Eighteen hours passed with no headway made. Then Jim Hobart strode into the office “X” maintained as Martin.
“I talked to several employees at Paragon Chemicals, boss,” said Hobart. “This fellow, Twyning, seems to have been a pretty good scout. Could handle tough formulas as easy as a kid rattles off A, B, C. Used to work after hours. Sometimes he kept at it all night. Always experimenting. Not a sign of drug addiction. No mixer at all. Didn’t know much when it came to anything but chemistry. Some of the laboratory workers spoke of him as a genius.”
“Did he talk about his work?” asked the Agent eagerly.
“That’s just the point, boss,” replied Hobart. “He didn’t. He was always willing to discuss the latest discoveries, but not a peep about his own work except, of course, his routine duties. The fellow had been with Paragon Chemicals for years. High-salaried guy, too. Then four weeks ago he didn’t show up. That was the last they saw of him, until his body was identified in the morgue.”
Hobart’s information backed up some of “X’s” conjectures. Twyning had been considered a genius, an indefatigable worker, a persistent experimenter. Such a man logically could have come upon the formula for synthetic dope.
Later in the day, Hobart returned with another report.
“I found a lodging house near the Paragon Chemicals plant where Twyning had rented a cheap dump of a bedroom under an assumed name and these were in it,” said the operative, handing the Agent a packet of letters. “He used the room, I guess, when he worked late and didn’t want to go to his apartment. His rent was paid six months in advance, and the landlady didn’t know he was dead. I found nothing about Twyning there, but there’s some information in these letters. Silas Howe, that reformer guy, holds majority stock in Paragon Chemicals. Maybe there’s something in it.”
The Agent leaped to his feet. His eyes flashed. That was it. Hobart had brought in the missing part of the puzzle. Twyning, the chemical genius, the tireless experimenter, had worked for Paragon Chemicals. Silas Howe practically owned the company. Twyning had made this gigantic, revolutionary discovery. Silas Howe had stolen the formula. That certainly seemed logical. Hadn’t Twyning, his eyes blazing murderously, come at Howe with a knife?
Chapter XVII
THE Agent was leaving his office when Jim Hobart rushed in for the third time, with Allan Grant close behind. Though the former detective was not the easily ruffled type, he was actually trembling with excitement,
“We’ve found another gang headquarters, boss!” he exclaimed, “No dirty, abandoned old dump, no dopie hideout this time! We bumped into a ritzy office, full of swank and right up to the minute. I played a hunch and sent Grant to answer an ad in the Herald calling for young men and women of hoity-toity social connections. And what did they want! Young society folks to distribute a fancy brand of cigarette among their friends. A smooth-looking dame offered Grant a fat salary to give the stuff away. Grant palmed a couple of smokes. I tried one. Two puffs and you almost hit the ceiling. It wouldn’t take many of those cigarettes to make a fellow get a Napoleon hat and start out to conquer the world.”
The Agent’s face hardened, though an eager light shone in his eyes. More evidence of the master’s insidious cunning. Give the Big Boss a few more days — another week at the most — and his organization would be so firmly imbedded that the country’s entire law force would not be able to tear out its roots. The death thrust had to be made right away. Within the next few hours. With the drug so potent, with so many people falling prey to the habit, even another full day might mean victory for the Big Boss.
“Splendid work, Hobart,” praised “X.” “But the real job is ahead if I want to get a scoop for the paper. You two come with me. Where is this office?”
“In the Quinault Building,” said Hobart.
The operative named a skyscraper near the center of the city. But it was to another building that the Agent went, one where Silas Howe kept an office for his vice-suppression activities. “X” learned from the elevator captain that the reformer wasn’t in. The three men waited. For once “X” felt that it was wise to have help. Too much was at stake tonight. The happiness, the very lives of thousands. He himself might be killed. There must be someone to carry on the work. But Jim and his aides still thought of him only as Martin, the newspaper man.
Night had spread over the city when “X” saw Howe enter with a couple of prominent social workers. It was amazing how the self-styled reformer maintained his sanctimonious front. For years he had been the bane of theatrical producers and book publishers with his vitriolic attacks. He was in the vanguard of every reform, every crusade.
The Agent waited for Howe to come out. That was two hours later. The reformer’s companions were still with him. “X” frowned and tightened his mouth grimly. Possibly Howe would devote this night to social work. The time would be lost, listening to him rage and declaim across the rostrum at a public assemblage. “X” had hoped to follow the man to a hideout where he would see him in his true character.
For several blocks Howe walked with his associates. “X” was disturbed. He had hoped to bear down on this man tonight, but he had no direct evidence yet. Then the Agent’s face brightened; Howe’s companions left the reformer. The man turned a corner.
A few minutes later Howe was entering the Quinault Building. Now was the time for careful maneuvering, for patience. “X” did not want to put the man on guard by a hasty move. Once more he waited. Soon Howe reappeared.
The reformer’s next stop was his own apartment building, the same building where Blake lived. That caused “X” a few moments of concern. Howe had a suite there. Possibly he was retiring for the night.
Then a thrill went through the Agent. Howe did not turn in the front way. He was using the servant’s entrance, slinking in furtively. “X” snapped quick orders to his operatives.
“You two watch across the street! If I need you, I’ll signal to you somehow. Be on the lookout every instant!”
Pressing himself against the wall, the Agent edged through the deep shadows. He paused in the darkness, watching and listening tensely. Then he darted through the door behind Howe. He made no noise, but he could hear Howe’s footsteps far down the corridor. “X” followed swiftly, silently.
He took out something from his pocket as he moved along. It was a stick of radium paint, unlike any other in the world, and with it he left marks on the wall to guide his men in case he called them. He found himself in a maze of passageways, and there were many doors that could cause confusion.
Howe was walking hurriedly, with the quickness of a man who has something to conceal. “X” sped down the winding corridor, raced into a dark passage, guided by the footsteps ahead. Behind him were the glowing marks of the radium paint, tiny lines and arrows. “X” was alert to his danger, to the possibility of rushing headlong into a trap. His tread on rubber-soled shoes was silent, yet there was a chance that guards were posted, that wicked eyes watched through hidden peepholes.
A door slammed. “X” stopped, peered through the darkness. Was some one coming, or had that been Howe? The Agent went on slowly. He didn’t know what lay ahead. He thought of the horrible green death. With success so near, the Big Boss would strike swiftly. The slightest bungle meant annihilation for “X”! He felt his way down another corridor. At the far end, light gleamed faintly through a keyhole. He rushed to the door, listened tensely, then opened it.
A GHASTLY purplish light struck his eyes. Standing in the shadows of an antechamber, he looked into a large room where at least a score of shambling, emaciated men, wearing goggles, were working at long, plate-glass tables under some sort of weird mercury-vapor lamps.