Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 4 Page 18

  The Agent’s only thought now was to regain quickly the strength which had been melted from his body. It was five minutes before he managed to stand once more. He smiled grimly. Only a man of his tremendous recuperative powers could have regained his full strength in so short a time after such an ordeal.

  Chapter VII

  MEN OR BEASTS?

  IT was a half hour later that a middle-aged inconspicuous sort of man stepped out into the street from the doorway of that little building between the two warehouses. This man in no way resembled the Victor Randall who had carried Laurento in only a little while before. He had bushy eyebrows, a broad nose, and dark hair which was beginning to gray at the temples.

  Secret Agent “X” had assumed a new personality—that of Arvold Fearson, a disguise which he had used on occasions in the past. As Arvold Fearson, Secret Agent “X” was known to many people in the city, including the police officials, to be a private detective in the employ of the Hobart Detective Agency. The Hobart Agency was run by a redheaded young man, an ex-policeman who had been befriended by Secret Agent “X.” Now the Agent made good use of Hobart’s organization.

  As Arvold Fearson, there were many things which “X” had to do now. He had left Laurento upstairs, after having placed him on a bed, securely tied against the time when he should wake up from the coma. Now he looked up and down the street before entering his coupé.

  But he did not see the woman who had followed him there. For she had left her post of vigil across the street only a few minutes before, after making another hurried telephone call.

  The Agent drove west for several blocks, and pulled up in front of a drug store. He went inside and entered a telephone booth where he dialed a secret number which was known only to himself.

  In a moment a precise, military voice spoke over the phone: “Bates talking.”

  Bates was the head of another organization controlled by the Agent, similar to the Hobart Agency except for one important difference—no one knew about it. For this organization the Agent had drafted men from all walks of life after investigating them thoroughly. The existence of Bates and his vast network of operatives was entirely unsuspected by the public, and the number which had just been dialed was one that was never used by anybody but Secret Agent “X.”

  The Agent said quickly: “Report on Oscar Stanton.”

  “Right, sir,” Bates said. “Stanton left headquarters this morning in great excitement. He was followed to his home, where we have a dictograph installed. I have a transcript of everything he said at home. He made a number of telephone calls. They were to his brokers, instructing them to buy certain stock when they hit certain low prices. These instructions are the same as he has been giving for the last ten days, except that he added to the list of stocks that he wished to buy the common stock of the Pacific Bank, of which Mr. Gilbert Patterson was the head.”

  “Tell me quickly what happened at headquarters this morning,” the Agent ordered.

  “Why, sir, a man came to the commissioner’s office claiming to be Secret Agent “X.” He threw some sort of bomb into the room. And under cover of the smoke, Gilbert Patterson was murdered as Doctor Blood had promised. It seems that Commissioner Foster had called a conference of seven or eight of the leading citizens of the city. We can’t get any definite information, but it is suspected that the commissioner had some sort of inkling that these men were the next to be murdered by the blood drinkers. We are sure of one thing—that Gilbert Patterson was slated for today, and that Doctor Blood succeeded in murdering him. In some way they managed to admit the beasts into the commissioner’s office. The man who threw the bomb escaped and carried off with him Mr. Victor Randall, who was also present at the conference. I have men out—”

  “You need not work on that,” the Agent interrupted him. “Mr. Randall is safe. There was another matter that I asked you to look into—this business of Grover Wilkerson. What have you got on that?”

  “I don’t know what put you on the track of Wilkerson, sir.” There was admiration in Bates’ voice. “But he certainly ties in with these murders. I have a short résumé here. Shall I read it to you over the wire?”

  “Go ahead.” The Agent inserted another nickel in the slot as the operator told him that his time was up, and he listened carefully while Bates read from the résumé in a clear precise voice.

  “Grover Wilkerson, ex-millionaire, utilities magnate, recently convicted in Federal Court of fraud and embezzlement and sentenced to five years in jail. Subsequently declared insane and committed to the Ohio State Asylum for mental incompetents. He escaped from the asylum one month ago. Killed two men in the middle west who had testified against him at his trial. Left note threatening to ‘get even’ with everybody who contributed to his ruin. Has not yet been apprehended in spite of countrywide search for him. Our operatives report he was last seen on a train leaving New York, but disappeared at a small local station. Wilkerson is believed to be very dangerous. Inspector Burks has just released a statement to the press to the effect that he thinks it quite likely that Wilkerson is responsible for the ten murders which have occurred here in the city.”

  THE Agent marshaled the facts carefully in his mind. “Have you completed the arrangements in regard to Wilkerson as per my instructions?”

  “Yes, sir. All arrangements are complete. I have called in all our operatives from the middle west who had at any time seen Wilkerson. They are scattered throughout the city here, canvassing homes, walking streets, on the watch for him. They are instructed if they should find him, to capture him without inflicting any injury unless they should be placed in physical danger.”

  “All right,” the Agent told him. “In addition to the work you are now doing, I also wish you to begin a thorough investigation of a person by the name of Professor Hugo Langknecht, the German psychiatrist who is now visiting this country and whose help has been enlisted by the police to solve these murders.

