Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 4 Page 2

  “The police!” he screeched. “Get the police! This bank has been robbed. Those devils who whipped us—while the darkness came—have looted the vaults! They’ve murdered the tellers!”

  A noise sounded as he spoke. It was a man’s groaning curse. Agent “X” whirled. A bank employee in a gray coat was getting up, reeling into sight. He had been lashed into helpless, pain-racked terror. And behind him the great door of the main vault was open, papers scattered across its floor, every metal compartment emptied of currency and coin.

  A second depositor spoke then, words grating bitterly from between bruised and lacerated lips. “They grabbed my wallet!” he snarled. “The bank’s cash wasn’t enough! They took even the money I’d drawn out.”

  Others nodded agreement, complaining that they had been robbed of all they had. Agent “X” stood tensely silent. He was not thinking of the reports of robbery—except that they confirmed his startling suspicion. Man, not nature, had made this hideous darkness!

  Mysteriously, abruptly as it had fallen over one whole block in the very heart of the city at high noon, somehow human hands and human brains were responsible for it. A great theft had taken place. Ruthless raiders had gone about their sinister work, unseen, yet able to see.

  Those accidents, those stampeding crowds, those pitiful, trampled bodies had been only indirect results. Back of this inhuman carnage—was human greed.

  Chapter II

  LASHING DEATH

  AGENT “X” left the bank quickly before police detectives arrived. They would have their opinions. But there was one whose opinion “X” wanted to hear even more. He returned to the spot where the blind beggar had stood. The sightless man, Thaddeus Penny, was still there, and once again his face lit up as he heard the Secret Agent’s steps.

  Months ago, in the disguise of “Robbins,” Agent “X” had done Thaddeus Penny a great service. And Penny had become his friend for life. He had helped “X” often with his power of identifying men by their steps, his trick of never forgetting the tone of a voice, his strangely acute intelligence. He was one man the Agent could come to in any disguise, since it was “X’s” speech which identified him to the blind man, and the Agent was always careful to use the same voice in addressing him. Yet in spite of this “X” sometimes suspected that Penny knew more than he let on, and was aware that the man called “Robbins” was a unique and mysterious being.

  The Agent asked an abrupt question, “Tell me just what you heard as you stood here, Thaddeus. Exactly what were the sounds?”

  The blind man was silent for a moment. His expressive face showed that he was recalling unpleasant impressions. He spoke slowly, sadly. “There are things a man would rather not hear, Mr. Robbins. People were hurt. They screamed, trampled each other. And I, a blind man, could do nothing. They spoke of darkness. But I am not afraid of the dark. I told them not to be afraid, but they wouldn’t listen.”

  “But the bandits?” “X” urged. “Did you hear them come?”

  Thaddeus Penny looked puzzled. “I heard them talking. I heard one give orders to the others. But they didn’t sound like crooks, Mr. Robbins. They spoke like gentlemen—men like yourself.”

  “I see,” said the Secret Agent. “Thank you, Thaddeus.”

  The blind man clutched his arm suddenly, seemed to be looking off into space with his sightless eyes. “There’s one thing, sir, that I almost forgot to tell you. It seems—funny! All around me I heard people shouting that it was dark, pitch dark. And yet—the sun was shining all the time.”

  Agent “X” stared at the sightless face. “The sun—but how could you be sure of that, Thaddeus?” he asked sharply. “This is winter. The sunlight is weak.”

  “Those who have no eyes must learn to feel many things, Mr. Robbins. I always know if the sun is out or not, no matter how feebly it shines. My skin tells me. And the sun was shining today at noon, while people screamed about darkness. I swear to that.”

  Agent “X” was tensely silent. What utter madness was this? The sun shining, while a thousand human beings cried their terror in abysmal darkness, while his own operative Jim Hobart spoke of the fearful night. Was it the product of Thaddeus Penny’s brain—or had a blindman’s delicate senses “seen” what normal eyes could not?

