“Aren’t you going to report this to the police? Do you know who that man was?”
Vivian de Graf’s laugh was mirthless and harsh. “An old — friend, I think. Drunk, probably.”
“Or just playful,” the Agent said sarcastically. She glanced at him sharply. His smile was disarming. He seemed to be merely a guileless young newspaperman. But the woman’s next words were tinged with suspicion.
“It occurs to me that it was rather odd — your being here just at the right moment.”
“X” THOUGHT quickly. This woman was shrewd. A display of frankness would be safest for him. He smiled again, showing even white teeth.
“Not as odd as you think, Mrs. de Graf, since I’ve been trailing you all afternoon.”
Dark eyes and arched brows questioned him.
“It’s that robbery at the bank,” he said. “You were there. I want your story of the thing — and a picture. It’ll get me in solid with the old man. How about it?”
His eyes bored into hers, trying to discover whether or not he had convinced her. But her eyes were inscrutable as she smiled and gestured toward her car.
“One good turn deserves another, I suppose,” she said lightly. “But we can’t stand here in the cold and talk. Hop in.”
There was a thin smile on the Agent’s lips as the phaeton purred downtown. Nothing could have pleased him more than this. He was alone with his suspect, in a position to study her closely. Already he had proof that she was a woman of startling poise and stamina. A woman cool-headed and callous enough to cast in her lot with criminals.
“Don’t forget,” he said eagerly, “that I want your picture. Society beauty tells story of bank holdup. That’s feature stuff. The crime has got the whole police force gaga. It’s a mystery, it doesn’t make sense — so it’s hot news.”
“But you, a bright young reporter, will solve the mystery of course.”
Her smile challenged him, mockery gleamed in her eyes. He was careful to stick to his role.
“I wouldn’t say that, Mrs. de Graf. It’s got me stumped, I’ll admit. But I’m going to take a whack at it.” He paused a moment. “You were there,” he added. “Haven’t you got some theory?”
She nodded. “Personally, I suspect that man Hearndon, who came into Banton’s office just before the raid.”
“I don’t know,” said the Agent. “The cops are looking for Hearndon — and Washington says there isn’t any such name on the Department of Justice list. He was a phony, all right, and yet—”
Grim amusement twitched the Agent’s lips in the semidarkness. What would Vivian de Graf do if she knew that “Hearndon” was sitting close beside her?
“There’s absolutely no doubt,” she said positively, “that Hearndon, whatever he was, acted as an advance scout for the gang. His coming was the signal for the raid to begin. That’s what I told the police when they questioned me.”
“But Hearndon wanted the bank closed! How would that have helped the crooks?”
The woman laughed softly. “Hearndon knew there wasn’t time to close the bank. That was only a stall. There are clever men behind this thing!”
THE phaeton sped across the city and entered a mews. It was close to the edge of a park, in an ultra-smart residential section liked by those who leaned toward the Bohemian. Wealthy actresses, painters and musicians had studios here.
Vivian de Graf stopped her car before a two-story building of pink stucco. It comprised two apartments, each with its private entrance. She had chosen a setting typical of a woman whose private life would not stand close inspection. An ideal residence, too, “X” thought, for a person who wished freedom to come and go unnoticed at any hour of the day or night.
With her own key, Vivian de Graf opened the door and showed “X” into a large, exotically furnished drawing room. Two blue vases filled with spotted yellow orchids caught the Agent’s quick eye instantly, one on top of a piano, another on an antique table. They added the final touch of the bizarre to this exotic and very expensively furnished room.
“You’ll have something to drink,” Vivian de Graf murmured as she slipped the soft mink cloak from her shoulders. “Some sherry, perhaps?” Her slim hand reached for a cut-glass decanter.
The Agent nodded. “Thanks.”
His eyes were alert. Something in the room seemed to hint at the crouching shadow of evil. The still draperies were too luxurious, the furnishings too expensive, this woman a bit too poised and casual. And those dozens of spotted orchids, which must be worth a small fortune, seemed the symbols of an unwholesome mystery.
He drew the nearest vase toward him and examined the heavy blossoms, with the eye of a connoisseur. He had never seen blooms like these before. He was familiar with most of the thousands of orchid species scattered throughout the world. He had thought all those in cultivation were known to him.
But these eluded classification. They reminded him of the Queen Cattleya orchids, yet were larger, deeper in their saffron tint. They bore some resemblance to Cyripedium Argus.
His eyes switched abruptly from the flowers to Vivian de Graf’s white hands. Almost unconsciously he had detected a minute but incongruous movement she had made. In pouring his glass of sherry she had let something fall into the wine — a few drops of colorless liquid from a ring. She had put either dope or poison into his drink!
Chapter X
NO slightest tremor of uneasiness showed in the Secret Agent’s manner. He was, in fact, elated at this development. Here was final proof that Vivian de Graf was a dangerous, unscrupulous woman. Her act was to him a tacit admission of her guilt. And in it he saw a great opportunity to make her betray herself further.
Doctored liquor was an old story to Secret Agent “X.” Once, long ago, in an espionage assignment against one of Europe’s most famous spies, such a trick had caught him unawares. Ever after that experience he had been on the lookout for a possible repetition of it, and had taken simple but adroit precautions to checkmate it without rousing suspicion.
Vivian de Graf was watching him through drooping lids. Her eyes were brightly alert behind them. Her white teeth showed in a flashing smile. Her graceful, supple figure was relaxed in her chair.
Before drinking his wine, “X” offered her a cigarette which she accepted. He struck a flame on the lighter Betty Dale had given him and which had served him so well in the burning house, touched it to Vivian de Graf’s cigarette and to his own, then returned the lighter to his pocket.
When his hand came out-again, something came with it — a small syringe of pliant rubber, like an old-fashioned camera bulb. To it was attached a tiny curved tube. “X” held the syringe cupped in his right palm, the third and fourth fingers pressed against it, while his second finger hid the tube.
Lifting the sherry glass in thumb and forefinger, he raised it to his lips. Then, as he tipped it slightly as though sipping, he let the tube’s end drop into it, releasing his two fingers on the syringe. The bulb at once began to fill. As the Agent tipped his head and the glass back farther, the sherry disappeared directly before Vivian de Graf’s eyes.
No one, save a person well versed in stage magic and sleight-of-hand, could have conceived that the wine had gone anywhere except into the Agent’s mouth. “X” had, in fact, learned the trick from a famous vaudeville magician.
He set the glass down, let his right hand fall to his side under the table, thrust the syringe back into his pocket and gave a twist to the tube which sealed it.
Vivian de Graf was smiling. “Now,” she said, “what about that picture you wanted — or were there some other questions you’d like to ask to round out your story?”