Baldwin Island came into sight at last, a low line of blackness against the faintly lighter horizon. There were other police craft here, circling off shore. Evidently they had been told to stay away at midnight. The mayor must have let slip some inkling of what might happen.
Agent “X” throttled his motor and drifted for a minute, until the nearest patrol boat moved away. Then he gave the engine fuel again, sped on a straight course toward the dark unsightly island.
It rose rapidly above his bow. He slowed the engine at last, twisted the wheel, and slid into a small gravelly beach. In a moment he was on shore, pulling the boat halfway up the beach to prevent the ebb tide from taking it.
Scudding clouds slid across the stars. A faint, wintry crescent of moon cast a cold light. Underneath it “X” got a glimpse of the island. It was a place of ash heaps, dumps, and small storage houses. The largest building on it was a city-owned incinerator. It wasn’t a sightly place. Over on the north side were the shacks of the squatter colony.
Agent “X” made toward these, and, when a low ridge had hidden him from the water, he flashed his pencil light. Every few feet he saw evidence that the mayor had made effort to locate the hidden bomb.
Gangs of men had been at work here. Excavations showed in many spots, with fresh earth turned up. Yet obviously the mayor’s workers had failed to find it. No doubt the suspense was largely responsible for the mayor’s seeming fright.
Agent “X” didn’t pause to search for clues now. He’d had dealings enough with criminal minds to know the horrible warped cunning with which they worked. And before he searched there were the squatters to think of.
He came to a slight incline, climbed it, and saw the squatters’ colony ahead. Then he stiffened. Not one light showed, but several faint pin-pricks of illumination in the gloom. Smoke curled up from one cracked and rusty stovepipe above a nearby shack. The more daring of the squatters had made good their boast, and returned.
Agent “X” broke into swift strides. It was eleven-fifteen already. There was no time to lose if he expected to get these poor misguided people away. His face was bleak. His eyes snapped grimly. Horror, dread expectancy, seemed to lurk in the night about him on this desolate, barren island, and there were human beings, huddled in the very shadow of possible destruction.
He reached the first shack, burst open the door. There came a low whine, a growl. Then a furry shape bounded toward him. But a quick word from the Agent, and the dog that was about to attack him, paused and stood uncertainly. Something about the tone of “X’s” voice and the burning, intent light in his eyes always had an effect on animals.
He looked beyond the dog, saw an old man rising from a box seat before a rusty can being used as a stove. Heat came from the bent sides of the can. The old man had been warming his frail hands above it.
“Hyer — wadda yer want?” he cried. “What’s the idea, bustin’ in on a fella like this?”
Agent “X” stared at the man silently for a moment. Then he spoke in a calm, friendly voice. “Just dropped in, mister, to see whether you’d cleared out, and to warn you if you hadn’t to hurry up.”
The old man’s face distorted bitterly. “A detective, eh? Get outta hyer, dang you! Sic ’em, Bill!”
The dog, hearing its master’s order, growled and bristled, but refused to attack Agent “X.” The old man cried shrilly at the animal, but Agent “X” stepped closer, smiling. He reached out and petted the dog, whose hackles instantly went down.
The animal wagged its absurd stump of a tail. It was a mongrel, with a dozen strains fighting in its puny, courageous body. The old man stared in wonder, gulped.
“I never seen Bill take to a stranger like that before,” he muttered. “He must have a lotta police dog in him and like dicks.”
“I’m no dick,” said “X,” “I didn’t come here because the law sent me. I came as a friend to warn you. Do you know why you’ve got to leave this island?”
“Can’t say as I do. Some damned red tape, I guess.”
“No — I wouldn’t call it that. The island’s going to be blown up — that’s why. There’s a bomb hidden out here somewhere.”
“A bomb — say!” Suspicion came into the old man’s eyes. “I wasn’t born yesterday, fella. You can’t pull a yarn like that on me!”
“X” spoke softly, tensely. “I wouldn’t lie to you, friend. You’d better believe me. It’s true. Even the cops are afraid to come out near this place. Quick — get away before it’s too late!”
THE Agent’s hands went to his pockets suddenly. He drew out a wallet, took from it a packet of bills.
“Here,” he said quickly. “Take these, friend. They’ll keep you and Bill for awhile. Then go to this address — and there’ll be a job waiting.”
He handed the old man a slip of paper with the name and address of Jim Hobart on it. He would make arrangements to have the old squatter put on his payroll.
“X” left the shack abruptly, saw the form of the old man and his dog hurrying away. “X” himself went on to three other shacks.
In each he found a human being, the stubborn rear guard of the squatter colony. Briefly, tensely, he told them what he had told the old man, gave them money, urged them to hurry. Seeing he was not a cop, impressed by the cash he handed out, they obeyed at once. Kindness had accomplished what threats and force could not.
One more light at the outer edge of the squatter colony attracted him. He walked toward it, came to within twenty feet of it. Then he paused suddenly. For the door was opening and two figures were coming out — a man and a girl.
It was the girl who held “X” transfixed. He stared as though doubting his own senses — stared, and his whole body tensed. For the girl was well-dressed, not like the tattered squatters he had visited, or like the young man at her side who seemed also to be a squatter. She wore a wool suit with a fur collar, a little cloche hat, and under its brim a twist of blonde hair showed.
Agent “X” would have known her figure and her walk anywhere. It was Betty Dale of the Herald; the blonde and lovely ally who was one of the few persons in all the world who knew about his daring work.
An icy chill seemed to clutch at the Agent’s heart. What was Betty doing on this island at this time of night? What was she doing in the very shadow of hideous death?
The Agent stepped back. He puckered up his lips, sent a whistle into the night. It was birdlike, musical, yet with an eerie, ventriloquistic note that made it difficult to locate its source. It was the whistle of Secret Agent “X,” his odd, inimitable trade-mark.
Betty Dale stopped immediately. She gave a little gasp of surprise and clutched the leather brief case she was carrying.
“Betty!” said the Agent. “Betty — over here!”
She turned then, said something to her tattered companion, moved away from him and came toward “X.” Her eyes were bright. There was a smile on her lips as she approached. In spite of his disguise, one she had never seen before, she came directly to him. He didn’t need to introduce himself. She had heard that whistle too many times ever to mistake it
“Why, what are you doing here?” she breathed. “Did you know I was around? Did you get my letter?” There was eagerness, happiness in her voice. Her eyes were aglow with a light brighter than mere friendship. There was a flush on her cheeks, not caused by the crispness of the December wind.