He went to the big bay window, skirted it and came to an outer door. This was a side entrance to the house, the door used by the mayor in summertime to come out on his lawn and chat with his neighbors over the fence.
With one of his chromium master keys in his hand, Agent “X” came close. There were no lights showing in the house. If the mayor or any of his family were home, they had long since gone to bed. Perhaps Ballantine was spending the night on Monte Sutton’s yacht again. In any case, Agent “X” knew how to enter quietly.
BUT at the door he paused. The Fates seemed trying to aid him. The door was not shut, nor even locked. It was open about six inches, and when he looked carefully, he saw something — a man’s soft hat — wedged in it to keep it from making any noise in the night breeze.
“X” slowly replaced the chromium tool in his pocket. No use for that now. Here was a strange turn of events. He had come to enter the house only to find that it wasn’t necessary. The place was already open.
“X” moved the door slowly, careful to avoid any faint squeak of the hinges. He stepped across the threshold into a hallway, closed the door after him, wedging it as it had been. He moved straight ahead, a flashlight in his left hand ready for instant use, his gas pistol in the other, and every faculty alert.
He had not been in this hall before, but he could guess at his surroundings. The first door at his left would be that of the study, the chamber in which he planned to go. He reached this and found that it was open, too. Then, as he paused and listened, he heard a faint sound inside, a soft, eerie rustling.
Slowly he shoved the door back, and looked into the room. In a far corner where the safe was located a faint light showed, the glow of an electric torch with a paper cylinder over its end to direct its rays in one direction only. This was making a glowing spot on the floor close to the safe. In this tiny arena of light, a man’s hands were moving white papers, shifting them and examining them with quick fingers.
He was so intent on his work, so eager, that he had no inkling of Agent “X’s” presence. “X” couldn’t see his face at first, not until his own eyes became used to the bright spot of light and things around its edge became faintly discernible. Then he started.
His eyes narrowed. He bent forward tensely. For the features of the man before him were familiar. He had spoken with this man a few hours previously. The silent, absorbed figure raiding the mayor’s safe in the dark of the night was Harrigan, distinguished member of the Bankers’ Club, and enthusiastic investor in munitions.
Chapter V
FOR tense seconds Agent “X” studied Harrigan’s face and movements. He was the last man “X” had expected to find here. Yet a possible explanation immediately suggested itself. Harrigan had been on the club committee which went to the yacht to cross-examine the mayor. He had acted as peacemaker, he was a loyal supporter of the party to which the mayor belonged. But it was possible he had grown impatient at the way Ballantine and his commissioners were running the city. It was possible that he, too, had come here tonight in the hopes of finding some evidence which would throw light on Ballantine’s strange actions.
Agent “X” watched hawk-eyed. Harrigan was making a systematic examination of the documents the safe contained, piling those he had already looked at on one side, reaching for others at his left.
Agent “X,” in his rubber-soled shoes, walking catlike, slowly crossed the floor, till he stood directly back of the kneeling man. He could see over Harrigan’s shoulder now, read as plainly as Harrigan himself what documents these were. Most of them were uninteresting; copies of bills submitted to the aldermen, papers dealing with franchises, charters and the like.
Five minutes passed, and a faint noise came from somewhere in the house, as though a restless sleeper had stirred. Harrigan tensed. For a moment it seemed he might get up and go to the door. His hand hovered over his light. But the sound was not repeated. Harrigan went back to his furtive work.
It was then that Agent “X,” looking down, saw the paper which Harrigan drew from a black envelope almost at the bottom of the pile. Harrigan opened it like the others. His eyes started to scan the words. But Agent “X,” reading faster than the man before him, had already seen a sentence that held hideous meaning. Before Harrigan had gotten beyond the first paragraph, Secret Agent “X” spoke sibilantly.
“Keep quiet, and raise your mitts, guy!”
At the same instant “X” pressed the muzzle of his gas gun against Harrigan’s neck. The man before him let out one whispering gasp. The document fluttered from shaking fingers. His body became as rigid as though he had been turned into a frozen statue.
A second passed. The Agent spoke again. “Get up, mister. No funny business — or I’ll pull the trigger of this gat.”
“X” turned on his own flash, directing the beam into Harrigan’s face. The man’s skin had turned putty colored with fear. Caught in such a compromising position, surprised when he thought he was all alone, he was trembling with fright. “X” talked slowly, playing the role of a common criminal, to put Harrigan off the track.
“It seems like I’ve seen your mug somewhere before,” the Agent said. “Ain’t you one of the mayor’s pals? Tryin’ to double-cross the big shot, eh?” He gave a harsh chuckle. “Thought you’d make a little dough for yourself by blackmail maybe. It’s a good racket, guy, but you ain’t got the guts for it — you white-livered dude.”
“I’m not — I—Who are you?”
“Never mind. Stand over there by the wall. Keep your mitts up and your mouth shut. I got a little business in that safe myself. I brought my tools, but I see I won’t need ’em.”
Agent “X” turned his own flash on Harrigan, saw that the man was obeying orders, standing still, too frightened to do anything else. He put his burglar kit down with a slight deliberate clink so that Harrigan would notice it. He bent forward so that Harrigan might get a look at his disguised features. He made a pretense of going through a compartment of the safe. His other hand was gathering up the paper he had seen in Harrigan’s fingers. This he slipped in his pocket, eyes gleaming, and searched hastily to see if there were any others.
At that moment a distinct noise sounded somewhere in the house. Boards creaked above his head. Slippered feet scuffed. Some one had waked and was coming downstairs to investigate. With a sweep of his hand Agent “X” scattered the papers over the floor. He turned, snarled at Harrigan.
“You lily-fingered dub! You’ve muffed the job — waked the family. Now I gotta lam before they put the finger on me. Stay there till I get out. Don’t squawk, or I’ll drill you.”
His face screwed into the vicious lines of some underworld night prowler, waving his gun at Harrigan, Agent “X” backed toward the doorway and went out. In a moment he was on the dark lawn.
THERE were lights in the upper part of the house now. Some restless sleeper had been disturbed. But “X” knew that Harrigan had time to make his getaway. He knew the man would take no chances of being found in a position which would ruin his reputation and cause a city-wide scandal. He didn’t wait to see Harrigan come out. He could set one of Hobart’s men or Bates’ to shadow Harrigan if necessary, and see if his purpose in coming to the mayor’s study was the one “X” had figured out.
Harrigan didn’t interest him at the moment. It was the paper out of Ballantine’s safe which made his heart leap. Blocks away from the mayor’s house, in the shadows back of an empty store, Agent “X” drew the paper from his pocket and turned his flash on it.