SIX hours passed, and the Agent received the first of his reports. It was from Fenwick, the chemist, and its contents were disappointing. Hard as he had tried, Fenwick had been unable to make a complete analysis. The drug in the impregnated tobacco of the cigarettes had become blended with nicotine in such a way that its exact chemical nature eluded him. He promised sure results if “Mr, Martin” could obtain a purer specimen of the drug.
“X” called up the headquarters of Bates’s and received a message that helped to offset Fenwick’s failure.
“We’ve traced down those shoes, chief,” Bates said. “They were made by a German over on the west side of town for this chap who was killed. His name’s Alfred Twyning. He used to work in the research department of the Paragon Chemical Company. Looks like he hit the booze, got fired and got to be a bum.”
“Good work, Bates,” said Agent “X” quietly. What the man had told him checked up with those acid stains he had noticed on Twyning’s shoes. But mystery still shrouded Twyning’s death. Who had shot him, and what for? “X” snapped quick orders into the phone.
“Get all the information you can on Twyning’s connection with Paragon Chemicals. I’ve heard of the place. It’s out in the suburbs. They make tooth-paste, face creams, and stuff like that. Try to find out where he lived. If he left any belongings, search them, any way you can. Get all possible data.”
“Yes, chief.”
“X” spent the day making the rounds of underworld haunts in the disguise of a sportily dressed crook. It was a stock make-up that he had often employed. It aroused no suspicion. He hoped to run across one of Karloff’s men, or hear something that would lead him back to the present hideout of the man who killed with the horrible green death. But if any criminals knew about the dope ring they dared not speak. Terror seemed to have taken the underworld into its icy grip.
Back in the office of A. J. Martin that evening Agent “X” received a message that sent him into instant action. It was Jim Hobart calling. The courageous redhead whom “X” had placed in charge of an agency was excited.
“I’m in a cigar store across from Clarendon Field right now, boss,” he said. “I just followed the frog out here in a taxi. This de Ronfort guy has got a plane that he keeps under the name of Pierre LaFarge. Tie that if you can! I heard him talking to some mechanics. They’re getting the plane ready now. I don’t know where he’s going; but he’s traveling alone. What’s next on the program?”
“Stick close,” said “X” grimly. “If you can, slip de Ronfort’s mechanics some money to stall on the job. Tell them it’s a practical joke and that you want to make him late at a wedding. Something like that. Then charter another plane and stand by. Follow de Ronfort if he takes off before I get there.”
The Agent clicked up the receiver. He grabbed his hat and coat and ran swiftly from the office. At the curb he jumped into one of his own cars, a smart, fast roadster with a short wave radio concealed under the dash panel. He was in a desperate hurry, impatient to get through the heavy traffic, and twice he drew reprimands from cops. A motor cycle officer stopped him, but his press card saved him from a summons.
In the suburbs he struck smooth concrete where he could step on the accelerator. He made the roadster surge forward till the engine was roaring as though a giant were imprisoned beneath the hood. Soon he was in a thinly populated section where the road was flanked by rolling meadows. Another mile, and he drove up before a big gate in a high wire fence.
Parking his car at the curb, he hurried through the gate and onto a broad field where he headed toward a bulky line of great, sprawling buildings. These were airplane hangars. “X’s” sharp eyes recognized a mechanic lolling against a wall and he shouted to him.
“Get the bus out, quick, Joe! The biplane!”
THE mechanic flung away his cigarette and snapped into life.
“Right away, Mr. Martin,” he said. “The open one’s in tiptop shape. I went over her this morning. What’s happening this time, Mr. Martin? You newspaper guys sure lead a wild life.”
The Agent motioned the talkative mechanic to show some real speed. He ran to the hangar. By the time the plane had been pushed out, with a dolly under the tail, “X” was ready, garbed in a suede jacket, with goggles and helmet adjusted.
At this field he kept two planes. This small, single-seater biplane he called the Blue Comet. She was a beautiful craft, built with staggered wings, low camber and plenty of sweep-back. Except for her flashy coloring she might have been an Army pursuit job. During the war the Agent had done considerable flying. He had an expert’s knowledge of all types of ships, and he’d selected the Blue Comet for its speed, climb and maneuverability after exhaustive tests of many other planes.
The Agent climbed into the cockpit as his mechanic wound up the inertia starter. He raised his hand, switched on the ignition, and the engine broke into a smooth-voiced, throaty rumble. For a minute or two “X” leaned back against the crash pad and warmed the motor. Then he signaled the mechanic to pull the chocks. He shoved the throttle forward; the radial broke into a roar and the plane leaped down the macadamized surface of the field, swiftly gathering momentum. It rose into the air as gracefully as a soaring gull, and hurtled up into the night-darkened sky
A short climb and “X” circled around, taking a northern course. The city spread out under his wings. Streets, parks, car tracks, with rows of twinkling electric lights like miniature strings of diamonds. Soon his trained eyes singled out the brilliant air beacon of Clarendon Field. He pushed the stick forward, kicked left rudder to sideslip and kill speed, and made an unobtrusive landing.
Jim Hobart was on the look-out for him. Jim knew the Blue Comet. Even before “X” had taxied to a stop, the operative was running beside the plane. Quick and efficient, schooled to emergencies, Hobart didn’t lose time on unnecessary preliminaries.
“The guy’s just taking off,” he said hoarsely. “Over to your left, boss! I stalled his men for a while, but the Count complained to the field management about the delay. The operations guy came out, raised hell with the mechanics, and they sure hustled after that.”
The Agent shot a quick glance to the left. “An amphibian!” he said.
Two field attendants were running toward the Blue Comet. “X” spoke quickly.
“Steer those birds away, Jim! I don’t want any one nosing around. Tell them I stopped by to hand over some important papers to you. Quick!”
De Ronfort’s amphibian was already in the air. Off the ground again, “X” immediately sought altitude until he was several hundred feet above the Frenchman’s plane. The amphibian was traveling due east. To throw off suspicion that he was following, “X” headed south. Presently he banked the Blue Comet and brought the craft up on a parallel course with de Ronfort.
There were other planes in the air, but the Agent had no difficulty keeping track of the amphibian. The Count was heading out to sea.
Below twinkled the lights of the shoreline. In the channel a ship was ocean-bound, leaving a banner of heavy smoke trailing from the stack. In shore were the dark hulks of vessels resting at anchor. About five miles out at sea, “X” saw a blinker flashing on the bridge of a small steamer. Only a few lights gleamed from the portholes. The vessel obviously wasn’t a passenger ship. “X” wasn’t close enough to make out the boat clearly, but through the binoculars it appeared to be a tramp steamer.