“X” uttered deep, full-throated groans, such as might have come from the general. The detective outside was rattling the knob and pounding on the door. He called to the other federal men. Footsteps beat on the tiled floor of the corridor.
“You can’t get away, you scoundrel!” exclaimed “X,” imitating the general’s thunderous voice.
The Agent snatched up the service revolver, and fired several times at the shattered window. Then he ran to the door and unlocked it. Assistants swarmed in. Posing as the general, “X” was rubbing his jaw, as though he had been struck. He pointed at the smashed window with his smoking gun.
“Out there, men!” he cried hoarsely. “The blackguard slugged me and made a dash for it. But he can’t get away. After him, McAllister!”
THE detective already was climbing out the window. Creager was following him. The room was suddenly packed with a milling mob. Attention was focused on the man at the window. That was the Agent’s cue.
Picking up Landru’s hat, “X” quietly left the office. He went down the corridor to a washroom. There he quickly changed to one of his stock disguises. From a photograph he had seen of Landru on the crook’s dresser at the St. Etienne, “X” knew that the former Apache wore the brim of his hat downward. Therefore the Agent turned it up, pulled the hat low on his forehead. Now there was not a vestige of his recent disguise as a Frenchman in manner and make-up.
While the futile search went on in the building, “X” strolled out the main entrance and hailed a cruising cab. De Ronfort had brought only half of his smuggled narcotics to Eddie’s Place. That dope was now in the possessions of the Federal Bureau. The count still had the balance. “X” would call on the Frenchman as an emissary of Landru, who was in the custody of the law.
At the Perseus Arms, however, he learned that de Ronfort had checked out an hour before. And he had not left a forwarding address. De Ronfort was frightened. Possibly he was afraid that if Landru was caught, he would squeal. Or he might have left to dispose of his contraband goods in another section of the country. Maybe he was eloping with Paula Rockwell. That scare at Eddie’s Place might have shown de Ronfort the need for quick work. Once married, the sly, ingratiating aristocrat would have little trouble maneuvering a joint bank account, or one in his own name, from the rattle-brained heiress.
With the Blake fortune behind him, de Ronfort could easily become the narcotics king of America, wielding the power of an absolute despot. It was a terrifying thought. The Agent pictured millions enslaved to de Ronfort through the tyranny of dope.
Wherever the Frenchman was going, “X” knew he would keep in touch with Paula Rockwell. There was a chance that the smuggler right now was at the Blake penthouse. The Agent returned to one of his hideouts long enough to freshen up and change to the disguise of A. J. Martin. As a newspaperman, he went to the Blake apartment building. But he stopped outside. He would wait. If de Ronfort were there, he might come out. Paula Rockwell had no aversion to newspaper people, yet an interview might reveal nothing of what he wanted to learn.
The dial over the private elevator indicated that the car was at the top floor. At this hour Whitney Blake probably had retired. If the girl was out, the car likely would be on the first door, with the operator waiting for her return. “X” remained inconspicuously in the lobby. One of the public elevators was in use, carrying cleaners and all-night workers.
Close to half an hour later, the Agent’s monotonous wait was rewarded by the appearance of Paula Rockwell. She came down in the business elevator with a scrubwoman and a janitor. Why had she avoided the private one? She was nervous, extremely so, and her manner was actually furtive. Evidently her departure was a secret from those in the penthouse. “X” was curious about the reason.
The girl hurried from the building. She held her bag up to shield her face as she crossed the sidewalk. Instead of leaving in one of her own cars, with the private chauffeur, she hired a taxi. The Agent beckoned to another cab, and instructed the driver to follow the car ahead.
Paula Rockwell’s taxi took her to a slum section, where she would go ordinarily only with an escort. The machine stopped before the Genoa Café, a cheap restaurant and saloon, where a few, shabby men and slatternly women were dancing to the tinny strains of a battered player piano.
The Agent sauntered into the place a few moments after the girl entered. He ordered a small beer at the bar. At a corner table not far from the bar sat Remy de Ronfort, his suavity gone, lines of worry etched in his handsome face.
PAULA was sitting across from him, holding his hand and talking earnestly. The count had been drinking. His eyes were glazed and bloodshot. A bottle of whiskey stood on the table. He tossed off two glasses of liquor without a chaser. It was hard for “X” to believe that a man, aristocratic supposedly in everything but his scruples, was affected so much by what had happened at Eddie’s Place. Had something else occurred in the meantime? “X” could not tell from their conversation, for the tinny, jangling piano drowned out their words.
With a cautious side glance, “X” saw Paula Rockwell hand de Ronfort some bills. There was a hundred-dollar greenback on top. A flash of relief shone in the Count’s face. Then he began showing impatience. He tossed off another drink, and jammed his hat on, without thought to appearance. The girl grabbed his arm. Her manner was that of worried protest. “X” cursed the noisy piano. But for that, he might have heard their talk. De Ronfort shook his head and jumped up. He and the girl went to the sidewalk. As they passed the bar, “X” caught a few words.
“But can’t you tell me?” the girl was saying. “Are you leaving just because you got an unsigned note of warning? Probably it’s some silly crank!”
Then they were out of earshot again. The Count beckoned to a taxi. Paula was in tears now. De Ronfort almost shoved her into the back seat. There was a brief embrace. He motioned for the driver to start. The girl began to weep without restraint.
The smuggler hired another cab. “X” was no longer interested in the girl. She had given him a lead. As soon as de Ronfort’s car got underway, the Agent jumped in another taxi. The first car sped through night traffic to Union Station.
De Ronfort rushed into the waiting room and straight to a ticket office. A line of people was ahead of him. “X” waited to one side, his face behind a newspaper. As soon as the Frenchman had obtained his ticket and walked away, the Agent elbowed in ahead of the next buyer, who choked off a protest when he saw the blazing light in “X’s” eyes.
“What was the destination of that last ticket?”
The clerk looked curiously at the Agent and shook his head. “I’m not at liberty to give out that information,” he said slowly.
“X” flashed a detective’s badge. “Give me a ticket to the same destination,” he ordered in a low but harsh voice.
“Yes, sir — yes, sir!” responded the clerk respectfully. “With a sleeper, sir?”
The Agent nodded. The clerk pulled a train fare and a pullman ticket from the rack and stamped them.
“Seventeen seventy-six, please. The train leaves in three minutes. Track forty-two.”
“X” slapped down a twenty dollar bill and raked up his change with the tickets. He started on a run for the entrance to Track 42. Until now he did not know where his ticket would take him. He glanced at it. Montreal. Out of the country.
The Agent looked up to meet a greater surprise. Four men were slipping through the crowd toward de Ronfort. They had hard, pasty faces, wicked eyes, cruel mouths. They were nervous, almost palsied, and their spasmodic movements added to their vicious appearance.