The features were even, the lips firm, the forehead high and wide. From below, the fighting, stubborn chin was most prominent. Looked at from directly in front, the Agent’s uncannily intense eyes seemed to eclipse all else. At an oblique angle the faint lines and bunched muscles on his smooth face appeared to be the indelible records of all the strange, harrowing experiences through which he had passed.
He hunched forward now. His long strong fingers reached out. From his materials he selected those he needed, and, from a series of photographs spread out beside him, he proceeded to build up another personality.
The photographs were of himself. They did not depict his real face, but one that he had worn often before — one that was well known in many sections of the city. They were photos of a man called Elisha Pond, depositor in one of the city’s greatest banks, member and frequenter of the town’s most exclusive clubs, a man seemingly of age, dignity, and solid respectability. No one would have believed for an instant that he and the notorious Agent “X” were one. Pond was put down as a person of important affairs, a director in many companies.
Just how important his affairs were, his acquaintances did not guess. But it was under the name of Elisha Pond that Agent “X” drew out the money necessary to carry on his campaign against crime. It was under that name that he held a fund, subscribed for his especial use, and supervised by one man only, the mysterious K9 in Washington.
When his disguise was complete, that of a strong, quiet-faced, gray-haired man, Agent “X” dressed carefully. Pond, as an individual of means and importance, must always live up to his station.
In the secret pockets of the suit that “X” put on, however, he slipped the many strange devices that he was in the habit of carrying.
When all was ready, he went quickly into the street, using a back exit of the hideout. He walked rapidly several blocks, summoned a taxi and rode to one of the city’s best-known hotels.
From the lobby of this he called a wealthy, exclusive institution. This was the famous Bankers’ Club, of which Elisha Pond was a member. He asked to speak to Jonathan Jewett, the hard-headed president of the Northern Continent Insurance Co. “X” knew Jewett’s ways. Jewett always stopped at the club after work for a cocktail and a chat. The Agent knew furthermore, that Jewett had suffered indirectly at the hands of the gangsters now terrorizing the city.
An affiliate of Jewett’s company, handling fidelity, liability and burglary insurance, had been asked to meet policy payments a dozen times in the past week. That meant thousands of dollars loss to the affiliated concern. Jewett should be in a fit mood to be used as a pawn in a plan the Agent’s cunning brain had devised. That plan was the formation of a committee to cross-question Police Commissioner Foster.
“X” suggested that Jewett select certain men for the task. With quiet persuasion he stirred the insurance man’s emotions, playing on his indignation over the money lost, getting Jewett to agree to his proposal to have Foster, a club member, come down and be put on the mat. It was Jewett himself, however, who suggested that Pond be one of the committee-men. This had been part of the Agent’s own plan from the beginning. But he had cleverly let it appear as though it were Jewett’s idea.
When he sped to the Bankers’ Club just before six, the commissioner was already there. Foster looked harried, worried, and was pacing a private rear room tensely. Jewett, tall, menacing, indignant, because of the money his enterprises stood to lose, was glaring at him. Jason Coates, a small, sharp-featured man, who had run unsuccessfully against the present mayor, and hated him and his commissioners, was sneering openly at Foster.
John Harrigan, a financier with large holdings in munitions, was another member of the committee. Christy, a bland-faced broker, was still another.
Foster stared straight ahead of him, meeting no one’s eyes directly. A limp rag of a cigar, chewed beyond all appearance of a smoke, hung from his lips.
HARRIGAN was endeavoring to be diplomatic, trying to calm Foster’s evident irritation at this move his club members had made. For Harrigan was a friend of the mayor’s, a staunch supporter of the present administration, and had been dragged on the committee against his will.
But Foster seemed to feel himself attacked from all quarters. He brushed Harrigan’s diplomatic, pleasantries aside. He shot a venomous glance at Jason Coates, then spoke hoarsely, bluntly answering the criticisms that were hurled at him.
“I refuse to admit the charge that my department is inefficient,” he snapped. “I’ve ordered the men under me to do everything in their power. They are doing it, gentlemen. That is all I have to say.”
His face whitened as he said this. Agent “X,” watching closely, saw that the man was lying. “X” had seen many men lie. The expression on Commissioner Foster’s face, the telltale wavering of his eyes, only deepened the Agent’s belief that something strange and sinister was wrong with the working of the city administration.
A dead silence followed Foster’s speech. In the period that it lasted, the shrill cries of newsboys floated up from the street through an open window.
“Extra! Read all about the big robbery. Storekeeper murdered! Five hundred thousand dollars in diamonds stolen!”
The sound was like fresh fuel heaped on a smoldering fire. Jonathan Jewett struck the table with his fist.
“The citizens of this city will demand a reckoning!” he cried. “You’ll find yourself out of a job, Foster!”
Commissioner Foster, holding himself stiffly, stared not at Jewett, but over his left shoulder into empty space — as though he were seeing some hideous specter. He licked quivering lips. His face twitched.
“There’s nothing more to be said, gentlemen! If you don’t like the way this city’s being run — go to the mayor. Perhaps he’ll give you satisfaction.”
He strode forward hurriedly, jerked open the door and slammed it after him. His quick steps could be heard receding, mingling with the persistent cries of the newsboys still outside, advertising the news of the latest criminal outrage.
Jewett turned on his companions bitterly. His face was screwed into knots of anger. He clenched his fist again. “We’ll take him up on that! We’ll see the mayor and ask that a change of personnel be made in the police department. If he won’t listen, I’ll use my influence to see that the city loan he’s asking for doesn’t go over.”
Harrigan looked troubled. “I doubt if you can see his honor,” he said. “I happen to know that Mayor Ballantine is a guest on board Monte Sutton’s yacht, the Osprey.”
Jason Coates, political rival of the mayor, nodded and sneered. “I read about that! He’s going for a cruise to Southern waters for his health. He’s going to run away just when he’s most needed.”
“But he’s changed his plans,” said Harrigan hastily. “The cruise has been postponed indefinitely — till city affairs smooth out. His visit to the Osprey tonight is a purely social one.”
“We’ll see what he has to say anyhow!” growled Jewett.
The five of them, in Jewett’s private limousine, drove off into the winter night. Harrigan, worried and silent in the face of Jewett’s anger, directed the chauffeur. The Osprey was close to one of the city’s most exclusive residential sections, at anchor in the river near a swanky yacht club.
Jewett arranged for a speed boat to take them out. Bundled in their heavy overcoats, they raced across the dark water, sweeping up to the yacht’s companionway.