  LATER that day Secret Agent “X” crouched over a desk in the small office of “A. J. Martin.” He was alone. Newspapers were spread before him. Black headlines screamed the story of the bank robbery which the metropolitan press had rushed into extras. A dozen theories had been put forward to explain the darkness under which such hideous things had happened.

  A smoke screen, vaporizing quickly, some said, had been thrown over the block. Still others claimed that a restricted, radio-induced solar eclipse had occurred. That the thing was man-made all agreed.

  But the press and the police were equally baffled. There was no inkling as to the fiendish criminals’ identity—no clues save those bloody welts on the faces and bodies of those who had been close to the scene of the crime.

  The accidents, the stampeding, trampling mobs, could be easily explained now. Autos had crashed because their drivers could not see. Crowds had run in panic from Stygian blackness that seemed to presage the end of the world.

  The fingers of Secret Agent “X” clawlike in their tenseness, reached forward, took a clipping from a pigeonhole in his desk. It told of a similar phenomenon, the coming of darkness at high noon, which had occurred a week before in a small town upstate. Only a few people had seen it, a hundred or two at most, and because of the quiet of the rural community and the absence of traffic, there had been no accidents or riots.

  The big city dailies, when the story reached them, had made light of it, called it the mass phobia of people who had deluded themselves into seeing something which had no existence.

  But Agent “X,” ever on the watch for strange occurrences, had saved the item. A profound student of physical science, he had never before heard of such an occurrence. He had been suspicious that it was somehow man-made. And there had even been in his mind the thought that such a veil of darkness would be a perfect cover for a band of criminals to work beneath.

  Now, in the light of today’s robbery, Agent “X” understood. The coming of this darkness in the small town had been merely a preliminary test. There had been a bank in the town, and it had not been robbed. But undoubtedly the criminals who had created the darkness had also made a careful study of the situation—to see whether or not a bank could be robbed. The test, having turned out favorably, they had moved their operations to the neighborhood of a bank in a big city where a daring crime would pay.

  AGENT “X” tossed the clipping aside. He searched through the newspapers again, reading over the appalling lists of dead and injured that the accidents during the period of darkness on the block had caused. He looked methodically to see if any of the thousand or more witnesses had enlightening data to give. Perhaps strangers had been seen prowling around the section. Perhaps some odd activity had been noted by some one previous to the darkness. But there were no such reports. The criminals had operated with organized efficiency, with complete secrecy.

  Then the Agent came upon a brief item which made him instantly alert, though it was tucked away at the bottom of an inside page. It said:

  GIRL SECRETARY MISSING

  Craig Banton, president of the Guardian Bank, gave notice to the police this morning that Ellen Dowe, a girl secretary employed by him, was missing. The police were asked to institute a search for the girl after she had failed to report for work, and when her friends and family disclaimed knowledge of her whereabouts. Efforts to locate her have so far failed.

  As a news event it was unimportant, vastly overshadowed by the robbery and accidents that had taken place. But to Agent “X” it seemed vital. His alert mind, trained to probe for the hidden seeds of crime, saw in it a possible sinister significance. He wondered instantly if it presaged another hideous robbery such as that which had taken place today. The bank
raided during the noon hour just past had been wealthy, but the Guardian was of even more importance, one of the city’s soundest financial institutions, patronized by scores of thrifty workers.

  The Agent reached for a telephone on his desk and dialed the number of the Hobart Detective Agency. His own unlimited resources, drawn from a fund subscribed by ten public-spirited men at the outset of his career, had gone into building it up. It was his to command in any way he wished under the guise of A. J. Martin. Often it, and the Bates’ organization, working independently, had been of service to Agent “X,” running down minor leads which left his own time free for the missions that only he could undertake.

  Hobart answered quickly, eagerly, recognizing his employer’s voice.

  The Agent read the clipping concerning Ellen Dowe over the phone. Then he snapped an order:

  “Find her, Jim. Put every man and woman you’ve got on the job. See how she went to and from the bank. Find out who her friends are. Learn where she ate her meals. Get some trace of her!”

