Mr. Pond leaned forward. “Perhaps you have noted,” he said, “that all the crimes that have been committed by this Skull have the earmarks of perfect workmanship. Take the robbery of your store, for instance, Laurens. It was perfectly timed with the time lock, was it not?”
Laurens nodded. “Not only that. In addition to the time lock I had an inner door on the safe that was supposed to be proof against dynamite. Well, one of those men knelt before the safe and twirled the dials, listening for the tumblers to drop. I had thought it was impossible to open a modern safe that way, but I saw it with my own eyes. That man opened the inner door inside of ten minutes while those ruffians held everybody at bay with machine guns, and practically took possession of the street outside!”
Commissioner Foster hitched forward in his seat. “Look here,” he said. “I’ve a damn good idea as to who that man was that opened the safe. Tell you why.” He stopped, took a drink from the long glass at his elbow, while the others waited eagerly. “There are only two men in the country could open a safe like that. One of them is Frank Fannon, who is coming out of jail tomorrow; the other is Ben Tyler.
“Naturally, it couldn’t have been Fannon, since he won’t be released till tomorrow morning. That leaves Tyler. Now, as to Tyler — he came out of jail three weeks ago. For a while we knew where he was, then he suddenly disappeared. Two days later, Laurens was robbed. I tell you, this Skull is recruiting criminals, experts in their line, from the underworld. He is building up an organization that it will be impossible for us to break up if we let it grow any longer.”
He looked down his nose at the glass he held in his hand, then added as an afterthought, “I wish I could somehow get in touch with this Secret Agent ‘X’—unofficially, of course. I’d sick him onto the Skull. He’s the only one with brains enough to make it an even battle; and if they destroyed each other, I wouldn’t feel too bad!”
Elisha Pond had suddenly become very thoughtful. “This Frank Fannon,” he asked. “I am interested in the name. What jail is he coming out of tomorrow?”
“Folsom. He’s finishing up a federal stretch for robbing a post office.”
“I see,” said Mr. Pond.
Chapter IV
THE man who was known at the Bankers’ Club as Elisha Pond had many unusual resources at his command, and he made brilliant use of them. It is, therefore, not surprising that when he drove up to the gates of Folsom Penitentiary the next morning, he in no wise resembled the clubman of the evening before.
His car bore on the radiator the insignia of the United States Army. His driver was a red-haired young man in military uniform, who was known in his usual haunts as Jim Hobart. At this time, Jim Hobart was arrayed in chauffeur’s habiliments, and played the part to perfection.
Mr. Pond himself was dressed in the snappy whipcord of a lieutenant colonel of the United States Intelligence Service, a uniform to which, by the way, he was entitled.
As he swaggered up the steps of the administration building, and then into the warden’s office, he looked for all the world like a grumpy old martinet of sixty who had been soured by a lifetime of military service.
In the warden’s office he deposited his cap and swagger stick on the desk, and introduced himself. “Lieutenant Colonel Delevan, U. S. Intelligence Service, sir. I am here in connection with a prisoner by the name of Frank Fannon who is being released this morning.”
The warden shook hands with him respectfully, asked in a puzzled manner, “Fannon? What can the Intelligence Service have to do with him? Of course,” he added hastily, “I shall be glad to assist you—”
“Naturally, sir.” The colonel produced a folded document which he neglected to open, merely holding it up in the air. “I have here a warrant of arrest for Fannon, sir. It has come to our attention that Fannon was connected with an international spy ring, and it becomes my duty to take him to Washington for questioning. Will you be good enough to see that he is turned over to me upon his discharge?”
The warden was surprised, but far from suspicious. “Of course, colonel. Fannon is almost ready now. I will go myself and bring him here. If you don’t mind waiting—”
“Not at all, sir. And thank you for your cooperation.”
When the colonel was left alone, he stepped to the window which overlooked the driveway outside. Jim Hobart stood beside the sedan in which they had come. He saw the colonel, nodded imperceptibly, and jerked his head toward the gate. The colonel glanced in that direction, and tensed.
Just outside the gate was a long, black, closed car. It had every appearance of hidden power, and seemed to be waiting for some one. The colonel inspected it for a long time, trying to pierce the gloom of its interior through the closed windows with his keen eyes. Satisfied finally, he turned away from the window without looking again at Jim Hobart.
IN another moment the door opened and the warden entered with the prisoner, Frank Fannon. Fannon was tall, thin, his hair graying at the temples. Prison life had embittered him, as indicated by the grim twist of his lips.
The warden said, “Here he is, colonel.”
Colonel Delevan said pompously, “Fannon, I hereby place you under military arrest. You will come with me.” At the same time he drew his heavy service revolver from the holster at his side, and covered the prisoner.
Fannon was surprised and angry. “Military arrest!” he exclaimed. “What for? I’ve been out of the army for fifteen years!”
“You will be duly informed of the charges against you after you have been questioned, and before the court-martial. Now, about face and march!”
“You’re crazy!” Fannon snarled. “I won’t go. It’s a frame of some kind!”
The warden was about to say something when Colonel Delevan raised a hand. “If you will leave me alone for a moment with this prisoner, sir, I believe I can show him the folly of resisting an officer of the United States Army.”
“Of course, of course,” the warden mumbled, and went out of the room looking very puzzled.
As soon as they were alone, the colonel stepped close to Fannon, spoke very low. “You fool! Do you want to queer the whole business? Play up to me!”
Suddenly Fannon’s defiant expression gave way to one of understanding. He exclaimed, “I get you. You’re from the Skull! I didn’t know you’d go to such lengths—”
“Never mind what you didn’t know. You are going to learn a lot that you never knew before. Now, let’s go.”
“Sure, sure,” Fannon said. “I’m sorry I didn’t understand. I thought the arrangement was that the Skull was going to have a private car waiting for me at the gate.”
As they left the room, the colonel’s eyes lighted with triumph. His suspicions about that black car were being verified. He showed nothing of his elation, however, merely said, “Plans often have to be changed.”
They met the warden in the hall. The colonel said to him, “Fannon realizes now that it is futile to offer resistance. Thank you again, sir, for your cooperation.”
“Not at all, colonel. I’m always glad to be of assistance.” The warden accompanied them to the main door, watched them get into the sedan, the colonel still holding his revolver in plain sight. To anyone watching the scene from that black car at the gate, it was evident that Fannon was being arrested and taken away.
Jim Hobart got behind the wheel, and without a word of instruction, turned the sedan around, drove through the gate. As they passed the black car, Fannon noted it and said, “Look, there’s the car that was supposed to pick me up. I was told it would have a letter ‘S’ monogrammed on the door.”