Then he turned his collar up, pulled his hat down, and hurried to the street. The address on the slip of paper that Banton’s man had given Garino was within walking distance. It was in a westerly direction toward the river.
As Agent “X” approached it, moving at a fast walk, the neighborhood grew steadily worse. He was in a street of junk shops and dark, dilapidated warehouses, busy places in the daytime but dark and sombre now.
He came to the street that fronted the water, crossed it, and saw the oily gleam of the river ahead. He passed between two pier sheds, walked down a boarded alley, and came to the flat expanse of another smaller pier that was used as a base for tugs out of service.
A group of dark-clothed men stood whispering in the gloom at the end of this dock. He saw them before they did him, watched them a moment intently, then retraced his steps and ran quickly to the nearest cigar store where there was a telephone. Closeted in the booth he made a mysterious telephone call to Betty Dale, asking her to relay a message from him to police headquarters.
WHEN he returned to the dock the men were still there, and their low whispers hushed as he approached. He could see the stiffening, suspicious attitudes of their bodies,
He walked as he had often seen Garino walk — for his disguises went further than merely assuming the features of the man he impersonated. He made each disguise a study in muscular co-ordination as well. A voice that he had heard before spoke hoarsely out of the darkness.
“It’s that mug, Tony!”
The Agent, peering intently, saw the pale face and slumped body of “Slats” Becker. The little gangster grinned wryly.
“We thought yer’d got cold feet, Tony!”
Another voice cut in, thick with anger, the voice of Banton’s man who had made the arrangements with Garino.
“Where the hell you been? What’s the idea? Didn’t I tell you to come right away? We expect the boss any minute!”
Agent “X” shrugged in Garino’s characteristic gesture.
“Excusa me! Maybe I no come back. I hadda say gooda-by to the skirt.”
Harsh laughter echoed his remark. Banton’s man hissed for silence. Looking around at the men who stood on the dock, Agent “X” saw the toughest bunch of gorillas he had ever found collected in one spot. Banton’s assistants were bad enough, but they were the sneaky stool-pigeon type. The men they had assembled were cutthroats, gunmen, the city’s most dangerous riffraff — rats who could be lured out of hiding only by the smell of blood or the glint of gold — beasts who prowled in the night. The pockets of each bulged. They were armed to the teeth.
Suddenly, off across the black water, a light winked. Three times — a space of darkness — another flash.
“That’s the boss now,” said Banton’s right-hand man. “Come on, you mugs — get ready to go aboard.”
Out of the blackness that lay over the face of the water, something long and gray appeared. It nosed toward the dock, cutting the swells silently, showing no lights except that one signal which had been doused.
It came nearer, showed like some monster of the deep. It was a huge, gray-painted motor cruiser. Its rakish lines, the sharp swell of its bows, proclaimed it a former rumrunner; one of the fastest, most sinister-looking boats that Agent “X” had ever seen. How Banton had acquired it, what black history lay behind it, he didn’t know. But, on the forward deck, cradled under a canvas tarpaulin, he saw the ominous shape of a mounted machine gun. The boat slid into the dock noiselessly, and the Agent’s expert ear knew by the faint, rumbling purr of the motors amidships that this craft was superpowered.
It had been built to outdistance the fastest patrol boats of the coast guard fleet. It had the lines of a destroyer; it was a destroyer in the full sense of the term.
Awed by the impressive craft, the cutthroat crew that Banton’s men had assembled swarmed silently down to the deck. The harsh, lumpy face of Banton himself looked out of the pilot house window. He and a single engineer had brought the boat from its former berth.
“Keep your traps closed!” Banton warned. “Any mug who talks will get a crack over the head. This isn’t a picnic!”
As silently as she had come, the long narrow boat nosed away from the dock, nosed out into the river, and slipped like a gray wraith across the water. The engines, Agent “X” knew, were only at idling speed. Banton was careful not to leave a wake. Once a man from the deck of a passing tug hailed them, staring in surprise at this craft that showed no lights.
But Banton paid no attention. Two of his men on port and starboard sides were watching intently, alert, it seemed, for danger. But the boat slipped on unmolested, and the lights of the city fell away behind.
IT was only then that Banton opened the motors to their mid-speed, and the gray craft seemed to lift out of the water and shoot ahead on throbbing wings. A white, hissing wake trailed behind it.
Banton came down from the pilot house, turning the wheel over to his most trusted assistant. He went forward, peeled the canvas off the machine gun, fingered the synchronized mechanism. The black snout of the gun seemed to thrust ahead like a finger, warning of evil to come.
It was then that a shrill cry sounded somewhere amidships. Agent “X,” in the group around the gun, turned. Banton turned, too, a fierce oath escaping him. A slim figure came running along the throbbing deck of the boat. Two other figures followed.
Banton stood, legs wide apart, amazement written on his heavy features. Agent “X” saw a white, tense face; the curves of a lithe body. Rosa Carpita!
The dancer came up to the group around the gun, up to Banton.
“Call your gorillas off,” she said scornfully. “They’re chasing me.”
“You!” Banton hissed, amazement and anger in his voice. “How did you get here?”
“You wouldn’t tell me your plans so I followed you. I don’t trust you, Banton. I’m sorry I let you in on—”
“We found this skirt stowed on board,” said one of the men who had chased her, “She was hiding in a closet.”
The girl, Rosa Carpita, drew herself to her full height. Her black eyes were snapping fiercely. Her face, lovely before, was contorted into harsh lines.
“Don’t forget, Banton, that I am your client — and that I employed you!”
Banton’s little eyes were gleaming. He took a step forward.
“You’ve no business here,” he said. “You’ll hafta go ashore.”
“I won’t,” the girl said. “I demand to know what your plans are.”
Agent “X,” witnessing this strange drama, began to understand. Banton made a harsh gesture. He scowled at the men around him.
“Keep still,” he warned. “Don’t talk in front of these rats. Come to the cabin!”
He turned, lumbered off, and the girl followed. There was a mutter of low-voiced speculation behind him.
Agent “X” followed softly, but Banton and the dancer went down to the cabin amidships. The door was locked. There were curtains over the ports. He could see or hear nothing of the strange conference that the two were having. His eyes gleamed, however. His alert brain was at work. When Banton came back alone ten minutes later, he wasn’t surprised.
“What did you do with the skirt, boss?” asked one of Banton’s men.
Agent “X” heard the harsh answer.