Suddenly de Ronfort’s plane swooped down, glided along the water and stopped very close to the ship’s side. The night was clear. Cutting off his motor and gliding lower, “X” saw dots that were men at the ship’s rail. Something attached to a line was thrown overboard. Peering through powerful night glasses, “X” watched de Ronfort haul an oblong shape aboard the amphibian.
“X’s” eyes gleamed. This must surely be contraband of some sort. Probably it was dope. The Agent headed south once more. He banked again, and took a northwesterly course toward Clarendon Field, ahead of the Count. His mouth was grim. He meant to find out without delay, what Remy de Ronfort was smuggling into the United States.
Chapter IX
CONFIDENT that the Count was returning to Clarendon Field, “X” shoved the throttle forward and sent the Blue Comet ahead at full speed. He landed, turned his plane over to a mechanic and walked toward the black shadow of a hangar.
Five minutes later the Frenchman’s amphibian was taxiing to a stop. De Ronfort stepped out of the plane, tugging a heavy suitcase.
He looked around sharply. While he removed his flying garb, he kept the suitcase between his legs. It was plain that de Ronfort was worried. He snapped at attendants and seemed impatient to be off. As soon as he was free to go, he half ran to the street.
Once more he stopped and swiveled his eyes in all directions. “X” had remained in the shadows. He saw de Ronfort light a cigarette, take a few nervous puffs, and throw it down, only to light another. A taxi driver hailed him, but the Count waved him on.
“X” realized the reason when the Frenchman hired the next cab. This one belonged to a company that had twelve thousand machines, and the drivers were not likely to be federal men or rival mobsters, whereas the first car had been a tumble-down machine with a hard-faced man at the wheel.
As soon as the Count’s taxi started, “X” ran to another, an independent cab, and flashed a fifty-dollar bill before the man’s eyes, along with his press card.
“Climb in the back seat, old-timer,” he said. “Let me take the wheel. Duck down so you won’t be seen — and give me your cap.”
The cabman sat up with a jerk. “Say, what’s the gag? You’re flashing stuff that talks big in my language, but I ain’t anxious to spend ten years in Sing Sing for takin’ it. How do I know it ain’t bogus? Was it printed in a cellar over in Jersey?”
The Agent quickly returned the large bill to his wallet. The driver’s face clouded with disappointment. But “X” drew out five worn and wrinkled tens.
“Here,” he said, thrusting the currency in the cabman’s hand. “These bills smell with age. I’m on the track of something big and you’re going to ruin a scoop if you don’t come to life.”
That did the trick. The driver got in back and crouched down on the floor. Wearing the red-and-black cap, the Agent slid into the front seat and started the taxi. A deft manipulation of plastic material gave him a twisted, dented nose. Over his perfect upper teeth he fitted a false set that protruded, bulged his lip, and changed the entire appearance of his face. The other machine was a quarter mile away by now, but the road was a through thoroughfare, and soon “X” was close behind.
He saw de Ronfort staring back anxiously. The Count’s expression changed to one of relief when he saw that the taxi seemed to be occupied only by a dumb-looking driver. When they got to the heavy traffic, “X” stayed about a half block behind, though he was careful that the Count’s car was on the other side of the cross street when the lights turned red.
The Count’s car drove to the heart of the city, and rolled up a side street on the fringe of the theatrical district. The taxi stopped in front of the Perseus Arms, a swanky hotel that catered to celebrities and people of wealth.
The Agent stopped the taxi, hastily remodeled his nose, removed the false teeth, and tossed the cab driver his cap.
“You’ve earned your money,” he said. “But keep mum.”
The Agent went across the street and into the Perseus Arms. There was no danger of detection, for the man that de Ronfort had seen driving the taxi had none of the smooth, genteel appearance of A. J. Martin.
The Count stood at the main desk, writing. “X” dropped into an easy chair and watched. A few minutes later a Western Union messenger entered the lobby and went to the desk. The clerk spoke to de Ronfort, and the Frenchman handed the boy a note and a bill. “X” sauntered from the lobby. When the messenger reached the sidewalk, the Agent followed him.
Around a corner, he stopped the lad and flashed a detective badge.
“I’ll take charge of that slip, son,” he said in a kindly voice. “Just move along and keep quiet. If your boss calls you down tell him that a federal man gave you orders to say nothing. Understand?”
The boy nodded, but his eyes grew big and he looked scared. “X” handed him a dollar bill, then a slip of paper with the address of the Hobart Agency on it.
“Nothing to be frightened about,” he said. “If you should lose your job because of this go to the address on that paper and the man there will give you a better one.”
When the messenger had saluted and dodged into the crowd “X” looked at the note. It was addressed to one Felix Landru, a man “X” had heard stories of, a sly, slippery underworld character, formerly a Paris Apache, and as sleek and suave as de Ronfort himself. “X” read the note.
“The Peacock has a big supply of rabbit food to dispose of at a commission,” it said. “The Fox is asked to get in touch with him at the Perseus Arms as soon as possible.”
There was nothing incriminating in that note. The “Peacock” undoubtedly was de Ronfort, while the “Fox” likely was the wily Landru. And was the “rabbit food” the contraband that the Count had smuggled into the country in that suitcase? Dope?
The address on the note was the St. Etienne Inn, a cheap hotel on Bordeaux Street in the French section of the city.
THE Agent immediately took a taxi to the St. Etienne. He obtained Landru’s room number from the clerk, and rode the squeaky, slow-moving elevator to the fourth floor. A radio was playing in the crook’s room, but it was turned off the instant “X” knocked.
There was almost a minute of silence. The Agent grew tense with uncertainty. He knocked again. This time he spoke Landru’s name softly.
The door opened a crack. The room was dark. But the shaft of dim light from the corridor glinted on an automatic in Landru’s hand. The crook peered furtively through the narrow opening.
“Landru, quick, let me in!” In a hoarse whisper, “X” addressed the man in perfectly accented French. “The Peacock sent me. He’s got a new consignment of rabbit food, but the federals are hounding him. We’ve got to work fast!”
“Mon Dieu, you should not have come here then!” exclaimed Landru, letting the Agent into his room. “Why did he not send the note? Has the man lost all caution, now that he is annexing himself to wealth and influence? Or are you—”
Landru did not finish the sentence. Suspicion leaped into his eyes as he stared at the Agent.
Slam! A slugging fist smashed Landru on the point of the jaw. “X” had thrown all his strength and weight into the terrific, jolting impact. The crook dropped to the floor as though his legs had been cut out from under him.
The Agent switched on the lights. He had wanted to sound Landru out, to get information if he could. But the man was obviously suspicious, and “X” had suddenly thought of a better scheme, one more suited to get to the bottom of Remy de Ronfort’s activities.