“Go over and sit down,” said “X” firmly. “Say nothing about this to anyone, but if you see that man who passed them out again tell me.”
The youth nodded, stumbled toward a seat. Agent “X” turned back to Betty Dale. Just as he reached her side a small, self-effacing man came up. He had a paper in his hand.
“I’m Rivers,” he said, “Mr. Blake’s secretary. You’re Miss Dale of the Herald, I’m told. Miss Rockwell said to give you this, a list of tonight’s guests. And if there’s any other information you wish I — er — will be pleased to give it to you.”
Betty Dale thanked the man absently and took the list. There was a grim smile on the Agent’s face. Paula Rockwell was seeking publicity, seeking to feed her shallow-minded vanity — while the coils of the drug evil wound themselves about her guests, and the viperlike poison of dope bit into their hearts and minds.
Before the Agent could speak his thoughts to Betty there was a sudden startling racket outside, near one of the French windows leading to a side balcony.
Those in the spacious drawing room stopped tensely in their tracks. Eyes turned, necks craned. Then gasps went up.
For the French windows swung inward, banging against the wall. Glass shattered and shivered to the floor, and framed in the opening a wild-eyed, unshaven man crouched. He stood there a moment, peering at the crowd, blinking at the light. Then he stepped inside, and a woman gave a terrified shriek.
The man had the look of a hunted beast. His eyes were savage, sunken, with a curious haunted expression. The skin of his face was as tight as a death’s head. The muscles beneath it twitched painfully. He was sniffing like an animal, with nostrils dilated. His clothing was torn, dirty and threadbare, and one hand was thrust before him rigidly. In the fingers of it was clutched a long-bladed knife.
His eyes swiveled about the room. They focused with an insane glare on the group in the corner, where Paula Rockwell, de Ronfort, Silas Howe and others were grouped about Blake in his arm-chair.
The stranger’s breath hissed through clenched teeth. He uttered a shrill, hate-impelled cry and pointed. The Agent started for the man. But the stranger gave a second wild, blood-curdling shout and leaped madly forward, brandishing the wicked sliver of gleaming steel overhead.
Chapter VII
AT that instant a swift outburst came from Silas Howe. “It’s one of them!” he cried. “One of the dope ring! They hate me, fear me — and they’d kill me if they could. But I wield a stronger weapon than they. I—”
As he spoke, the lights in the big room abruptly winked out. His hysterical utterance was cut off by a wild confusion of screams and frenzied shouts. There was a rush to get clear of the maniac’s path.
Agent “X” did not join this. He stood tensely, trying to pierce the gloom. Then a streak of flame lanced the darkness suddenly. The Agent heard no gunshot, yet an agonized cry followed the streak of burning powder. Something thudded to the floor and thrashed about.
Panic gripped the guests of Whitney Blake. They began stumbling over furniture, crashing against the walls. Some one hurled a chair through the French doors leading to the front terrace. There was a clatter, as a tray of liquor glasses was upset. Persons were colliding with one another in a mad endeavor to reach safety.
Then, as mysteriously as they’d gone off, the lights came on again.
Agent “X” surveyed the room. Sprawled on the floor was the wild eyed man, his tousled head encircled by a crimson pool. His knife had dropped from still fingers.
“X” leaned over the body. He didn’t disturb it, but he was able to see instantly that the man was dead. A bullet had caught the stranger in the head.
Excitement gave way to a nervous let-down in the room. A woman laughed hysterically. Another fainted in the arms of her escort. “X” glanced at Silas Howe. The man was trembling with excitement. Beside him, debonair and unruffled, stood Remy de Ronfort, trying to comfort Paula Rockwell, who was crying noisily. Old Whitney Blake still held his cigar, but his face showed lines of strain, like wrinkles on parchment.
De Ronfort’s suave voice sounded in the room, “Most excellent work, M’sieu Howe,” he said. “You saved us from a crazy man. He would have carved us up assuredly. You showed preat presence of mind in administering the coup de grace, as it were — in shooting him.”
Silas Howe looked bewildered, “But — but—” he stuttered, “I didn’t shoot him. I’d have killed him willing — if I could have. He was a homicidal, drug-crazed man — and you saw yourselves that he intended to murder me. But I’m not much of a shot and wouldn’t have taken the chance — especially in the dark. You’re mistaken, Count de Ronfort, it was someone else who slew the vermin.”
De Ronfort laughed and shrugged. “You are a modest man, M’sieu Howe. I myself saw you reaching for a gun just before the lights went out. You should take full credit to yourself instead of giving it to another.”
Howe started to protest when Whitney Blake’s voice sounded.
“Whatever the circumstance we must call the police,” he said. “And I must ask that none of you leave this apartment until a check-up has been made.”
He sent his man, Rivers, to call headquarters. And as this was being done Agent “X” moved through the crowd, brushing against men and deftly touching them to see who was carrying concealed weapons. But the one man who seemed to have a gun was Silas Howe, and yet the reformer had vehemently denied the killing. The agent’s eyes were bright. Betty Dale sensed that there was strange drama in the air.
“Why doesn’t Howe admit the killing?” she whispered. “He could claim self-defense. He has nothing to fear.”
The Agent shook his head. “Perhaps he’s telling the truth. We’ll find out soon.”
IN a few minutes the police arrived. There were several officers in uniform, the medical examiner, and three men in plainclothes. The sight of one of them made Betty Dale exclaim under her breath and clutch the Agent’s arm nervously. This was a pale, sharp-featured man who surveyed the room with a coldly impersonal gaze from piercing gray eyes that gleamed beneath jutting black eyebrows.
One of his men addressed him as “inspector,” and with the medical examiner at his side he looked at the dead man for a moment, then went over and glanced at the French windows.
De Ronfort, poised and talkative, took it upon himself to describe the stranger’s entry and the killing. Inspector Burks listened, making notes in a small black book, then spoke in the flat, hard tone that was habitual with him.
“Nobody admits killing him, eh? That doesn’t look so hot. There must be more to it than self-defense. If a man broke into my house and got fresh with a knife I wouldn’t hesitate to drop him. But if nobody’s going to own up to this job, we’ll have to find out who did it and why he isn’t telling.”
Count de Ronfort laughed. “We have a very modest man with us,” he said. “M’sieu Howe here is the hero of the occasion. But he is too retiring to claim the credit. I think, however, if you will question him—”
The Count ceased speaking. Inspector Burks had already turned on the reformer and fixed him with an eagle eye.
“Well, what about it, Howe? You’ve been holding the lid down on this city for a good many years. But I didn’t know you’d taken over the job of executioner, too. Tell us how you killed this guy.”
Howe shook his head, and his eyes snapped. “I told the Count that I did not do the shooting. He chooses to call me a liar. I have got a gun, but—”
“Ah!” said Burks. He held out his hand. With a sour scowl, Silas Howe fished in his pocket and drew out a small revolver. He gave this to the inspector.