There was no other sure way. It would take the genius and tact of the Man of a Thousand Faces to see that the money was distributed properly. And the strike might already have started. His presence would be needed by those innocents whom it would affect — the wives and children of the workers, ground down already by four long years of depression.
Never had Secret Agent “X” been torn by such a conflict of emotions. Betty Dale, somewhere in the East a prisoner awaiting torture and horrible death at the hands of the DOACs! The city of South Bolton, a festering point of sinister DOAC activity. He walked the streets for minutes, trembling, shaken, trying as he had never tried before to pull himself together.
A sound that was like a groan came from the Agent’s lips. The bright morning sun had lost its brilliance for him. A gray pall of horror seemed to stand between him and it. The death shrieks of the man he had seen die seemed still to echo in his ears. Forcibly he shut out the thought that shrieks of a like nature might come from Betty Dale’s lips if he were not in time.
TIME! That was the vital thing! Never had he had such a realization of the value of time as now. He wasted no more seconds in thought. His mind was made up. Duty came first — the duty that commanded him to go where he was most needed; where he could bring the greatest good to the greatest number. He must go to South Bolton where the hideous lightning bolt of DOAC terror was scheduled to strike.
He moved along the street in a frenzy of speed. Back in his hideout he made another quick change of disguise. This time when he came out he was a new character — Elisha Pond, man of means, depositor in several big eastern banks.
He took a brief case with him. A taxi sped him to the door of one of Washington’s largest financial institutions. It was just opening for the day. As Elisha Pond, he was known here also.
The cashiers behind their cages were startled by “X’s” burning eyes and intent face. One of them stepped forward. The Agent stilled the emotions that racked him. He spoke quietly.
“I want to draw out a hundred thousand in cash this morning.”
“A hundred thou—” For a brief instant the clerk glanced up as though he had heard the voice of a madman. Then his own official composure returned.
“Certainly, Mr. Pond, but I’ll have to speak to one of the managers first. Just step this way, sir, if you don’t mind.”
Agent “X” was taken through grilled doors, along a marble corridor, to a row of inner offices behind the cashiers’ cages. He hardly noticed his surroundings. His face still worked with the force of his emotion.
To the quiet-faced man in the manager’s office he repeated his request. He said that he was flying west immediately and needed the cash to satisfy certain parties in a big business deal.
The manager had his account looked into, found that there was sufficient on deposit, and made out a withdrawal slip himself. He tapped his desk nervously, eyeing this strange depositor. It wasn’t the first time Elisha Pond had made odd demands on the bank. His mysterious comings and goings had never quite been explained. But he was too big a depositor to be questioned.
“That will just about clean us out of the cash we have on hand, Mr. Pond,” the manager said, smiling. “But it is our policy to please. I’m glad we could accommodate you this morning.”
The cash was brought to “X” in bills of large denomination. He counted them, stuffed them quickly into his brief case.
“Don’t you think you’d better have one of our guards accompany you out of the city?” asked the manager. But Agent “X” waved the offer aside.
“I’ll be all right, thanks,” he said. “Sorry to have troubled you like this.”
He was away in a moment. Another taxi sped him back to his hideout, where he changed again to the disguise of A.J. Martin. In ten minutes he was on his way to the airport at Anacostia.
Another twenty minutes, and the blue-and-orange nose of his fast, bulletlike plane was speeding him westward through the morning sky. Never had he driven the little ship as he did now. Every second that ticked by on his instrument-board clock seemed precious. It seemed as if they were drops of his own life’s blood, dripping away.
He pushed the throttle forward to the quadrant stop, sent the ship hurtling like a rocket over rivers, forests, fields and towns.
IN three hours he canted the blue wings of his plane down toward the airport at South Bolton. Three hours to cover over six hundred miles. Three hours from Washington, D.C.
He slammed down in a breath-taking side-slip that seemed to spell destruction. He yawed the blue plane’s tail at the last minute to kill speed. When his wheels touched he hurtled toward the row of hangars so rapidly that a frightened mechanic shrieked a warning, until Agent “X” fish-tailed to a skidding stop with a wing tip almost touching a hangar door.
“Take care of the ship,” he yelled. “I’m in a hurry. See that she’s gassed and oiled — ready to take off any minute. There’s an extra twenty in it if you do the job right.” He tossed the amazed mechanic a ten-spot, signaled a taxi outside the field gate.
In the center of town, a phone call put him in touch with Jim Hobart. In ten minutes he was conversing with Jim in a hotel room. Hobart’s eyes bulged at sight of the brief case.
“You got the cash then, boss?”
“Yes. But that’s only the beginning of it. Now to get it into the hands of the right parties and have it turned over to the DOACs. The strike’s got to be stopped.”
Hobart pulled a long face. “It’s already started, boss. They’re fighting now in front of the Consolidated Mills. The police are out. I seen two guys shoved into an ambulance as I came by.”
Agent “X” grabbed Hobart’s arm and spoke hoarse instructions.
“Get back to DOAC headquarters. Play your part with them. I’ll handle my end of it. I’ll meet you here as soon as it’s over. You mustn’t be seen in public with me.”
The brief case of money under his arm, Agent “X” went to the mill section of town. Police lines stopped his taxi within two blocks of the Consolidated Mills. He heard the spiteful crack of revolver and rifle fire, saw grim-faced cops holding a thousand or more workers at bay. There was trouble in the air — hate and suspicion running rampant, like some unseen but menacing beast.
This was no normal strike. The workers themselves didn’t understand it. Feeling was running high. Men who had been given work after years of idleness now found themselves out on strike. Employers who had signed codes, increased wages, were suddenly without help, while orders piled up.
The union bosses that “X” saw were scared-looking, haunted. He knew that DOAC terrorism had reached them. He knew that they feared for the safety of their families and for their own lives. They could not disobey the DOACs’ command to call a strike, any more than the workers could disobey them.
One boss rose on a barrel top, warning the workers against violence, pleading with them to be patient. Two men who had the look of hired thugs stepped forward. They yanked the man from his perch, began beating him unmercifully while factory employees stood by, afraid to take a hand, and failing to understand just what was going on.
“X,” grim-lipped, shouldered through the mob. Two cops stopped him gruffly. Once again he showed one of his cards. It identified him as a representative of the American Federation of Labor. He was allowed to pass.