Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 4 Page 26

  COMMISSIONER FOSTER pushed back his chair. “That must be investigated! I want to go over the scene of the crime with you, Burks. Mr. Hunting, I’d like to have you along. One moment, please. I want to get my hat and coat.” And Foster stepped into a small ante-chamber and closed the door behind him.

  Burks turned and shook hands with “X,” said: “It’s a long way from stealing real money to making phony stuff, but there’s something in this that ought to interest a federal man.”

  “X” raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Yes?”

  “That radio noise, I mean. Maybe that comes under the jurisdiction of the Federal Radio Commission.”

  “You mean that the electrical interference was not an accident, not some power leak somewhere?”

  Burks nodded his head vigorously. “Right. The operator at the radio station made a quick check-up. The police announcer’s voice left the transmitter perfectly clear. That static was broadcast over most of the police band by some mysterious short-wave station for the one purpose of preventing the police cruisers from getting orders. Find that mysterious station and we’ll find the man who planned the bank stick-up!”

  Commissioner Foster entered the room, saying:

  “Mr. Corin, an officer in the Suburban National Bank just phoned. It seems that the bandits came in armored trucks similar to those used by the Bankers’ Express Agency. However, they were foiled in their attempt to take money from the vault. It looks as though they had had assistance from the inside.”

  “But there was murder!” Burks exploded. “Two of our finest men!”

  Foster nodded grimly. “Let’s go.” And he started through the door.

  Secret Agent “X” insisted on driving Commissioner Foster and Inspector Burks over to the bank in his own car. By the time they arrived, the morgue wagon had backed up to the door. Police had roped off a section of the sidewalk. Outside the cordon morbid onlookers stood in rapt attention while white-garbed attendants carried out a long basket containing the corpse of one of the victims of the ruthless slaughter.

  Agent “X” followed Foster and Burks through the crowd and into the bank. The medical examiner had just concluded with the body of George Arthurs, the teller who had been murdered by the gang leader. “Over here, commissioner,” said the medico. “I want you to take a look at the body before the boys move it out to the morgue.”

  “X,” close upon Foster’s heels, went over behind the counter where the body lay covered with a ripple of white cloth.

  “Not a pleasant sight at all,” said the medical examiner as he raised the sheet. “On first glance, it appears to be ordinary strangulation. But this killer was taking no chances!”

  The face of the corpse was a frightful thing with its blue skin, swollen tongue, and protruding eyeballs. Standing out starkly on the forehead was the cruel scar of the figure seven. The throat was marked with small, bloody wounds where the killer’s fingernails had bit deeply into the flesh. These wounds in the throat were points of particular interest to the medical examiner. “The reason I said this killer was taking no chances, is that I believe this man was poisoned. Strangulation wasn’t enough, you understand. The rapid advance of rigor mortis leads me to think a certain poison was used.”

  AGENT “X,” had he desired to make himself conspicuous, could have readily told the medical examiner that he was correct in the assumption that Arthurs had been poisoned. There was little doubt in his mind but that the fingernails of the hands that had killed Arthurs had been stained with some preparation containing the deadly drug, curare.

  It was a significant point, “X” thought, that every murder victim who was left with the brand of Seven upon the forehead had been killed in some manner that attacked the vocal organs immediately. A man who has been shot or stabbed may utter some dying words of immeasurable value to the police in tracking down the killer. The medical examiner had been exactly right when he had said that the murderer had taken no chances.

  Inspector Burks shook his head wearily. “It’s the Seven mob again. That gang certainly gets all the breaks!”

  A soft, unpleasant laugh sounded from directly behind them. “X” turned from his contemplation of the corpse to see a tall and remarkably thin man—a man whose distinguishingly different attire, love of good living, and apparently unfailing source of income had made him a figure of importance in the social register. Lynn Falmouth was young in years and old in experience. Having fallen heir to an immense fortune, Falmouth had purchased a large interest in the Suburban National Bank as well as a number of other business enterprises.

  Falmouth patted the marcelled wave of his suspiciously yellow hair. His eyes behind gold pince-nez were cold as a mackerel’s. “You might add, Inspector Burks, that what breaks these criminals don’t get, the police give them.”

  Burks’ face flamed. His hands clenched. Foster put a restraining hand on Burks’ shoulder.

  “I am sure, Mr. Falmouth,” said Foster, soothingly, “that if you knew all the circumstances, you wouldn’t blame the police. I assure you that every effort will be made to track down the killer and his gang.”