  “Find out if he has any friends, with whom he associates, what his interests are. Find out if he has ever been known to associate with a young man by the name of Laurento. Have you got that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bates acknowledged. “Report on Professor Hugo Langknecht—with particular reference to a young man by the name of Laurento. Right, sir. I’ll get right on it.”

  The Agent hung up, and immediately dialed another number, said: “Hello, Herald? May I speak to Miss Betty Dale?”

  In a moment Betty was on the wire.

  “X” said, using the same inflection of voice that he had employed when he met her on the street corner:

  “Miss Dale? This is the person—”

  “Yes—I know,” her worried voice interrupted him. “I have got together most of the information that you wanted from me. I’ve been working downstairs in the morgue since I left you and have a list of all the news items which have appeared in the past six months about those ten men who were mur—”

  “Never mind that,” the Agent broke in. “I’ll meet you later and you can give it to me. There is something I want you to get at once. This German psychiatrist. Professor Hugo Langknecht—where is he staying while here in the city?”

  “That’s easy. Can you hold the wire just a moment?”

  “Yes.”

  In a short time Betty was back with the information. “He has rented an entire house on the outskirts of the city. It seems he’s doing some scientific research work, and he has equipped a complete laboratory out there. Here’s the address.”

  “X” repeated the number and the street after her. He did not need to write it down. His mind was a vast storehouse of accurately catalogued information from which he could extract any item that he had once learned. He thanked Betty, and hung up after telling her that he would see her later.

  Chapter VIII

  THE WOMAN FROM PARAGUAY

  SPUYTEN DUYVIL road lay off the main highway far to the north, in one of the loneliest portions of the city. Cold blasts of night wind blew in from the w
aterfront at the road’s end. Darkness lay like a shroud of menace over the deserted street as the Agent parked his sedan opposite the two-story brick building which Professor Langknecht had rented for his stay in the city. Before getting out of the car, “X” noted that all the windows in the front of the house were provided with metal shutters, and that they were closed tight. No streak of light was permitted to show. The house lay gloomy, silent, a fitting edifice for this out of the way, forbidding street.

  Secret Agent “X” crossed to the other side, approached the doorway of the building, which was level with the sidewalk. His rubbersoled shoes made no sound on the pavement; his car, which was equipped with a specially constructed motor, had not made the slightest sound as he drove up; yet he was sure that his arrival had been noted, that he was being observed from some point of vantage in the building.

  He rang the bell, waited silently. There was no sound from within, but suddenly the heavy oak door was swung open. The hallway within was unlit, but the Agent was able to discern the heavy, brutish features of the oxlike man who stood just within. This man was clothed in a white coat, and wore rubber gloves. He peered at the Agent out of small, piglike eyes, and said: “Yes?”

  “X” asked: “Is Professor Langknecht in?”

  The big man surveyed him without speaking for a moment, then asked: “Your name?”

  “X” produced a card which he handed over. “I am Arvold Fearson,” he said. “I should like to speak with the Professor on a personal matter.”

  The other took the card, said gruffly: “Vait here. I see.” He shut the door, left the Agent standing outside.

  A few moments later, the door opened once more, but this time on a chain. Through the crack the Agent could see the white coat once more. The gruff voice spoke to him through the opening. “T’e professor iss not in.”

  The door began to close, but “X” put his foot in the crack. “Just a moment,” he said. “I am sure the professor will manage to be in for me if you will give him this message. Tell him that I wish to talk with him about—Laurento.”

  The man uttered a startled gasp. Then after a pause said: “Vait.”

  Once more the door was closed. This time it took a little longer, while the Agent waited, his eyes scanning the shadows that surrounded the house. Finally the door opened, this time wide, without the chain.

  The big man in the white coat and the rubber gloves stood aside in the hallway. “T’e Professor will see you,” he announced.

  “X” entered, and the door was closed behind him. If he had remained outside only a moment or two longer, he would have seen the sedan which turned into Spuyten Duyvil road and drove up to the house, parked behind his own coupé. He would have seen the tall, black-haired woman with the green hat who descended from the sedan and inspected his coupé; would have seen her turn cloudy eyes in the direction of the house, then cross the street. But the Agent was already within, and the white-coated one was saying: “Follow me upstairs. But do not touch the banister or the wall. It is dangerous.”

  The other preceded him up the stairs, and led toward a room at the front of the house where he rapped upon another door which was fully as strong as the one downstairs.

  This one opened into a lighted room. Professor Langknecht himself stood there, arrayed in a white coat, but minus the rubber gloves. He stepped aside for “X” to enter, said to the attendant: “You may go, Hans.”

  The attendant bowed, closed the door from the outside. The Agent was left alone in the room with Professor Langknecht. The professor turned and stared at him out of eyes whose expression was hidden by the thick-lensed spectacles which he wore. He was holding the Agent’s card in his hand. He glanced down at it, then up again, frowning.

  “I do not know of you, Mr. Fearson. What is this matter that you wish to speak with me about?”

