectively before, would be courting detection and disaster now. But there was another way.
Agent “X” took a spool of insulated wire from his pocket, wire as black and thin as thread. There were small copper terminals at each end. It was a slender electric cord which he carried for just such emergencies as this — to extend the range of his amplifier.
With the small disc-shaped microphone in his hand he stepped quickly across the corridor to Banton’s door. No one was in sight. He reached up, dropped the microphone through the transom, took a turn of the threadlike wire around one of the transom rods, and then backed toward his own office.