Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 4 Read online

  “And I do not doubt that your whips will be sufficient to enforce discipline among you under all normal circumstances. In case the whipping of a member becomes necessary, I have worked out a plan which will remove the element of ill-feeling. I shall provide eleven of you with the helmets you wore today, while the member to be punished will wear only such a mask as you have on. He will not know who among you is whipping him.

  “And now we come to our immediate future. I have looked over the field, gathered data for our next venture. There were several promising possibilities. It was merely a matter of selection. That I have made. We have successfully looted two banks. We have proved that our method has no limits. To show that we can operate with equal success over a larger area I have chosen a department store this time. That of S. Carleton & Co.”

  The Agent’s body tensed. A chill of horror crept up his spine. This criminal, this unseen Chairman, was deliberately, calmly, plotting a crime which, if carried out unimpeded, might bring death and injury to thousands. For the fearful, blinding darkness would cause a worse panic in the big store than it had outside the bank. Yet the Chairman’s voice continued:

  “To insure that the cashier’s safe will not be empty we shall change our time from noon to four o’clock. The date is tomorrow. We shall meet and the helmets will be distributed among you in the same manner as they were today. And now, gentlemen, are there any more suggestions you wish to make, or breaks of discipline to be reported?”

  A few seconds of silence followed in the uncanny gloom of the room; then a chair creaked and the voice of Victor Blass sounded. It was low, nervous, as though the man were half afraid to speak, yet more afraid not to.

  “I have a report to make, Mr. Chairman,” he said. “It is my duty to complain against a member. I have taken the pledge like the others, and you have seen fit to make me responsible for their conduct. Therefore I must speak.”

  “These explanations are unnecessary,” said the cold voice behind the grille. “Who is the member you wish to complain of?”

  “Lorenzo Courtney, Mr. Chairman.”

  Chapter XV

  A SENTENCE IMPOSED

  THE Secret Agent sat rigid and waiting in his chair. The harshly precise voice of the invisible leader behind the grille droned on:

  “Lorenzo Courtney! Before I hear the charge against you there is a certain matter I must ask you to report on. Earlier this evening you were commissioned by a friend of our organization to take charge of and question one suspected of being a possible dangerous enemy. I refer to the newspaper man, Sid Granville. What have you to say about this?”

  Prickles of tension coursed up the Secret Agent’s spine. He could almost feel those unseen eyes back of the metal grille boring into his own. A faint rustle of clothing and creak of chairs in the gloom around him, told that the other members of the meeting were straining to hear his answer. And on that answer might depend the success or failure of his desperate, daring step in coming here. He rolled his shoulders, shrugged, and kept his voice nonchalant.

  “I did my best, Mr. Chairman, but the man wouldn’t wake up. Mrs.—er—our friend gave him too strong a drink. I had to leave for this meeting before his answers made sense.”

  “So—and where is this man now?”

  “At my apartment. I’m still holding him.”

  “You have taken every precaution, of course, to see that he does not escape?”

  The Secret Agent let a moment pass before he answered. Then, with deliberate craft, he put a quaver of uncertainty into his voice. “Yes, sir—I think—that is, I’m sure he is safe.”

  Victor Blass spoke with sudden excitement. “Pardon me, Mr. Chairman, but you should know before this goes farther that Lorenzo Courtney was drunk when he arrived tonight.”

  “Drunk!” The word came out of the darkness explosively. “You mean he came to this meeting drunk?”

  “Yes.” There was hesitancy in Blass’s voice now. “And if I hadn’t known him—hadn’t recognized him at once—I wouldn’t have admitted him. He couldn’t remember his signal, sir, and he had neglected to put on his mask.”

  A stifled curse sounded behind the grille. A momentary silence followed it. Then the Chairman spoke as calmly, as precisely as before; but with a touch of sardonic mockery in his tone.

  “Courtney is at fault—wholly and unquestionably. Men engaged in such an enterprise as ours cannot, must not, touch liquor. But shall we say, Victor Blass, that your own conduct has been entirely wise and praiseworthy—a perfect model for the other members to follow?”