  IN the single quick glance which he had cast over the room upon entering, the Agent had noted that it was equipped as a very comfortable office, with a small desk at the farther wall, a couch, several chairs, and a row of filing cabinets. The filing cabinets covered an entire wall, and seemed to be divided into sections about three feet wide. “X” now stood tensely facing the professor. “I think you already know why I am here. You must have recognized the name of Laurento, which I told your man to mention to you. Isn’t that why you consented to see me?”

  His keen eyes were studying the professor, watching for the slightest reaction, for some sign of betrayal of his innermost thoughts. But the professor’s face was a mask, his eyes inscrutable behind those glasses. He said: “You speak in riddles, my friend. I know no one by the name of Laurento.”

  “Perhaps,” said the Agent still watching him closely, “you know him by some other name. I will describe him for you. He is a young man, short of stature, not over twenty-five years old; thin features, dark-haired, mild mannered. But his mild mannered aspect is deceptive—for today you saw him hurl a gas bomb into Commissioner Foster’s office, and afterward you saw Gilbert Patterson dead on the floor, with his throat ripped open!”

  Langknecht still retained full control of himself. Only his face darkened a little, and his lips parted slightly, showing two rows of even white teeth. “I am still unaware of what you speak, my friend. You are very annoying, and I am busy. I shall have to ask you to leave at once. I know of no Laurento.”

  “Not even,” the Agent persisted, “if I should tell you that I know where Laurento is now? Wouldn’t you be interested in learning his whereabouts?”

  For a long moment the professor stood rigid, staring at the Agent. Then a long sigh escaped through his teeth. “Who are you?” he asked.

  The Agent was tense now, ready for action. He had deliberately goaded the other into a half admission. “You can see my name on that card. I am a private investigator. If you are interested in learning Laurento’s whereabouts, perhaps we can talk business.”

  The professor pondered for a minute or two. Then he said very low: “Yes, perhaps we can do business—but not the way you think!”

  His hand darted to his shoulder, inside the white coat where there was a bulge. It reappeared in a moment, with a flat automatic. The professor was snarling.

  BUT “X” gave him no chance to use the gun. With a movement so fast that it was almost imperceptible, he stepped in, brought his left hand down, palm open, in a slashing blow which caught the professor’s arm at a point between the elbow and the shoulder. This was an effective, paralyzing blow which the Agent had learned many years ago. It was knowledge and skill such as this that often made an unarmed man the equal of one equipped with the most dangerous weapon.

  The professor staggered backward; the automatic dropped to the floor from fingers rendered numb by that paralyzing blow.

  With a furious cry, he hurled his entire weight at the Agent, bore him backward, gouging mercilessly at “X’s” face. The Agent twisted his head to escape those clawing fingernails, sidestepped, bent a little to the right and twined his left arm around the other’s waist. Then he pushed hard with his right shoulder, at the same time twisting the other’s body around. The professor was thrown off balance and crashed to the floor. He started to struggle upward again, but the Agent knelt, twisted his arm in a hammerlock.

  Sweat began to break out on the professor’s forehead; his small eyes glared viciously up at the Agent through the thick convex lenses.

  The Agent was breathing evenly. “I am sorry, professor—” He stopped short. For he felt something cold and hard boring into the back of his neck.

  A feminine voice behind him, low and desperate, ordered: “Release him at once, and stay where you are.”

  The Agent relaxed his grip on the professor’s arm, permitting the other to roll away and scramble to his feet.

  The professor said, panting: “You have come just in time, Lola. The man is made of steel!”

  The Agent rose slowly to his feet with the gun still boring into the back of his neck. The professor hurried to a closet, came back with a
length of wire.

  “Put your hands behind your back,” he commanded coldly. His thin lips were pressed tightly together, his eyes lancing hatred at the Agent.

  “X” obeyed under the compulsion of the woman’s gun, and the professor wound the wire about his wrists, and twisted it tight.

  “Now,” he said, “we can talk.”

  The pressure of the gun was relaxed, and the Agent turned slowly. For the first time he beheld the woman. It was the one he had seen in the sedan outside of headquarters; the one who had followed him to the apartment where he had taken Laurento. He bowed to her in courtly fashion, saying with a half-smile:

  “My compliments, madam. You entered this room with the silence of an expert.” His eyes strayed to the opposite wall where a section of the filing cabinet had been swung open on a pivot, revealing a passageway through which the woman had come.

  The woman held her gun steady, still pointing at the Agent. Her expensive fur coat was open, revealing a nile green dress which set off the whiteness of her long, slender throat. Under the bright electric lights she was as beautiful, as mysteriously bewitching as she had been in the shadows of the sedan.

  The professor wiped perspiration from his face, pointed to the Agent, saying: “He has just told me—that he knows where Laurento is!”

  Lola exclaimed, “Wait, Hugo. Come here, Hugo. I have something to tell you. I, too, know where to find Laurento!”

  Hugo backed away from the Agent to where the woman was standing. She turned to the professor and whispered in his ear so low that the Agent could not hear what she was saying. All the time, however, she kept her eyes glued to the Agent.

  When she finished her whispered message, the professor exclaimed: “That is different, Lola. We will go at once then. Let us put this man in a safe place until we return.”