  There was a brief pause at the other end of the wire. Then Jim Hobart spoke hesitantly: “I thought, boss, you wanted me to comb the crook joints to see if I could pick up any news of that bank gang! I’ve got half the boys out now and—”

  “Recall them!” snapped Agent “X.”

  Jim Hobart didn’t argue. Often before his boss had moved swiftly, changed his tactics in the twinkling of an eye, working at times on hunches alone. All this Hobart had attributed to “Martin’s” insatiable thirst for news. Now there was an edge in “X’s” voice which demanded quick obedience.

  Hobart immediately promised to round up the men and women under him and start the quest for the missing Ellen Dowe.

  THE Agent snapped up the receiver and opened a locked compartment in the bottom of his old-fashioned desk. From this he took a black box that was the size of a small valise. He raised the cover, drew out a length of flexible electric cable with a pronged plug at its end. He thrust this into a wall socket, and bent over the open box.

  It was one of the most compact radio transmission sets in existence. Its efficiency was proof of the Secret Agent’s ability in the difficult field of radio engineering, for he had built the set himself. Speech or code could be broadcasted from it. The Agent used a small sending key now, reeling off dots and dashes with the touch of an expert wireless telegrapher.

  The message he sent out was in a five-letter code known only to one man in the city. This man was Harry Bates, head of the Secret Agent’s second investigating group. Bates had never seen his mysterious employer. He got his instructions by mail, phone or radio. To him, “X” was known only as the “chief.”

  At all hours of the day and night Harry Bates kept a small receiving set within hearing, so that when his personal signal was called he might give instant attention. The insect buzz of that secret code generally meant that the chief was beginning one of his startling campaigns to unearth the cryptic details of some hideous crime. And “X” had built and sent by mail to Bates a portable radio set so small that it could be carried inconspicuously on the operative’s person.

  When the Agent was sure that the signal code word had been picked up, he gave Bates instructions to send men drifting through the underworld with an ear open for word of the ruthless bank bandits. There was little likelihood that anything would come of it. Criminals clever enough to use such a thing as this curtain of darkness to aid them in their crime would hardly leave traces behind for underworld gossips to talk of. Yet it was a stone that must not be left unturned.

  Hours passed, and neither the police nor the Bates organization turned up anything of importance. It wasn’t till the next morning, shortly before noon, that a message reached Agent “X”. It was from the excited, triumphant red-headed Jim Hobart. He said:

  “We’ve found her, boss. We’ve got the gal you want, but—” Hobart’s tone became slightly mournful—“she’s been croaked. Hurry, anyway, and you’ll make a scoop on the yarn. Even the cops don’t know about it yet. Dwyer and Lancy Streets, right behind the fence in the vacant lot.”

  Agent “X” asked no questions. A strange, harsh light had leaped into his eyes at the news. He got into his car, made rubber burn as he sped through the morning streets. Dwyer and Lancy—that was on the west side of town. Not a nice neighborhood, either.

  He saw the red-headed detective lounging on the corner as he turned into Dwyer street. A cigarette hung placidly from Hobart’s lips, but his eyes were snapping. He was proud of the thing his organization had accomplished, proud that he’d been able to fulfil the mission his boss had imposed upon him. The fact that the girl was dead was only a minor disappointment, all in the day’s work. He had seen many corpses in his grimly practical career.

  Agent “X” brought his car to a skidding stop, leaped out.

  “It was a neat job, if I do say it,” Hobart stated buoyantly. “We found she drove a car, got the tire tracks in her own garage. One of my men located the same tracks in some mud out here. Her own bus was used for the job. Maybe she had a crazy boy friend who did it.”

  “Where is she?” asked “X.”

  JIM HOBART turned and sauntered into the vacant lot. He moved along the inside of the fence, stopped, and indicated a pile of old boarding that had been shoved away. Under it, a rough hollow had been scooped in the ground, and the body of a girl lay there. Her dress was torn to pieces, like that of the cowering girl he had seen in the bank. On her face, neck and shoulders the cutting marks of the metal-tipped whips showed. Pain and horror were registered on her set face and in her glassy eyes.

