Secret Agent X : The Complete Series Volume 3 Page 12

  “It means,” the Secret Agent said bitterly, “that the Skull is getting himself more patients for that electric chair of his!”

  Chapter XIII

  DOOM TRAP

  THE darkened room gave off an animal smell; a smell of unwashed bodies. Muted voices buzzed with excited comment. There was the noise of shuffling as nervous men shifted their feet; rustling of clothing; here and there a nervous laugh.

  All became still as a dull glow illuminated a niche high up in the wall, limning the horrid figure of the vermilion-garbed Skull. A spotlight flared down in the upturned faces of the expectant men below.

  The Skull spoke, his hideous face leering at his listeners.

  “I have called you all together,” he began, “because I have an important announcement to make. You all know that the man who was known as Fannon was really the person who goes by the name of Secret Agent ‘X.’ You also know that he was almost trapped here, and escaped only by some extremely lucky accidents. I cannot understand yet how he found his way out of this place, but I assure you he will never find his way in again—except as a prisoner.”

  The Skull paused a moment, appraising the men below him, as if trying to ascertain how much damage had been done to his prestige by the sensational escape. Utter silence reigned in the room. The men were still evidently as much in awe of him as they had ever been.

  Their master surveyed them sardonically for a moment, noting the varied emotions written on the coarse faces below him, mercilessly exposed by the searching beams of the spotlight. He went on.

  “I have never made it a practice to announce my plans in advance. This time, however, I am making an exception, for the reason that I want you all to perform enthusiastically the work which I shall assign to each of you. We have already launched the operation which I have been planning for some time; the operation which is going to net us ten million dollars in cash.”

  He paused to let that sink in, noting the sudden greedy interest that the men began to evince.

  “I flatter myself,” he continued, “that I have conceived one of the most original methods of prying money loose from the public in the annals of crime. We are going to kidnap ten wealthy men, whose names I have carefully chosen after certain investigations. The first of these, Harrison Dennett, the construction man, is already here, in our power. The other nine will be brought in today. Each of you will be assigned a certain task, which must be performed with the precision of clockwork, for every one of the nine other kidnapings has been timed carefully with the habits of these men, which I have taken great pains to check on.

  “As you return with the prisoners, Binks will meet you at the different entrances assigned you, and you will conduct the prisoners to the cell down below. One prisoner, and no more, is to go in each cell. I have a particular reason for that, which you will learn later. Now, are there any questions?”

  For a while there was silence as the men digested the peculiar information they had just received. Then Gilly raised a hand, blinking in the spotlight.

  “Gilly,” said the Skull, “what is your question?”

  The little gunman shuffled from one foot to the other. Already he regretted having raised his hand, was astounded at his own temerity.

  “Well?” the Skull snapped. “Talk up. What is it?”

  GILLY fidgeted, looked sheepishly at the men around him, then up toward the niche which he couldn’t see because of the blinding light. “Jeez, boss, I don’t mean to be fresh or nothin’. But I been in the snatchin’ racket myself, out West; an’ I know what these rich guys is like. We once snatched a guy what was supposed to be a millionaire, an’ it turned out that all he had was houses an’ stocks, but no cash. It took his family almost a month to raise the dough, an’ then we had to settle for a hundred grand. That was all they could lay their mitts on.” He stopped, licked his lips nervously.

  The Skull asked, encouragingly, “What is the point you wish to make, Gilly?”

  “Well, boss, I was wonderin’ if you could get ten million dollars from those ten guys. How’re they gonna raise all that cash?”

  The Skull laughed harshly. “I told you that my plan was one of the most original in the history of crime, Gilly. I am glad that you mentioned this matter. It shows that you are wide awake. But I, also, thought of it; and the method I have devised for making it possible to raise the cash is what makes my plan original. You see, Gilly, we shall not ask these men to pay one cent out of their own pockets! There will be no demands for ransom from their families, or from the firms which they head. But—the money will be forthcoming!”

  Gilly wet his lips again. “How?” he asked in a dry whisper.

