“You!” breathed Betty Dale. “I didn’t understand — I thought — Of course I’d like you as an escort. You know—”
Confusion made the girl stop; yet there had been warmth, pleasure, expectancy in her reply. Often before she had given the Secret Agent aid in his desperate work. Often they had shared stark dangers together and walked in the Valley of the Shadow side by side. Never knowingly had she seen the Agent undisguised. His identity was a mystery to her as to the rest of the world. Yet she had felt his power, honesty, courage and unswerving purpose. Beside him others whom she knew seemed tame, commonplace.
“Tomorrow evening,” she added quickly. “Eight-thirty at my apartment. I’ll be — waiting.”
THE next night a sleek, high-powered limousine with a chauffeur at the wheel drew up before a big apartment building. Whitney Blake’s penthouse was on the top.
In the vestibule below, a liveried doorman helped from the car a girl of decisive, glamorous beauty. She wore a shimmering evening gown of white satin. A black velvet wrap trimmed with fur fell from gleamingly white shoulders. The golden, lustrous hair that was like imprisoned sunlight was set off by a tiara of sparkling brilliants. In spite of her career as a newspaper woman there was an unspoiled freshness about Betty Dale. The strength in her firm little chin and clear eyes only heightened her appeal.
The man who escorted her was broad-shouldered. His formal black-and-white garb was tailored to bring out the lines of a muscular, tapering body. The tan on his face suggested the polo field and the hunting trail. He had the easy poise of a man who had devoted his life to graceful, luxurious, selfish existence. The poise of a clubman, and wealthy sportsman at home in the city’s most exclusive drawing rooms. Again Secret Agent “X” was playing a masterly role.
As Ben Buchanan, society gallant, he was just the sort to be welcomed into the gay, sophisticated circle of Paula Rockwell’s friends.
A private elevator whisked them to the twenty-second floor. A door clicked open, and they stepped into an anteroom of the lavish, spacious penthouse of Whitney Blake.
The party was already in noisy progress when “X” and Betty Dale were ushered into the large drawing-room. The Secret Agent looked about him. Beneath this atmosphere of luxury and gaiety, it was possible that he might find the sinister footprints of crime.
The lights were subdued. The music was lilting. In the air was a blend of many soft perfumes, from flowers that stood in tall vases, and from the gowns and bodies of the lovely, glamorously dressed women present. Couples were dancing on the front terrace. In the rear, adding a touch of unconventionality to appeal to the younger set, was a swimming pool, made gay with colored lights. Guests in bathing suits were making use of this. Short swims were being mixed with long drinks.
Many times the Secret Agent had mingled with false and boisterous gaiety of this sort. He knew how to appear to be a part of it. Yet in his heart he felt contempt for it. To one who had known the closeness of death in the pursuit of master criminals, to one who had had adventures in the shadowy underworlds of crime, the false thrills and inanities of drunken wit and alcoholic capers were insipid. Betty Dale spoke softly in his ear.
“There’s always a mixed crowd at Paula Rockwell’s. She’s an excitement seeker and social lion hunter, too.”
“I rather think she is,” said the Agent significantly.
A tall, dark man was coming in from Whitney Blake’s private bar. “X” recognized him as Count Remy de Ronfort. A girl ran in from the terrace and grabbed the count’s arm. She was a fluffy-haired, doll-faced debutante dressed in blue chiffon.
“There’s Paula now,” said Betty. “They make a picture, don’t they?”
The Agent did not answer. His eyes were upon de Ronfort. The count’s smile was ingratiating. “X” could see at a glance that the man had mastered all the social tricks and graces that pass for charm. He had a slight look of dissipation, a slight air of boredom. The small mustache that graced his upper lip was trimmed and trained elegantly. He cut a dashing figure in his evening clothes. Despite his former criminal activities, Remy de Ronfort, in appearance and manner, was as correct as some fashion plate.
Paula Rockwell saw Betty and ran forward, tugging the Count with her.
“Miss Dale,” she cooed. “I’m so glad you’re here! It’s the party of the season. Everybody’s come. All the worth-while people. You must give it a big splurge in tomorrow’s Herald. And don’t forget my fiancé—the Count. His favorite reading is the news stories about himself. And you won’t find me dodging any cameras.”
Paula Rockwell had beauty of a sort; red lips, dancing eyes. But there was an exaggerated coyness about her. Her face mirrored a shallow, empty mind. She drove twelve-cylinder cars and had a one-cylinder brain.
Studying de Ronfort, “X” saw that the man was playing a part. His treatment of Paula Rockwell was the last word in tact. He laughed at her commonplace sallies, baited her into feeling clever, and made her the center of attraction. Behind his actions was the scheming cunning of a man set to get a rich wife. But what did the Count do for money now? That interested “X.”
DE RONFORT murmured polite nothings to Betty. In a moment Paula Rockwell led him away proprietarily to meet some other newly arrived guests. She guided them and the count toward the end of the room. Agent “X” looked in the direction where the engaged couple were headed.
“The old chap in the arm-chair over there in the corner is Whitney Blake,” said Betty. “He had a paralytic stroke after the stock market crash in ’29. The sight of two million going up in smoke was too much for him; but he still has enough left to buy polo ponies and yachts, for Paula and her Count.”
For a moment the Agent’s eyes became fixed on the ex-financier, a white-haired, craggy-faced man. Then they switched from him to another man close by and he asked a sudden question.
“Isn’t that Silas Howe talking to Blake, Betty? How did he crash a party like this?”
Betty Bale stared, then nodded.
“It’s Howe all right. They were talking about him at the Herald office this afternoon. He’s already campaigning against narcotics. He wants to lead a crusade and grab a lot of publicity for himself. I suspect he’s here to make Whitney Blake contribute. He has an apartment in this building and must have crashed the party.”
The Agent’s eyes narrowed. Even here at this gay party the drug menace was making itself felt. Howe, a famous reformer and temperance man, with a rawboned body and a long nose that seemed especially made to be thrust into other people’s affairs, had seen fit to come. The Demon Rum was no longer in the limelight. Howe saw his chance to win notoriety by battling the Demon Drugs.
He began haranguing Whitney Blake now, and the Agent became instantly alert. He moved closer, to overhear the conversation and see what opinions Howe held. The reformer’s voice rose blatantly.
“I tell you, Blake, the big-stick policy must be used against the underworld. Catch all the crooks — make ’em tell what they know — and you’ll run this thing to the ground. I intend to form vigilance committees and—” Howe paused to wipe his gaunt, perspiring face “—I appeal to you as a man of wealth to aid me. I have seen the light again. I’ve come out of retirement. I intend to wipe out the drug evil in America. Contribute ten thousand dollars, Blake, and your fellow citizens will be eternally grateful.”
Blake said nothing. He chewed his cigar thoughtfully. Count de Ronfort, standing near-by with a contemptuous smile on his face, addressed Howe.