  “We saw where the car had stopped,” Jim Hobart went on. “Then we found footprints at the edge of the lot and saw somebody had shifted that lumber. Only one guy brought her. He wore number ten shoes. He must have weighed about a hundred and seventy, judging by the depth of the tracks. I knew it was the right gal as soon as I saw her, because one of my boys wangled a picture from a friend. Looks like a crime of passion, boss. Lovers these days—”

  But Agent “X” instantly shook his head. The marks of the whip had told him what he wanted to know, confirmed a theory that lay like a black shadow on his mind. This wasn’t the result of a lovers’ quarrel. Cold-blooded purpose had been behind that merciless beating. The Agent turned and snapped quick orders.

  “Tell the police about this girl at once, Jim. But say you were employed by a member of her family to find her. And here’s another job for you. Go to my office as fast as you can and get the movie camera you’ll find there in the closet. There’s film in it. You know how to work it. Go to the Guardian Bank where this girl worked. Find a window somewhere across the street overlooking the front entrance. Don’t let anyone see what you’re doing. If the darkness should come again today the way it did yesterday—crank that camera for all you’re worth!”

  Jim Hobart’s jaw dropped and he stared in amazement at the man he called Martin—stared as though he thought his chief had suddenly gone crazy.

  “You don’t mean, boss—you don’t want me to take pictures in the dark. It wouldn’t do much good. Why—”

  The Agent’s answer was low-voiced, grim, with a note in it that Hobart had learned to obey unquestioningly. “You heard me, Jim. Take pictures—no matter how dark it gets. Understand?”

  “O. K., boss.”

  The Agent turned on his heel, strode to his parked coupé and sped away. He glanced at the clock on the car’s instrument panel. It was twenty minutes of twelve now. Twice the mysterious darkness had descended at high noon; and the second time panic had occurred, grisly accidents had taken place and millions of dollars had been stolen. If what he feared was true, the darkness was about to descend again—and he might be too late to prevent the hideous catastrophe that would surely follow.

  Chapter III

  UNHEEDED WARNING

  YET as Agent “X” raced on his self-imposed mission, he made one swift detour. This was necessary. His disguise of A. J. Martin was valuable. He must ru
n no risk of having it linked with the activities of the mysterious Agent “X.” More important still, it would not serve the purpose he had in mind.

  He stopped at a hideout, one of several he maintained, and there made a swift change of disguise. He removed the plainly cast features of A. J. Martin, which formed a carefully molded, flexible covering of plastic material. This had a pyroxyline base, but contained other volatile substances in a compound known only to Agent “X.”

  Disguise was the backbone of his strange power, just as it had been of many another great crime hunter, from the incomparable Vidocq on down the line. But Agent “X,” studying the methods of predecessors and contemporaries, had made of disguise an exact science. The skill of a character actor on stage or screen had gone into his work. The art of the sculptor was manifest in the genius with which he caught men’s likenesses.

  After the removal of the Martin disguise, including the perfectly fitted sandy-haired toupee, Agent “X” appeared for a moment as he really was. Here was the face that a score of police heads throughout the nation would have given a small fortune to look upon; the face that none, not even his few close intimates, had ever knowingly beheld. For the Agent’s true identity was a jealous secret, guarded with his very life.

  The features exposed now in the seclusion of his hideout were as remarkable in some respects as the man himself. Youthful, powerful—they were filled with character and understanding. A forceful, original mentality showed in the clear brilliance of the eyes. Kindness and even a trace of grim humor were combined in the mobile lips. The curve of the nose held hawklike strength. But perhaps the most extraordinary thing of all about his face was its odd changeability. Seen in an oblique light it seemed to grow more mature; planes and hollows were brought out, the indelible marks of a hundred strange adventures and experiences.