  “That, men, will remain a secret until tomorrow morning. When we have these ten men safely in the cells, I will send an announcement to the newspapers, and they will print it. And it will open the way for a new kind of crime—wholesale kidnaping, with payment of the ransom money absolutely assured! There will be no hesitation about paying it, for they will have Ainsworth Clegg and the others as examples of my art. You will recall that I told you at the time we seized Clegg and the others, that I did not intend to make any money on them. They were doomed, for I wanted to let it be seen what would happen to those who defied me. So I deliberately set the ransom demand at a preposterous figure. Now, with those examples before them, there will be a rush to make the payment. Tomorrow morning you will learn who is going to pay the ransom!”

  Gilly had no more questions. The group of men in the room with him stirred nervously. Their curiosity was piqued. They wondered how their master intended to cause ten million dollars to be raised for ransom. They were no children; many of them, like Gilly, had at one time or another turned their hands to kidnaping, and they knew from bitter experience that large ransoms are more easily demanded than produced. Fresh in their minds was the recent case of a kidnaped upstate politician whose family, it had been supposed, measured its wealth in multiples of millions, but who had been released for a measly ninety thousand dollars. Each was busy trying to solve the puzzle in his own mind.

  “Now,” said the Skull, “we will once more discuss Secret Agent ‘X.’ I will admit that he, whoever he may be, is the only man with courage and cleverness enough to be a possible menace to our plans. I will also admit that he succeeded in escaping from what was a perfect trap. But I assure you that I will have him here, in one of the cells downstairs, within twenty-four hours!”

  A low murmur of interest was heard from the men.

  The Skull went on, emphasizing his words. “I am sure that when be learns of our present operation, he will make a desperate attempt to work his way in here again. In what disguise, I do not know. A man who could successfully deceive me by posing as Fannon may do anything. It is even possible that he may place himself in the role of one of the men who is to be kidnaped. I shall make it easy for him to do so, as you will see when you are given your instructions. But—” the Skull paused to let the words sink in—“whatever disguise he uses, I shall know him! Do you want to know why?”

  The master’s voice rang with evil triumph as he went on swiftly. “Because, my friends, though he may be known as The Man of a Thousand Faces, he has only ten fingers! And—I have prints of all ten of them! We will fingerprint every prisoner, every stranger who enters here. And sooner or later Secret Agent ‘X’ will come into our hands!”

  Chapter XIV

  SPIDER AND THE FLY

  IN a quiet section of the city stands the Montgomery mansion, a relic of the old blue-stocking aristocracy. Few know how old the house really is. At one time it was far uptown, almost suburban; until the bustling tide of business and residential buildings swept up around and past it, so that now it is “downtown.”

  For many years it has stood silent and apparently unused, seeming to reflect upon its ancient grandeur and the wealth of its former owners.

  A curious sight-seer would have had difficulty in making his way into the house. For if he successfully climbed the high ston
e fence, he would have found, upon going up the old porch, that the door and all the windows were boarded up securely. If he wandered around to the rear, through a garden strewn with ancient statuary, if he succeeded in finding the entrance in the back that led into the house through the butler’s pantry, and if he made his way along the hall to the front of the ground floor, he would have been surprised to find that the rooms which he supposed un-tenanted were very comfortably equipped. Peeking into one of them, he would have seen a pleasantly furnished bedroom, and on the bed, sleeping the sleep of exhaustion, a very beautiful blonde young lady.

  And if this sight-seer were a careful reader of the newspapers he would have uttered a gasp of surprise upon recognizing the features of the young lady as being those of a Miss Betty Dale whose disappearance and suspected abduction were one of the big news items of the evening.

  Still more surprised would the uninvited guest have been had he stepped into the alcove adjoining the next room. For here he would have seen another person whose picture was appearing in the evening paper—one Frank Fannon, ex-convict, who was reported to have figured in a series of queer episodes since he was released from jail the day before.