  A gasp sounded from the direction of a chair in the rear of the seated group. The relentless voice of the Chairman, continued:

  “You had your orders not to let any member into this meeting until he gave his signal. Do orders mean nothing to you?”

  Stark terror, proving the power that this leader had over his men, trembled in Blass’s reply. The brutal confidence he had displayed during the bank raid was gone.

  “I—I was afraid to turn him away in his condition. I weighed the factors—and reached a decision to meet the emergency. I—appeal to you, Mr. Chairman.”

  The Chairman’s laugh held no mirth, no mercy. “I shall give the matter thought, and meanwhile—”

  “Meanwhile, Mr. Chairman, if Courtney was responsible for a prisoner, something ought to be done. He is in no state—”

  “I am coming to that, Blass! Two of you, Doeg and LaFarge, will accompany Courtney back to his apartment at once. If Granville is still there, Courtney will be punished for his misconduct with a whipping only. If Granville isn’t there—I shall consider that Courtney has committed a major breach of discipline and is of no further use to this organization. In that case—I shall decree his death!”

  There was another silence in the room, during which there came again the scrape of a chair and a faint click. Then, weirdly, mysteriously, the chamber began to grow light. The masked faces of the men around “X” appeared slowly as out of a haze.

  Instantly his eyes swiveled toward the grille at the end of the room. But the chair was empty now. The sinister Chairman had withdrawn. There was some doorway close to that desk through which he had passed. It was he who controlled the falling and rising of the darkness.

  TWO masked figures in the group arose at once: Doeg and LaFarge, the members delegated to go with “X” to Courtney’s apartment. “X” stood up also, walked toward the door into the corridor through which he had come. Victor Blass opened the metal door with its slitted peephole, letting them into the outer passage. The two who were now “X’s” guards removed their masks, and he did likewise.

  They stared at him with open hostility, pushed him roughly ahead of them along the passage, and Chauncey Doeg, Courtney’s supposed friend, spoke:

  “You’ve been a damn fool, Lorenzo! You deserve anything you get! Your conduct reflects on us all. From now on you’d better watch your step. Understand? If you don’t—we know what the Chairman would expect!”

  Doeg flipped open his coat, exposing the black butt of an automatic worn in an armpit holster. The other man, LaFarge, laughed mirthlessly and nodded. “X” knew that these two wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him. The disapproval of the Chairman, the sentence of a brutal beating already imposed upon him, gave them little respect for his life. Their own selfish interests swept friendship aside. There could be no loyalty among criminals, except that inspired by fear.

  But the Agent did not intend to let these two men accompany him to Courtney’s apartment. The mythical Sid Granville wasn’t there. Ironically, the man who had impersonated Granville was now before them and they didn’t know it.

  “X” wasn’t interested in either Doeg or LaFarge now. They were only cogs in the amazing crime organization that the mysterious Chairman had built up. Even Blass had proved himself to be a mere subordinate. The Chairman shared his secrets with no one. Unseen, unknown, he controlled the darkness and gave out the helmets which offset it. It was he who was the guiding genius of the
devil-dark group. And his sinister orders would start the pillaging of S. Carleton & Company’s great store tomorrow.

  The Agent moved like lightning, just as they reached the shadows surrounding the spot where LaFarge had parked his car. Before Doeg was able to draw his automatic, the Agent’s fist cracked sharply against his chin. The Agent whirled, struck again, and the second blow, with the impact of a trained boxer’s behind it, connected with LaFarge’s jaw.

  Both men dropped senseless to the pavement while Secret Agent “X” turned and sped away. He ran two blocks, turned a corner, and leaped into his own parked coupé. In a moment he was speeding off into the darkness.

  TEN minutes later Agent “X” turned into the mouth of the mews where Vivian de Graf dwelt. The pink stucco building which housed her ground-floor apartment was in the center of the block. A faint light seeped around the edges of drawn shades. In spite of the late hour the woman was still up.

