“You wouldn’t take the work of the police away from them, would you, my frien’?”
“The police?” sneered Howe. “What have they done? Nothing, nothing, except bungle. Their feet are bogged down in politics. Graft is a festering sore in their midst. A non-partisan organization must fight this thing. That’s why I’m collecting contributions from men like Blake. And I won’t take no for an answer. I know that Blake and others like him will back me up when they learn the facts. I know I can depend on them.”
Silas Howe had the fire of a fanatic and an egotist. He pictured himself as a knight in armor leading a crusade against evil. His voice rose to the hoarse note of a frenzied orator. People gathered about. Whitney Blake listened patiently for a while, then began to show irritation in the tapping of his black cane. He spoke at last, ignoring Howe’s eloquence.
“If the police have bungled,” he said, “I don’t think you and your vigilance committees will get organized enough to do even that. You’re theorists — all of you. Talk can’t win against organized crime. I’ve no desire to contribute money that will be given over in fat salaries to speech-makers. If you want to see some action, Howe, get yourself sworn in as a deputy and join the police or the narcotics bureau. Maybe when hopheads start shooting at you, you won’t be so anxious to lead the crusade.”
HOWE’S lean face turned crimson with fury. He choked down his anger, tried a wheedling tone on Blake. The ex-financier made an impatient gesture and drew out a fresh cigar which de Ronfort courteously lighted for him. Betty Dale laughed in the Secret Agent’s ear.
“Howe has met his match,” she said. “He’s a publicity hound and Blake knows it.”
Agent “X” nodded. He led Betty onto the dance floor. For five minutes they were engaged in the intricate steps of a new tango; then the alert eyes of “X,” trained to miss nothing, began to notice a queer change in the guests. His fingers tightened on his dancing partner’s arm. His voice was tense.
“Look, Betty, there’s something going on here!”
What the Secret Agent had seen was this. Members of the party, who a short time before appeared fatigued with dancing and sodden with drink, now began to show signs of feverish activity. Their eyes were brighter. Their conversation more noisy, their laughter shrill and metallic. A couple bumped into them and made a vulgar sally. Betty Dale grew tense.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“X” had a theory of his own, but he said nothing. He led Betty off the dance floor and they watched and waited. A youth, strangely restless, and circulating through the room, teetered up to them. He had a box of fancy Turkish blend cigarettes in his hand. With a brittle laugh he held this out to the Agent.
“Try one, pal ol’ pal!” he invited. “They’re good for that tired feeling. They pep you up in a jiffy. See for yourself!”
Calmly the Agent took one; but there was a smoldering light in his own eyes. He touched a match to the cigarette, inhaled deeply, while the youth nodded and smiled.
“Makes you feel good, doesn’t it, pal?” he said.
Still Agent “X” said nothing, but at the third breath a sudden sense of exhilaration filled him. He held the cigarette in his hand, said quietly:
“Where did you get these?”
The youth tittered. “A chap in the dressing room gave them to me. Said they were a sort of rejuvenator. And he hit the nail on the head. They’re just what’s needed at a dumb jamboree like this. Here!”
He held the box out for Betty Dale.
“Pardon me, lady, should have offered them to you first — but they make a fellow forget his manners.”
At a sudden warning glance from Agent “X” Betty Dale refused. The Agent had become hawk-eyed now. He did not puff the cigarette again, but he watched the youth closely. The fellow, still in his teens, was obviously a guileless sort. Pleased with the effect of the cigarettes on himself, he was sharing his find with others. He offered a smoke to Paula Rockwell next, and with a coy glance at him she accepted.
The youth struck a match gallantly and held it out for her. But before Paula could get a light Count de Ronfort stepped in suavely. His long hand reached out, drew the cigarette from her fingers. He snapped it in two, dropped it.
“Come, ma cherie,” he said. “That is Turkish and too exotic for your American taste. One of my own would be better — the kind you have been smoking all evening. One must be consistent in these things.”
Paula Rockwell made an annoyed moue with her red lips, but she accepted the Count’s cigarette.
“You are so masterful, Remy,” she said.
Agent “X” had seen this small byplay. His heartbeat had quickened. De Ronfort had known that there was something queer about the cigarettes the youth was offering. Either he had previously tried one himself, or—
“X” did not question him now. He was casually trailing the youth across the penthouse floor. Many guests accepted the smokes he offered. His supply was diminishing. He lit another himself, inhaled hungrily, and came to the side of Silas Howe.
“Have one on me, grandpa,” he said flippantly.
THE reformer’s rawboned figure stiffened. His face quivered with the righteous indignation of his profession.
“Young man,” he said, “your manners are conspicuous by their absence. Treat your elders with respect — and take those filthy weeds away. I never have and never will touch tobacco in any form.”
The youth tittered again, and gave a burlesque salute.
“Then I’ll keep the rest of these for myself,” he said. “Thanks, ol’ man, thanks.”
He started to slip the box into his pocket; but Agent “X” laid a sudden hand on his arm.
“Tell me about this chap who gave those to you!” he said. “He was in the dressing room, you say. Suppose you introduce me to him.”
The youth smiled slyly. “Want a box of ’em for yourself, eh? Well, all right. I never was one to hog a good thing. Come on!”
He led “X” to the dressing room for men, looked about and shook his head.
“The chap’s gone,” he said. “He must have buzzed out.”
“Then we’ll hunt him down,” said “X” grimly.
He escorted the youth through the various rooms, till the young man began to complain.
“What’s this — a walking tour! He’s gone, I say. Never saw him before in my life. Now he’s breezed out. Here, I’ll divvy with you. Can’t go buzzing about like this all night.”
He took out the box of cigarettes. Agent “X” snatched them from his fingers, watching the young man’s face. Indignation alone was expressed there.
“I say!” he cried. “A fine pal you turned out to be. Grab ’em all for yourself. You can’t get away with that.”
In a moment the Agent’s voice grew hard. He stepped close to the man, caught his arm and faced him.
“Don’t be a fool,” he said, “There’s dope in these cigarettes. The tobacco’s loaded with it. That’s why they ‘pep’ you up!”
“Dope!” the youth’s face expressed horror. “It’s rot! Paula Rockwell wouldn’t have dope at her party.”
“You say yourself you got them from a stranger. He isn’t here now. Look, he’s passed out dozens of those cigarettes. Half the people here have been smoking them.”
“And who are you, a dick?”
“No, a man who recognizes dope when he comes across it.”
The youth passed a shaky hand across his flushed face. “I guess you’re right at that,” he said. “I feel — funny. Like floating away, or getting into a fight, or something.”