The Agent turned to de Ronfort.
“You see, my friend, I wasn’t trying the double-cross. Now you must trust me. Hurry!”
GRABBING the suitcase of dope, “X” shoved the Count toward a rear window. De Ronfort scrambled through, with the agility of a second-story man. Aristocratic dignity was dispensed with for expediency’s sake. “X” leaped through the window. They were in a long, dark alley.
De Ronfort clutched at his shoulder. The man was desperate, devoid of poise, trembling.
“It’s my ruin!” he exclaimed. “It means millions lost for me. The place is surrounded. Isn’t there some way?”
“X” thought a moment. He didn’t want de Ronfort caught. For a man could direct the activities of dope smugglers and peddlers from a prison cell with almost the same ease as he could outside, and without fear of further punishment. With de Ronfort behind bars, “X” would be no nearer to ending the drug menace than he was now. He wanted de Ronfort to continue. By allowing the Count plenty of scope and freedom, “X” might possibly gain information that would aid in finishing the drug ring.
“X” knew how the rear of the old gambling den was situated. He had determined a route of escape for himself, if he needed it. But now those federal men were dangerously near, and he wanted to be certain that the Count got away.
“Over the fence!” he ordered de Ronfort. “On the other side is the back entrance to a tenement. The door is unlocked. You can get through to the street. I’ll head these fellows off. I’m not doing this for nothing, de Ronfort. I’m risking my life, understand? When you marry the Blake girl, you will have to make me a nice present.”
“You are a rat, Landru!” snarled de Ronfort. “But I will pay! Give me the suitcase.”
“Hurry!” exclaimed the Agent. “They’re coming. You can’t take the dope. If they see you going over the fence, they’ll shoot.”
That decided the Count. “X” helped him to the top of the wall, and in another moment de Ronfort had disappeared.
When the federal men burst open the door “X” had bolted, the Agent disposed of his gas gun in an ash can. If caught with that on him, the federal men might discover his identity. Packing the suitcase, he sped down the alleyway. They would hear his footsteps pounding on the cement. They would shoot, but the darkness would make accurate aiming impossible. “X” had a chance.
A police whistle sounded. The harsh note made the Agent’s body tense. He must not be caught now, just when he seemed to be on the right track. He ran with all the speed he could muster. But he wasn’t fast enough. Again the whistle sent out its piercing, warning note.
The mouth of the alley was lighted from the street lamps, and suddenly three forms were outlined in it. They were racing toward “X.” He dropped the suitcase, leaped to the concrete fence. A spring, and he was hanging onto the top, muscling himself up.
Guns began to roar. Bullets crashed into the wall. Chunks of concrete, chipped by the smashing lead, struck the Agent’s head and body. Men were converging on him. On top of the fence he would be a perfect target. The only escape now, it seemed, lay via the morgue.
Chapter X
AGENT “X” dropped to the alleyway again and raised his hands. In another moment he was surrounded by six men. Immediately the Agent was frisked for a gun. They found the automatic belonging to Landru. The search otherwise was not thorough, because the federal men had him disarmed, and they also had all the evidence they needed. He was shoved along toward the street.
“X” thought ironically how this treatment contrasted to the respect these men had shown him when they had met before. Then they had jumped to his orders, for they were the same federal men from Orrin Q. Mathews’ office. One of them was a stranger to him. But “X” had recently saved the lives of the others, when he led them out of that burning warehouse at Haswell and Riverfront.
The men flanking him were Wells and Everts. Creager, Lorson, and McAllister followed. McAllister kept poking a gun in the small of the Agent’s back.
“Who’s that guy who got away, Landru?” he demanded. “You’d better talk. We’ve been watching you for a long while, Frenchy. You’re going up for a long stretch, but you ought to get the chair! I bet you’re the rat who’s been peddling hop to girls’ schools. You’re going to come clean, or we’re going to shellac you proper. Me and my buddies damn near got cremated by one of your hop peddlers, and we don’t like your breed at all. Down to headquarters, you’re going to pick up a lot of lumps and bruises, if you hold back.”
“X” was thrown bodily into a big car. The suitcase of dope was tossed in on top of him. He had sized the real Landru up in the few moments the Frenchman had talked. He knew that the dope seller would whine and cringe. So the Agent put on a convincing exhibition of a coward.
“Mon Dieu, gentlemen! You make the very great mistake, of a certainty. I don’ know why you arrest me! No — I do not! My name is Felix Landru, yes. But I am a Frenchman studying social conditions in America. The gendarmes of my country would not treat you so.”
“Studying social conditions, are you, Landru?” growled Creager. “I bet you can spot a hophead a block away!”
All the way to headquarters, “X” maintained his protests of innocence. While he was talking, he was puzzling what he should do. These men would have died for him that day he led them from the Karloff hideout. Now they would gladly kill him.
He knew what was ahead. They would put him through a third degree. The plastic material on his face would never stand up under the poundings of a rubber hose. And if one should yank on his goatee, it would come off. He could not afford to have them penetrate his disguise.
It wasn’t until he reached headquarters, and the federal men surrounded him in the room where he had first interviewed Orrin Q. Mathews, that “X” conceived his plan. The detectives were actually gloating. They hoped Landru would keep silent, so they could employ the strong-arm routine.
McAllister brandished a strip of rubber hose in front of him.
“Going to talk, Landru? Or shall I begin the softening process? Who was that bird you were with? What was the deal you two were making? Where is the rest of the stuff hidden? Tell us the names of your peddlers. Might as well save yourself a lot of punishment.”
“Mais oui!” exclaimed the Agent. “I talk — I talk, m’sieus. But it must be to one man only. There is too much involved, my friends. Names, names — you would be astounded at the names I would mention. I am but a poor, hard-working man who caters to a great need, m’sieus. But my confession will breathe scandal on people who are high up. Take me to General Mathers. Gladly will I talk — for his ears alone. Then le bon general will use his own discretion, and my conscience will be at rest”
General Mathers was the head of the Eastern narcotics division. The detectives would have taken “X” before the general, anyway, after the sweating process made him talk. They had a consultation. They were disappointed not to get the chance of manhandling Landru, but they could not beat up a prisoner who was willing to talk.
“X” was taken before the division chief. General Mathers was a hard-faced man with gray hair. Every feature was aggressive. He had fierce, piercing eyes, with pointed eyebrows that looked like stunted horns. He had ridden with Teddy Roosevelt at San Juan Hill, been with Black Jack Pershing on the Mexican border, and helped to break the Hindenburg Line in France. He was a tough old campaigner, and his prize hatred was for dope smugglers and peddlers.