  The Agent, still in the guise of Courtney, pressed the bell button.

  None of his inward excitement showed on his disguised face as he waited for his ring to be answered. The smell of Courtney’s whiskey was still on his breath. He had paused a few moments before entering the mews to bring his impersonator’s art into play. He had added a few deft touches of discoloration to the plastic material on his face. His lips were paler. There were circles under his eyes. The eyes themselves were bloodshot.

  He teetered unsteadily and let his lids and his lips droop in an unpleasant smile as the door before him opened.

  Vivian de Graf, clad in a becoming pair of blue lounging pajamas, stood in the threshold. Highlights gleamed on her dark hair and on the clinging silk that covered her. They emphasized the pliant grace of her figure. Her complexion was freshly made up as though she expected a guest. Her scarlet lips were startlingly defined, her eyelashes heavy with mascara. Never had she looked more alluring—never more exotically beautiful.

  But her features froze as she saw the man who came as Courtney. She did not move aside. Her voice was hard.

  “What is it, Lorenzo? What do you want—coming here at this hour?”

  The Agent gave a tipsy salute. He leered at her knowingly. “Jus’ wanna have a li’l’ talk with you, Vivian. Jus’ a li’l’ talk.”

  “You’ve been drinking,” she said scornfully. “I can’t see you now.”

  She tried to shut the door in his face; but Agent “X” thrust out his foot.

  “Bad girl, Vivian! Treat a frien’ like that!”

  He pushed her aside, swaggered into the apartment where the faint, but all-pervading scent of the saffron orchids lay. Vivian de Graf was beside him instantly, panting in anger, her chin outthrust. Her beauty now was like the sinister grace of a lioness about to spring, with rending claws hidden beneath sleek fur.

  “Get out!” she cried huskily. “You—drunken fool! What makes you imagine I want to see you?”

  “Nobody—said—you—did,” the Agent replied slowly. “But—I wanna see you.” He took off his hat, dropped it into a chair, fingered for a cigarette. Vivian de Graf eyed him keenly. A sudden look of uneasiness crept into her gaze.

  “How long have you been like this? What did you do with Granville? Where is he now?”

  The Agent held up a protesting hand. “Not—so many questions at once, Vivian, m’dear! One at a time, please.”

  “Where is Granville now?”

  Agent “X” lighted his cigarette, let smoke dribble from his lips before he answered. Eyes half closed, drunken appearing, he watched her growing uneasiness.

  “That,” he said haltingly, “is what I wanna talk to you about. He—got away.”

  Anger became fury in the woman’s face. Her hands clenched at her sides as she stepped close. Her sleekly clad body was taut in every rippling muscle.

  “Fool! Fool!” she said again. “I asked you to be careful! I thought I could trust you—that much!”

  “Sorry,” said the Agent. “But I’m the one you wanna worry about. I’m in bed with the boss—an’ you—gotta help me!”

  “Exactly what do you mean?”

  “X” gave a humorless laugh. He waved a finger close to her face. “There was a meeting tonight, an’ the boss wanted to know what I’d found out about Granville. I stalled. I couldn’t tell him the bird had flown. I said he was at my apartment. Then the Chairman, the boss, sent two fellows back with me to find him. The boss said that if Granville wasn’t there—I’d—be killed. So I shook them—and came here.”

  THE woman’s expression showed that she understood all he had said. “Well—what do you expect me to do?” she asked.

  Agent “X” drew himself up with the exaggerated dignity of a drunken man. He stared at her solemnly, accusingly. “You got me into this! You—wished that bird on me! Now—you gotta make it right with the boss. You know him!”

  She didn’t deny it. She gave a scornful laugh. “It’s your own funeral. If you hadn’t got drunk—”

  The telephone sounded suddenly, and Vivian de Graf turned. The first flare-up of her anger had passed. She was poised now, coldly scornful. “X” watched her lift the receiver. Saw her listen and glance his way. He couldn’t hear the voice that spoke at the other end of the wire; but the meaning of her answer was plain.