  Now, this uninvited sight-seer, if he had remained silent and watched the man in the alcove, would shortly have rubbed his eyes in amazement at what was taking place. For this man, Fannon, was seated before a triple mirror, doing things to his face. Soon the face of Frank Fannon disappeared under the long, agile fingers, revealing for a moment the countenance of a keen-eyed young man with a mobile, restless mouth and an imperious nose—a face which the sightseer would surely not have recognized, for it was a face that no one in the world had ever seen.

  And under the eyes of the astounded sight-seer that face would soon have begun to assume an entirely different appearance. The temples became grayed, the lips fuller, the eyebrows thicker; in fact, a complete metamorphosis took place, and instead of Frank Fannon, there sat before the triple mirror the suave, urbane millionaire clubman, Elisha Pond.

  After a few careful finishing touches to his face, Mr. Pond arose and proceeded to change to faultless evening attire. When he was finished, he stepped into the next room, took a last look at Betty Dale who was still in deep slumber, induced by the sedative he had given her. She was safe here from the Servants of the Skull.

  He had given her the sedative before bringing her here, and, after the peril was over, he would return and take her away before she regained consciousness. She would never know where she had slept, would never know where she had been afforded sanctuary. The less she knew, the better it would be for her.

  Mr. Pond left her there, and went out through the hall to the cellar, through the cellar to the back of the house. Here the curious sight-seer would no longer have been able to follow him, for his dark-clad figure merged with the darkness of the night. A tall gate in the stone fence swung open on well-oiled hinges, and Mr. Elisha Pond stepped through it into the garden of the house next door. This house was known to the world as the home of Mr. Pond; but none knew of the excursions that its master made in the night to the Montgomery mansion next door, where he prepared himself to do battle against hideous crime.

  Mr. Pond went through the garden and into the garage at the rear of his home. The chauffeur, who lived above the garage, was downstairs tinkering with one of the cars, of which there were four here. He touched his cap respectfully, said, “Good evening, sir. I didn’t know you were home, sir. Will you want me to drive you tonight?”

  “No, Carl, I will take the small coupe and drive myself.”

  “It is all ready, sir.”

  Mr. Elisha Pond nodded genially, got into the car, and drove off. To his servants here he was known as a kindly, wealthy master who treated them considerately and was a snap to work for, since he was away most of the time.

  Mr. Pond’s first stop was at the Bankers’ Club. He had to park a block away because of the subway construction going on. As he crossed the street over the subway cut where he had found Ainsworth Clegg, he wondered if one day shortly, Harrison Dennett would not be found in the same fashion, mind and body wrecked. Dennett was a strong, cool sort of man, and the thought of how he would be after a treatment of the fiendish electric chair was particularly horrible.

  At the Bankers’ Club there was an undercurrent of uneasiness that was reflected even in the greeting of the doorman who was usually a paragon of stiff respectfulness.

  Inside, the club seemed deserted, a pall of gloom lying over it. In the corner by the window where at this hour there usually congregated Commissioner Foster, Pelham Grier, Pierre Laurens, Jonathan Jewett, Dennett and others, there were only Jewett and Commissioner Foster. They sat in silence, as if they were utterly weary. Commissioner Foster appeared harried and worn. He looked up as Pond approached them.

  “Hello, Pond,” he said. “I’m glad to see that you’re here at least. You shouldn’t wander around the town unprotected like this—he’ll get you, too.”

  “Who’ll get me?” Pond asked lightly, seating himself beside Jewett. The tall, gaunt Insurance Company president barked, “You don’t mean to say you don’t know what’s been happening today?”

  “I heard that Dennett was robbed and then kidnaped. I haven’t seen a paper since. Has anybody else been abducted?”

  JEWETT snorted. “Where’ve you been tonight—taking a beauty nap? Take a look around here. Do you see Grier? Do you see Laurens? No! I’ll tell you why. They’ve both been abducted by the Skull!”

  The eyes of Mr. Elisha Pond became veiled as he glanced from the insurance man to the police commissioner. “The situation,” he said slowly, “becomes alarming.”

