A score of prosperous looking men and women in evening clothes were sitting in the big saloon. Several couples were dancing on a small polished floor that had been laid in its center. A jazz orchestra, on a raised platform under the shaded lights, sobbed out a melody. Cocktail glasses were clinking. Light conversation and laughter sounded above the music. Monte Sutton’s guests were obviously enjoying themselves.
Then “X” saw Ballantine. The mayor’s appearance was in sharp contrast to the others. His stocky, broad-shouldered figure was slouched dejectedly. There was a grayish hue on his pouchy face. Wrinkles of worry creased his eyes. His lips were clamped over a cigar. He was solemn, distracted, staring ahead unseeingly, rolling his large shoulders from side to side like a restless bear.
JONATHAN Jewett made straight for him, with Harrigan, the munitions man, running a little ahead, to warn the mayor he had visitors. Ballantine gave a start and looked up uneasily. A combative expression appeared on his face. Harrigan took it upon himself to explain.
“These fellow clubmen of mine have come to make a few complaints,” he said. “I told them it wasn’t an opportune time; but they insisted. Mr. Jewett, it seems, has an ax to grind.”
“You’re right, I have,” growled Jonathan Jewett. “We saw your commissioner of police a few moments ago, Ballantine. We protested about the inefficiency of his department — and got no satisfaction. Now we’ve come to make some suggestions. Crime has risen fifty per cent in this city, and—”
Some of the guests were drawing nearer, attracted by Jewett’s loud voice. The mayor shook his head distractedly.
“Not here — please! If you want to talk let’s go somewhere where we can be alone.”
“That suits me,” said Jewett.
Monte Sutton, owner of the Osprey and the mayor’s host, was courteous and diplomatic. With a slightly bored expression on his handsome face, he led them to a small writing room.
“You won’t be intruded upon here, gentlemen,” he said. “Now get the poison out of your systems.”
Coates began to make sneering comments on the general inefficiency of the administration, hinting broadly at graft, predicting that the voters would cast their ballots differently in the next election. Jewett thundered about the rising tide of crime. Harrigan tried to steer conversation into more peaceful channels, and Agent “X,” in the role of Pond, stood quietly by, watching and listening.
That the mayor was worried was obvious. There were gray shadows under his eyes. He threw out his hands, and snapped up his head as questions and criticisms were shouted at him.
“Am I to listen to every faultfinder who cares to speak?” he said. “Am I to alter my policies to suit any committee of citizenry that comes along?”
Jonathan Jewett thrust the evening paper forward, with its screaming headlines. “I don’t give a damn about your policies, Ballantine! But this crime wave has got to stop. I’ve spoken to your police commissioner — and he gave me no satisfaction. If you don’t bear down on him yourself, and see about a shake-up at once, I’ll use my influence to hinder your administration in any way I can. You might as well know that now!”
The mayor faced his critic. His voice was low, hoarse. “There are factors at work that none of you know anything about,” he said. “I’m running this city with the good of all in mind. I’m satisfied that the police are doing the best they can under the circumstances. Commissioner Foster is answerable to me alone — and I find no cause for dissatisfaction in the way he is carrying out his duties.”
A stunned silence met this retort. Then Coates gave a harshly sneering laugh. Jonathan Jewett spoke furiously:
“You don’t think a police shakedown is necessary then? You are satisfied to let the criminals of this city plunder and murder as they will? You don’t want to protect the lives and property of honest citizens? By gad, Ballantine, it would seem almost that you have told the police not to interfere!”
A trembling that was very much like some mysterious, deep-seated terror shook the mayor’s body. He clenched and unclenched his hands, swayed his form from side to side.
“I–I refuse to talk any more!” he said wildly.
Chapter IV
THAT he meant what he said was evident. The fear that tensed his body seemed to have sealed his lips.
Harrigan was the only one of the group invited by Sutton to remain on the yacht. But he declined, saying he had an appointment ashore.
The committee from the Bankers’ Club left as it had come. The members of it formed a silent group as they crossed the black water in the speed boat. Each was preoccupied with his own somber thoughts. But the Secret Agent was the somberest of all.
“X” left the others when the speed boat landed. He refused Jason Coates’s invitation to return to the club and discuss politics, turned down Jewett’s offer to give him a lift in his car. He gave as an excuse that he had pressing business in the neighborhood. And how pressing that business was, none of them knew…
Much later that night, when the streets were quiet, Agent “X” appeared again. But no one would have recognized him now as the wealthy, dignified Elisha Pond. He was clad in faded blue trousers. Dusty shoes with thick rubber soles were on his feet. A turtle-necked sweater was pulled up to his chin. A cloth cap half covered his face. His features were disguised again, ugly and shapeless now. His brows were heavy, and a black substance that gave the impression of a stubble of beard was pressed into the plastic material forming his face.
He was impersonating a night prowler, a burglar or sneak thief, and under his arm was a worn leather kit containing a set of regulation burglar tools. But these were for appearance’s sake only, to be left behind as misleading evidence in case he was chased by the police. His own set of tools, made of the finest chromium steel, and unrivaled by those of any burglar in existence, were the ones that would do the strange work he had in mind.
Furtively, using the darkest streets he could find and imitating the actions of a night-marauding thief, he made his way across town. Several times he passed patrolling police. But they didn’t see him, so careful was he to keep in the shadows and so soundless were his rubber-soled shoes. But he noticed them — noticed that even these cops on the beat seemed afflicted with some emotional malady.
For they looked uneasy, nervous. They were confused and strained by orders from headquarters probably — orders which were inconsistent with the duties to which they were pledged. He didn’t doubt that they, too, had been instructed to steer clear of any mob showing the mysterious red-and-green signals of a Very pistol.
Agent “X” felt sorry for these men. They must believe secretly that the department they had served loyally for years was going to pieces. They must think corruption had eaten into the lives and minds of the men over them.
It was close to midnight when at last he reached a peaceful, old residential avenue. Prosperous homes lined it. Leafless trees stood in long, even rows.
The Agent walked several times along the block on this street, staring sharply at a certain house, a two-story brick residence, carefully cared for like the others. It was the Ballantine mansion, where the mayor had lived through all his rising political years, and where he still lived, as the city’s chief executive. There was a spacious lawn around it, and a sizable backyard.
Silently Agent” “X” climbed a picket fence and stepped onto the lawn. Wraithlike he moved across it, toward a big bay window at the side of the house. His actions were sure, calculated. Once, in another disguise on a different case, he had interviewed Ballantine in the role of a newspaperman. He remembered the mayor’s large study, recalled the big safe where Ballantine kept his private and semi-official documents. Surely, here if anywhere, would be a clue to the thing Agent “X” sought.