  “He’s here now. You’d better have them come—at once!”

  There was a note of cruelty in her speech. She clicked up the receiver and faced him, smiling thinly with red lips.

  “It’s too bad, Lorenzo! You might have gone far—if you hadn’t been a fool!”

  The Agent let panic come into his voice. “You told him I was here! You—They’ll kill me!”

  Vivian de Graf threw back her head and laughed, white teeth gleaming, supple body relaxed. The thought of his death seemed to amuse her.

  “You will get only what you deserve,” she said.

  The Agent’s manner changed as though fear had cleared the fumes from his befuddled brain. He drew his face into a scowl; clenched his fist. “No—I won’t wait to be murdered. And—you’ll be sorry for this!”

  She did just what he expected then. Her white hand streaked to a drawer in the table at her side. It came out clutching a gun which she centered on his vest.

  “Stand still, Lorenzo, or I shall save them the trouble of killing you—by doing it myself.”

  Her steady hand, her merciless eyes showed that she meant it. A cruel smile still curved her red lips.

  She was standing on a rug. The other end of it was close to the Agent’s feet. There was polished flooring beneath. Suddenly his heel moved forward and jerked back on the fabric. It was done so quickly, so deftly, that Vivian de Graf made a clutch at the table to save herself from falling. In that instant, before she could swing the gun muzzle toward him again. Agent “X” leaped forward and disarmed her.

  Furious, white-faced, she stood before him as the Agent centered the weapon on her heart. He was still playing the part of Lorenzo Courtney, but in another, more masterful role.

  “Now,” he said, “call the boss! Tell him that if he sends anyone to get me—you’ll die first.”

  Tense seconds went by while the woman weighed his words. He had no intention of making good his threat; but she didn’t know it. It was made only to force her to reveal the mysterious Chairman’s telephone number. Vivian de Graf shrugged and said in a flat voice:

  “You win, Lorenzo. You are smarter than I thought.”

  She turned toward the phone, reached out resignedly to pick it up, and as she did so Agent “X” caught his breath. For a change was suddenly apparent in the room. The walls were growing darker, the electric bulbs overhead dimmer, and there was a buzzing sound in the Agent’s brain, while streaks of light danced before his eyes.

  Vivian de Graf’s white face was becoming blurred. He saw her drop her hand from the phone, saw her turn toward him, but he couldn’t see her features clearly enough to get her expression. Yet he knew what was happening, knew that the weird, blinding blackness of the de
vil-dark gang was descending in the room.

  Chapter XVI

  DEATH IN THE DARK

  THE Secret Agent stood frozen. He wasn’t afraid. He was amazed. This upset all his plans. It baffled him utterly. He crouched and moved crabwise toward the wall. He fumbled along it toward the door, listened for steps in the street outside. The room was completely black now. There was no sound from Vivian de Graf. He couldn’t even hear her breathing. He put his hand on the doorknob to turn it, knowing there might be men with guns waiting outside. But he was ready to take a chance.

  Then he heard a noise which came from directly opposite across the big room. There were French windows there. His roving eyes had noticed them earlier. The noise sounded like one of the windows being pushed open by a stealthy hand. The killers were evidently coming to get him that way. They had the front guarded, the place surrounded, and all ways of escape cut off.

  But his reasoning was upset the next instant. For Vivian de Graf spoke in the darkness, mortal terror seeming to constrict her throat.

  “Who’s there? Who is it? Oh, my God—”

  The person by the window didn’t answer with words. His reply was more abrupt, more terrible than any speech could have been. It was a shot in the utter gloom of the room, a shot that seemed to find a mark, for Vivian de Graf gave a piercing, pain-racked cry.

  The Secret Agent waited aghast, trying to make sense out of this seemingly senseless thing. He heard the woman’s cry repeated, heard it choke in her throat as though Death’s fingers were already pressing there, heard the table go over as though she had clutched at it. Then came the unmistakable thud of a falling body. Even the rug could not muffle it entirely. It only made the sound more gruesome—like rock being thrown on a coffin lid.