Dolph Palmer, a deputy inspector of the narcotic bureau, had been caught pilfering confiscated drugs. He had admitted his evil habits, but claimed that he’d developed a severe nervous affliction that puzzled the doctors, and which could be soothed only by dope.
Bob Lane, on the police force for twenty years, a typical, honest, courageous cop, the sort who walk a beat until retirement, was in prison on a murder charge. He had held up a small drug store, killed the proprietor to get the store’s supply of narcotics. There was mystery surrounding his addiction, too. He could give no reason why he used drugs, except that suddenly the awful craving had mastered him.
“It’s bad enough when the coppers get on the stuff,” continued Jim Hobart, “but when kids take to dope, it’s awful. You wouldn’t think there’d be cokeheads at the private schools — but take Miss Laurel’s place for girls. That’s about the most high-hat, hoity-toity outfit in town. A gal has to have blue-blood ancestors, a couple of financial pirates for grandfathers, and an inheritance that’d pay off an army before she gets into the Laurel brain factory.”
Hobart paused a moment and the Agent asked a horrified question.
“You mean those child-heirs to millions are taking narcotics?”
“Worse than that, boss,” came Hobart’s answer. “Their folks have kept the story out of the papers, but last night Miss Laurel’s little queens turned out one of the wildest riots in history. One of them got a vial of dope somewhere. Another tried to steal it. She got a paper knife through her ribs. That started it.
“By the time the show was finished, Miss Laurel’s dormitory looked like a battlefield. Dope made those gals hell-cats. More than half of them are hopheads. Ten are in private hospitals, and they’re all under observation. The papers don’t dare print a word, because they’ll lose a million dollars worth of advertising from some of the gals’ papas.”
An intense light shone in the Secret Agent’s eyes. The drug evil was raging and spreading like a plague. Cops, children, people of wealth. Dope knew neither class nor creed. With only a week needed to make a drug addict, this insidious, mysterious ring would soon have the whole city in its power.
“X” had to act quickly. The indefatigable Hobart had a long list of crimes of violence attributed to the new dope evil. The Agent stopped him in the midst of his recital. “You’ve done a swell job, Jim,” he said. “Now I want you to try to discover what the drug victims themselves don’t know. How did they become addicts? That’s what we’ve got to find out. Keep in touch with the office. I don’t know how long I’ll be away this time.”
He hung up and for a moment sat at his desk in deep thought. A mysterious, brooding figure, hidden behind an impenetrable disguise, the Secret Agent was plotting his course of action against one of the worst criminal rings he had ever faced.
FOOTSTEPS sounded in the hallway outside. Something was dropped in the special mail box attached to the door. The footsteps passed on.
The Secret Agent arose quickly, opened the box and took out a long, thin envelope. It was sealed with wax. The color of the wax told him instantly that it was a confidential report from another of his operatives, one Lloyd Hankins.
He tore the end of the envelope off immediately, spread out the papers inside.
The report concerned Count Remy de Ronfort, a European of shady reputation whom “X” was suspicious of and had asked Hankins to investigate. De Ronfort was a descendant of a noble French family, but had become a criminal. He had been in America five weeks, according to Hankins’ report, but so far hadn’t indulged in activities that would interest the police. His time had been spent wooing Paula Rockwell, the fluffy, pretty ward of a retired financier, Whitney Blake.
Charming and aristocratic, de Ronfort was considered a catch for the season’s debutantes by their parents, who didn’t know his reputation. Hankins’ report was brief. He had been shadowing de Ronfort, but had learned little more than what had already been recorded in the society columns. De Ronfort had recently become engaged to Paula Rockwell.
The Agent went at once to his own secret files. He was not satisfied with Hankins’ report. He had some data of his own on the man. The count had a long criminal record on the Continent, but the full list of his adventures outside the law was tucked away in the hidden archives of the Paris Sûreté.
The society columns told of de Ronfort’s vast country estates in France, but it was recorded in the Agent’s authoritative files that the man was penniless, except for what he had made through underworld activities.
He had been associated with dope smuggling activities in Europe. That was why “X” was interested in him. The man was clever, highly educated, with influential contacts throughout the world, and he was a thoroughgoing scoundrel. He had been suspected of purchasing large quantities of crude opium in China and India. Later the police of France had connected him with the activities of a ring engaged in smuggling in the refined products of heroin and morphine. He was said to be a purveyor of narcotics to the rich and black-sheep nobility of several of the world’s metropolises.
The Agent’s own suspicions seemed justified. The count’s conduct had been beyond criticism in America. Yet perhaps he was the power behind the ring now dispensing free drugs. The count lacked neither the ability nor the bent for such a position.
The Agent glanced at a newspaper lying on his desk. He had folded it to a photograph. This was a picture of Remy de Ronfort with Paula Rockwell. They made a dashing couple. There was an announcement of a party in honor of the engaged couple, to be given at Blake’s house the following night.
THAT interested the Agent. Temporarily checkmated in his attempt to catch Karloff, he was ready to try any new lead that had promise. A way to meet Count de Ronfort instantly suggested itself. He reached for the telephone, called the city room of the Herald.
“Miss Betty Dale,” said the Agent when the connection had been made. The girl he had called was one of the few people in the world, besides a high Washington official known as K9, who knew the nature of his strange work. She was the daughter of a police captain who had been slain by underworld bullets. Her contempt for the criminal class was as great as that of the Agent’s himself.
A clear, confident voice came over the wire. “Yes, this is Miss Dale of the Herald.”
A faint gleam appeared in the Agent’s eyes. “You’re going to the Blake party tomorrow night, are you not, Miss Dale?” he asked.
“Yes, that’s right, I’ve been detailed to cover the affair. Who are you?”
Agent “X” ignored the question.
Instead of answering he asked another of his own. “How about taking Ben Buchanan, clubman and man-about-town, as your escort?”
There was a little gasp, a pause, then a cold note crept into the voice that came over the wire. “I’m sorry, Mr. Buchanan, there must be some mistake. I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of an introduction. And the first edition goes to press in half an hour. I’m very busy — if you don’t mind—”
“You haven’t answered my question!”
“No; and I don’t intend—”
“X” knew she was about to hang up on him. Betty, golden-haired, pretty as some artist’s model, had a will of her own and could take care of herself. He puckered up his lips suddenly, leaned forward and sent into the telephone’s mouthpiece a whistle that had a strange birdlike note. It was melodious, yet eerie — a sound that once heard could never be forgotten. It was the whistle of Secret Agent “X.” He listened after he had given it. The voice at the end of the wire changed again. It was low and tense now, with a quaver of emotion in it.