He threw the other end of the almost invisible wire over his own transom and pulled it taut. It now stretched across the corridor, but far above the height of people’s heads. In the semigloom it wouldn’t be seen.
With tense fingers he connected the terminal at his end to the portable amplifier in its cameralike case.
A TURN on the rheostat control and he was listening in on the secret conference in Banton’s office.
It was disappointing in some respects, importantly significant in others. Banton was issuing orders, not giving away secrets. His voice was rumbling, aggressive.
“Don’t ask me why,” he was saying, arguing down an over-cautious aide. “Do as I tell you. That’s your job. That’s what I pay you for — an’ you can’t afford to be choosy. There ain’t one of you I ain’t got something on. I could send you all back to the gutters where you came from — or worse.”
Banton’s sneering laugh sounded.
“You know where the toughest guys hang out. Round ’em up — get a gang together. I need a dozen anyway, and when I say tough, I mean tough. See that every man jack of ’em is heeled — an’ see that he knows how to shoot.”
“You ain’t never done this sort of thing before, boss,” said the voice of an assistant complainingly. “You’ll get mixed up with the law.”
Banton’s answer was a fierce snarl. “Maybe I ain’t never had good reason to. The law won’t know anything about it.”
Instructions followed, instructions to which Agent “X” listened closely. Banton was ordering his own men to round up a dozen of the fiercest gunmen and killers they could find. He was stepping out of his role of licensed private detective. He was ready to hurl defiance into the law’s face.
But Banton wasn’t telling his men what his secret purpose was. He was leaving them in the dark. He spoke again arrogantly.
“There’s a guy named Becker and another named Garino who’d be good. The cops want them for kidnapping the commissioner a coupla days ago. They’re hiding out and I know where. The other guys with them that pulled that crazy stunt skipped town. Get Becker and Garino.”
There was the whisper of money changing hands. Agent “X’s” eyes were bright, eager. “Slats” Becker and Tony Garino! Two of the very men he himself had hired. He, too, knew where they were hiding out. He had underworld contacts, systems of grapevine telegraphs. Now Banton was hiring them for some sinister purpose of his own. It opened another line of investigation for the Agent. Things were coming nearer and nearer a climax. The voice of Banton came through the amplifier again.
“Give ’em a hundred bucks apiece. Tell ’em there’s twenty times as much if they stick with me and use their rods right. And tell ’em to wait close. When things are ready I’ll give ’em the high sign.”
“When will that be, boss?”
“Tonight, maybe. Two of you guys come along with me. We’re going on a little trip. There’s more things I want to tell you.”
Agent “X” opened his door, stepped across the corridor, and retrieved his microphone. Tensely he coiled it up, then left the building.
He strode swiftly up the block, turned. He had left one of his cars parked beside the curb in front of an empty house.
Before entering it he retreated into the shadows, and his skillful fingers made quick changes in his face. He drew out the cheek plates that had given his features the sagging contours of middle age. He changed the hue of his complexion. He was no longer Andrew Balfour. He was younger, more dapper again. Banton would never recognize him as his fellow tenant in the bank building, and it was Banton Agent “X” was thinking of.
He got into his car, turned around, and waited close to the end of the block with the engine running, until he saw Banton and two of his aides emerge. They got into Banton’s flivver. The little car lurched off.
Agent “X” followed, and at the end of fifteen minutes he felt certain that he knew where Banton was going — so certain that he dared drop far behind. Banton was turning into a boulevard that led toward the suburbs, heading toward the distant yacht harbor that was a three-quarter-hour run from the city.
IN fifteen minutes more there was no doubt about it. Agent “X” loafed along behind. Single-handed, he was by degrees getting closer to the strange, sinister action that impended.
When they reached the town where the yacht harbor was located, Banton parked his flivver in the same side street. He led his two colleagues up on the hill.
Agent “X” instantly stopped his own car, climbed out, and cut through the darkness. The process of shadowing was easy for him now. He was crouched near the street that ascended the hill as Banton and his assistants passed. He followed them up the hill, and was near enough to see them standing on the bluff and hear Banton give low-voiced instructions. But what these instructions were Agent “X” missed. He saw Banton stride away, leaving his two men there. The agency detective walked into the little town, turned down an alley, and prowled along the shore.
Agent “X,” like a grim nemesis, followed. But Banton seemed to be on an aimless scouting expedition. On a clear patch of beach, where any moving figure was visible, Agent “X” had to let him get ahead.
Then suddenly Agent “X” stopped. Something black was heaving in the small turf that the harbor swells kicked up. It showed like a blotch, against the sand. It might be a box or a hat, but it stirred his interest.
He walked down the slope of the beach quickly, stopped. The thing was a box, but a leather-covered box — a camera.
It was no ordinary camera, either. The Agent saw that. He was a man experienced himself in all types of photographic equipment.
His fingers tightened over the water-logged, leather-covered box that had apparently been flung carelessly into the harbor. He snapped open the front, saw the fine, elaborate shutter mechanism, the special, many-glassed lens.
He felt along the surface of the camera with hands that trembled slightly — felt until he came to a screw pivot, the head of which seemed to be missing. From an inner rear pocket he took out a tiny screw that he had picked up two nights before on the roof of the bank building. He tried it on the pivot post of the camera, found that it fitted. His eyes were pools of light.
This was Darlington’s sky camera, the one that had been hidden the night he had been thrown from the roof, murdered.
And, in a flash of deductive reasoning, Agent “X” understood why it was here. Darlington’s murderer had hidden it in the quickest and most convenient spot — the canvas pickup sack that he had that night been getting ready. It had been brought to this harbor, tossed into the water by the killers. It confirmed the Agent’s belief that they were close at hand.
He had forgotten Banton for the moment. The camera occupied his thoughts. But his reverie was interrupted by the soft crunch of sand. The Agent whirled, but not quickly enough.
With the suddenness of swooping shadows, two figures leaped at him out of the semidarkness. One was brandishing a blackjack.
Before he could duck, the blackjack struck him a blow on the side of the head, and it seemed that a thousand multi-colored stars and comets showered down upon him from the black depths of the sky.
Chapter XVIII
IN that first instant of agony he fought against the sense of dizziness and pain that possessed him. He let himself collapse, deliberately, then twisted sidewise with a swift, rolling motion. The second blow of the blackjack missed him.