Weeks before, the Secret Agent had instructed paid operatives in a score of cities where horticultural exhibitions were scheduled, to get in touch with him if this special variety of saffron orchid appeared. He had equipped these operatives with a detailed colored plate of the flower itself, made from the single blossom he had picked up on the floor of Vivian de Graf’s apartment. For “X” believed that the admirer who sent those orchids to the society beauty was the unknown Chairman of the devil-dark group — the man who had not been caught in the police round-up.
He straightened slowly from before the orchid exhibit, turned his smiling face toward a winsome girl attendant, and beckoned to her.
“These flowers,” he said, “are most beautiful. I would like to learn more about them. Would it be too great an inconvenience to give me their owner’s name and address?”
His voice was smooth, gentle, the soft voice of a polite old man. The girl looked at the number of the exhibit, consulted her register, and wrote a name and address on a slip of paper.
“You’ll find the man who grew them at this address,” she said. “But the flowers are not for sale and neither are the plants. They are here as competitive entries only.”
The Secret Agent thanked her and looked at the paper in his hand. It said: “D. H. Brownell, 36 Rose Hill Road.” Slowly, with the wistful smile still on his face, the Secret Agent moved toward the exhibition’s exit, sniffing from time to time at the spicy fragrance of the carnation in his buttonhole.
He was panting, forty-five minutes later, as he climbed the gentle slope of Rose Hill Road. This was in a wealthy suburban section of the city where the horticultural exhibition had been held. Huge estates with green lawns spreading before them lined the well-kept street. Shade trees arched overhead. The feathery green of spring foliage showed in their interlaced branches. The air here, too, was sweet with the scent of flowers. Crime seemed as remote as some distant star. Yet it was crime’s black trail that had brought Agent “X” away from his usual haunts, brought him on a mission as strange as any he had ever embarked upon.
HIS forward progress was interspersed with frequent halts beside some handy fence to catch his breath and fan himself with the fluttering leaves of a horticultural journal. He was playing the part of an old man well. His silver-headed cane tapping the sidewalk beside his shuffling feet, helped him at last to reach the house marked 36.
Here he rested again, mopping his forehead with a cambric handkerchief. Then he clicked open a gate and moved along a cement walk between rows of ornamental shrubs. The house before him was a large one. It and the grounds showed signs of lavish care and unstinted wealth.
A great dog came bounding toward him, barking furiously. The Agent paused with the timid uncertainty of an aged man and waved his cane at the animal, calling in a cracked voice for some one to check the beast’s rushes.
In a moment a man appeared from the side of the house where he had been supervising the laying out of a new flower bed. That he was not a gardener was evident by his clothes. He was dressed in a stylish, white flannel suit. In contrast to the lightness of the cloth a jet-black beard covered the man’s cheeks and chin and spread magnificently over the whole front of his coat. The rest of his face was ruddy, healthy with the glow of good food and wine and robust living. But there was in the depths of his eyes a certain furtive sharpness, a certain swift calculation, and he glanced suspiciously at his visitor and frowned.
“Here, Daniel!” he cried to the dog. “Stop it! Get back to your kennel!”
The dog flattened its ears, dropped its tail at once, and slunk away, rolling the whites of its eyes at its master, as though grim discipline had taught it to obey. The man turned ungraciously to the white-haired stranger.
“Well — what do you want?” he said.
Secret Agent “X” pushed his handkerchief into his pocket with a deliberately trembling hand. He leaned against his cane, panted for a second or two, then drew an ancient alligator skin wallet from his pocket. He adjusted steel-rimmed glasses on his nose, fumbled in his wallet prodigiously, and finally pulled forth a yellowed card. On this was printed: “Alfred Burpee, Editor Emeritus, Flower Lovers’ Quarterly.” With solemn dignity Secret Agent “X” handed the card to the frowning, bearded man before him.
“Mr. Brownell, I believe,” he said. “It gives me pleasure to introduce myself, and it gives me pleasure also to meet a brother horticulturist of such distinctive taste as yourself.” He waved a hand toward the carefully kept flower beds on all sides. “This is indeed a choice display of garden landscaping you have here. It is what I am in the habit of referring to in my articles as ‘floral chromatization.’ It is, however, what I should expect of a man whose exhibit is the talk of the flower show now being held.”
The bearded man was rolling the stub of a cigar between his moist red lips. His gimlet eyes still bored into the face of the stranger who had introduced himself as Alfred Burpee. There was nothing on that face but guileless admiration and gentle interest. The Agent fumbled in his portfolio and drew out a copy of the Flower Lovers’ Quarterly. He turned the pages eagerly.
“I still do articles for this, Mr. Brownell, though I am a bit too old to stand the exigencies of editorial work. I do articles — and it is my belief that you, if you would be so kind, could give me material for one of the best I have ever done. That you have unusual taste is evident. That you are a man of considerable talent I earnestly believe.”
The bearded man flipped the pages of the magazine “Burpee” had given. The look of suspicion had begun to leave his eyes. His whole manner was growing relaxed. He cleared his throat importantly.
“You saw my orchid exhibit then?”
“I did. And I was so impressed with it that I asked the young lady attendant if I might pay my respects to the owner of such beautiful flowers. She was so kind as to give me your address. And here I am. I hope that you will find it possible to spare a few moments of your time.”
“You want to do an article, eh?”
“Exactly — something with color photos if possible, and—”
A certain grimness came into Brownell’s voice as he interrupted. “I’m sorry — no photos! I don’t like people with cameras walking about — spoiling the flower beds.”
“Then let us say just an article,” the Agent said mildly. “Something that would be helpful to other horticulturists and give them an inkling of how you achieve your success.”
THE bearded Brownell turned and beckoned for Agent “X” to follow. He strode off across the lawn, and “X” admonished him gently.
“Not too fast please — for an old man!”
Brownell showed his visitor many lavish displays of flowers. “X” saw a number of gardeners and their assistants at work. Brownell seemed to have little to do except spend his apparently unlimited resources caring for his estate. Huge greenhouses spread on a spacious lot behind the mansion. Brownell took Agent “X” through these, also. There were many handsome flowers here, many varieties of orchids even; but none of the saffron kind that had been shown at the exhibit. The Agent let wistfulness sound in his voice as he spoke.
“Beautiful! Beautiful!” he said, “but I see you do not keep the precious gold of your special plants in with the more common sorts. Or perhaps the flowers I saw at the show are all you have of that variety. In any case I want to congratulate you on raising some of the handsomest and most unique specimens of the orchid family it has ever been my privilege to behold.”