  Commissioner Foster looked haggard. “More than alarming, Pond. It is terrifying. That is not all. Grier and Laurens are not the only ones besides Dennett who have been abducted. Five more are gone. I sit here in dread. Every hour I receive reports of more kidnapings. So far there is a total of eight of the wealthiest men in the city in the power of the Skull. I have assigned guards to every one who might be a possible future victim, but I confess that I am helpless. The abductions are performed with great daring, must be carefully planned, for these ‘snatchers’ disappear with their victims almost under the very eyes of the pursuers.”

  Mr. Pond asked, “Where is Arnold Hilary?” Hilary was another one of the group that frequented this corner of the Bankers’ Club after dinner. He was the proprietor of the Herald, the newspaper that Betty Dale worked for, and had, on occasion, received substantial financial assistance from Elisha Pond. The use of his unlimited resources in this way had often aided the Agent in his work, by establishing powerful connections for him. The use of these connections had often meant the difference between success and failure.

  In answer to his question Foster told him, “Hilary is keeping close to his home. I’ve put a guard around it. We think he might be in danger of abduction, too.”

  “What leads you to believe that?” Pond asked with quick interest.

  Foster coughed behind his hand, hesitated a moment, then said, “Look here, Pond, this is strictly confidential. It hasn’t been released to the papers. It was reported that a card with a drawing of a skull was found in Dennett’s car when he was kidnaped, and that similar cards were found in the homes of Grier, Laurens and the others. That is true. But there was a message on those cards that was not printed in the newspapers.”

  “Yes?” Pond asked.

  “Those cards are downtown at headquarters now, but the message on each was identical. I remember it word for word: ‘Do not prepare to raise ransom money. No ransom will be demanded from the family or business connections of my prisoners. Ten men are to be abducted today. Let them not offer resistance, lest they receive the same treatment that Ainsworth Clegg and the others received. Tomorrow I will make known the terms upon which I will release these men. Until then, do nothing.’ And it was signed, ‘The Skull’!”

  Foster finished reciting the message, stopped and lit a long cigar that h
e extracted from his pocket. The match trembled a little. He did not see the swift gleam in Pond’s eyes as he heard the strange wording on the cards.

  It was Jewett who broke the silence that followed. “I tell you, Pond, it’s like fighting the darkness! This Skull, as he calls himself, is fiendishly clever. And he’s Satan himself. Imagine Grier, Laurens, Dennett and the others being in the power of such a being; why, we don’t know when we’ll find their broken bodies in the street. We don’t know what he plans! Why, he even says that he isn’t going to ask for ransom from their families! The man must be a maniac!”

  “I don’t think so,” said Elisha Pond. “I think he has a definite plan, which we shall learn tomorrow when he makes his announcement. But why, Jewett, are you so wrought up? You seem to feel that he has done you a personal injury.”

  Jewett’s eyes blazed. “You’re damn right, he has! Do you know that every one of those men who’ve been taken by the Skull is insured to the hilt? Approximately six million dollars of life insurance is the maximum that anybody can get, and each of those men has the maximum. Ten men. Sixty million dollars. Can you understand what that would do to the life insurance companies of the country if they were all killed? Not only that, but if ten men can be kidnaped, why not a hundred? Why not a thousand? It would be disaster for the institution of life insurance, which it has taken decades to build up to its present strength!”

  “I see,” Elisha Pond said very quietly. “I begin to see more clearly.” Suddenly he arose. “I must go now, gentlemen. If there is anything I can do, commissioner, please let me know.”

  “I will,” Foster said glumly. “But I’m afraid we’re all helpless. This Skull must be a genius of crime; and I fear the police are not equipped to combat him. It’s a bitter admission to make, but there’s no use glossing the facts. So far, we’ve been worse than useless. Take care of yourself. Do you want a guard?”

  “Hardly,” laughed Pond. “I don’t think the Skull is interested in me—not if he’s after insured men. I haven’t much insurance.”