Inspector Burks grew purple with irritation. He choked, made a snarling noise in his throat and glared at the Agent.
“A brilliant observation, Mr. Buchanan, but it happens that I am conducting this investigation. I’ll thank you not to interfere.” His voice was shaky with rage. “X” had put him in an embarrassing position before the crowd, made the police appear inadequate and hurt his professional pride. Burks alibied himself quickly.
“I was coming to those shoes as a matter of routine,” he said icily. “The police I can assure you don’t need the advice of meddling bystanders to conduct a murder investigation.”
Yet in spite of his harsh response “X” knew that Burks would work on the tip. The Agent himself took special note of the shoes. The heels had been built up on the inner part, as is done to help and correct feet suffering from fallen arches. Stamped in German script on the insteps were the words “hand made.”
BLAKE’S frightened guests began to straggle out, glad to escape from his place of mystery and death, Agent “X” and Betty left also. “X” had learned all he could from watching. There were certain leads now that must be carefully followed.
He escorted Betty to her door, silent for the most part. She raised her blue eyes to his just before he left her and asked him to promise that he would call her if there was any way in which she could help him.
“I will, Betty,” he said, “but—”
He left the sentence unfinished. Before his mind rose a horrible picture of the man who had died in Karloff’s stronghold. The man who had fallen to the floor in the agonies of the green death. The hideous shadow of the narcotic ring must not be allowed to menace golden-haired Betty Dale. He took her hand, pressed it for a moment, and turned.
“I’ll be seeing you soon,” he said gaily. The smiling light in his eyes gave no indication of the inhuman dangers he would shortly face.
In one of his hideouts he changed his disguise to that of A. J. Martin, then went to the laboratory of a toxicologist and brilliant research chemist named Fenwick. Posing as Martin, “X” had made use of this man’s technical skill and complex equipment before.
Already in the present case he had made arrangements to employ Fenwick in probing the sinister secrets of the dope ring. Every scrap of evidence so far in the way of confiscated drugs had been turned over to the man.
Small, birdlike, with an almost inexhaustible energy that enabled him to work night and day, Fenwick greeted the Agent.
“How are you, Mr. Martin?”
The chemist was wearing a stained white coat. There was a dripping hydrometer in his hand. A metal pot was boiling on a small gas stove and fumes filled the close air of the laboratory. Agent “X” smiled, but wasted no time in pleasantries, He handed Fenwick the Turkish cigarettes he had obtained at Blake’s party.
“These contain a drug,” he said quietly. “I doubt if an analysis of them will be easy. There’s hardly enough of the stuff to isolate and work on. But do your best, Fenwick.”
There was an undertone of tenseness in the Agent’s low-spoken words, and Fenwick nodded at once.
“I’ll get busy immediately. There’ll be a report for you tomorrow, Mr. Martin.”
“Good!” said the Agent.
He left Fenwick’s place and hurried away. The chemist was only a small cog in the amazing crime-combating machine that Agent “X” had secretly built up. There were many other cogs.
He went to the office which he maintained as the newspaper man, Martin, and picked up the phone. Once again he called Jim Hobart, but this time he asked Jim to come and see him.
The long, lanky operative arrived quickly, removing his hat and exposing his crest of flaming red hair. He had shared many dangers with “X” and had a wholesome respect for his employer, the man he thought of as A. J. Martin, representative of a great newspaper syndicate.
“What can I do for you, boss?” he said.
Agent “X” sprawled a leg over his desk, hung a cigarette on his lower lip, and assumed the manner and attitude of a hard-boiled newspaper man. Through clouds of smoke he squinted up at Hobart.
“Have you got a man on your staff, Jim, who can speak French, wear nifty clothes and mingle with the best society?”
Hobart immediately nodded. “Yes, boss. Walter Milburn’s the fellow. His mother was French and used to whale him if he didn’t talk frog. She sent him to dancing school and after he grew up he got to be the slickest bond salesman going, until folks stopped buying bonds. He can wear clothes like a fashion plate and he’s got a Park Avenue manner. On top of that he’s turned out to be a good dick.”
“Good,” said “X” quietly.
He drew a photograph of Count Remy de Ronfort from his desk, along with a brief record of the Count’s career.
“I want this man kept under surveillance day and night,” he said. “Get Milburn and whoever helps him to give you a daily report on him. Spare no expense. Use your own methods. Tip bellboys, bartenders, waiters, anybody, if necessary — but don’t lose sight of him. If you hear of his doing anything funny get in touch with me at once.”
HOBART looked at the picture and whistled, “That’s the guy who’s engaged to old Whitney Blake’s ward, Paula Rockwell! They had their mugs in the papers the other day.”
“Exactly!”
“And he’s an ex-crook and dope runner, you say?”
“Yes! He’s been shadowed before, too. See that Milburn does his stuff right.”
“Count on me, boss. If Milly pulls any boners I’ll clout him so hard he’ll think he’s a skyrocket.”
“Then it may be too late,” said “X” quietly.
When Jim Hobart had gone, Agent “X” left the office of Martin and went to a phone booth in a drug store many blocks away. Unknown to Hobart, or anyone else, there was still another detective organization under the Agent’s control. This was a staff built up of seasoned and reliable operatives, interviewed individually by himself under different disguises and recruited from all parts of the country. They were nominally in charge of a man named Bates.
Bates had secret headquarters, established by Agent “X.” Day and night either Bates or one of his assistants was beside the phone, ready to respond to “X,” the man they knew only as “chief.” The Agent had even equipped Bates’s headquarters with a special, short-wave broadcasting radio. From this he could pick up important messages in code on the radio of his own car.
He called Bates now, and the man’s voice came to him instantly.
“Yes, chief, is that you?”
“Right.”
There was a pause at Bates’s end of the wire. He was waiting for the chief to speak. “X” did so at once, using the particular tone he always employed when communicating with Bates’s headquarters.
“I want you to send an experienced operative to the morgue,” he said. “Tell him to look for the unidentified man who was killed at Whitney Blake’s party tonight. He can claim he’s hunting for a friend who is missing. His best lead is to trace down this man’s shoes. They are custom-made and of a certain type. The maker shouldn’t be hard to locate. Hurry on this job. I want you to beat the police.”
“O.K., chief.”
“And, Bates, send every man you’ve got on the job if necessary. Look up every place that makes custom-made shoes in the city. Give them the dead man’s description. Find out who he is.”
“Yes, chief.”
Agent “X” hung up. He was throwing both of his highly trained organizations into this battle against the drug menace. Working separately; unknown to each other, both had been enlisted in the same cause. Both were responsible to Agent “X.” The expense of his campaign might be great; but “X” stood ready to spend a fortune if he could stamp out the drug blight. The huge account held for him under the name of Elisha Pond in the First National Bank would take care of that.