  Falmouth smiled, and “X,” studying the man intently, found much that was unpleasant in Falmouth’s smile. He was evidently a man who would enjoy watching a worm squirm beneath his heel. He was fully conscious of the position his immense wealth afforded him. “I know every effort will be made, Mr. Commissioner. George Arthurs happened to be a cousin of mine.” And with a smile that was all self-satisfaction, Falmouth turned and sauntered across to the door of an office.

  Men from the morgue reappeared with a basket intended for the corpse of George Arthurs. Foster took “X” by the arm and steered him across the floor to where a group of press reporters were standing around Abel Corin, the gray-haired director of the bank. “I am anxious to get Mr. Corin’s version of the holdup,” Foster explained. “He’s level-headed, and we can depend upon whatever he says as being fact. It might be well to sound him out on the counterfeit question, too, Hunting. Corin is a man to think things through.”

  On seeing Commissioner Foster, Corin nodded cordially. A reporter, whose persistence had pinned Corin to the wall, fired another question: “An inside job, you say, Mr. Corin? Now, just a word about your suspicions in regard to the inside man. One of your bank employees, of course?”

  Corin nodded sadly. “I regret to say that evidence points directly towards one of our tellers—a man by the name of Arthurs.”

  The reporter whistled. “The murdered man? That’s a new angle!”

  “Yes,” replied Corin. “A fellow clerk who was only a few feet from Arthurs when he was strangled to death, heard a few broken sentences from Arthurs just before he died. As I have told you, our burglar alarm system had been cut off. The electric power was shorted. Arthurs was heard to plead for mercy on the score that he had done everything the leader of the gang had told him to do. In as much as Arthurs had had considerable experience as an electrician before he was employed by the bank, one may come to a logical conclusion.”

  The reporter nodded. “And the gang was afraid that Arthurs would squeal. Now, to what do you contribute the gang’s failure to get cash?”

  SECRET AGENT “X” waited for no more. It was then as he had feared. The gang had entered the bank with everything to its advantage and had left it without taking any money. It hardly sounded logical and “X” knew that he must act immediately if he expected to save the city from further spread of the noxious germs of panic.

  So quietly did Agent “X” move that Foster did not notice that “X” had left his side. In the activity of police investigation, no one noticed him as he advanced to the rear of the bank where the vault was located. The door of the vault was open exactly as it had been left. Certainly there was nothing to fear from a second holdup with the bank filled with police.

  Two plainclothes men stood idly by, evidently under orders to watch the vault until a routine examination of its contents could be conducted. But they, too, must
have doubted the necessity of such care, for they were busily engaged in conversation irrelevant to the crime. “X” had no difficulty in entering the vault.

  Unbroken sheaves of currency were racked along the walls of the vault exactly as they had been delivered by the bank messengers early that morning. “X” hurriedly broke open a pack of new twenties and dropped them on the floor. Then he took from the inner pocket of his coat a folding case. Inside, was a number of bills that he knew to be counterfeit. A careful check-up must be made. The comparison of every line of the treasurer’s signature, of every detail of engraving, of each serial number must be made. He knelt on the floor and began his task, aided by the intense light of a small electric flash.

  A low, scarcely audible exclamation escaped from his lips. There could be no doubt. The twenty-dollar bills in the bank vault were worth no more than the paper they were printed on. Masterpieces of the counterfeiter’s criminal genius. He was about to make examination of other bills of different denominations, when he felt a cold draft of air on his back. Alert to every threat of danger, in spite of how intent he might be on any phase of investigation, “X” pivoted. The huge, circular door of the vault was swinging shut.

  Instantly, he flung himself forward towards the massive, moving section of impregnable steel. A low sardonic laugh that “X” recognized sounded outside the vault and was immediately chopped off by the clang of the huge bolts as the door completed its swing. “X” found himself pushing against the door of the vault—a door that defied even his Herculean strength. He was trapped. And for what possible reason had he been taken prisoner? Surely no one had penetrated his disguise.

  He passed a questioning hand over his features that were so carefully modeled in plastic material. He knew that it was impossible for anyone to discover his true identity, but it was something that he feared more than death itself. For discovery meant that he would be helplessly caught in the toils of the law—the law that hounded him though he befriended it.

  What puzzled him still more was the laugh he had heard just before the door had completed its swing. For it was the low, cold laugh of Lynn Falmouth. It had been Falmouth who had trapped him.

  Chapter III

  EXPOSED

  “X” KNEW that to shout, hoping to attract attention, was useless; for the vault was soundproof. Five minutes dragged by. Ten minutes. At last “X” saw the mechanism, that worked the bolts of the door, going into action. He dropped on the floor, nonchalantly lighted a cigarette, and permitted his eyelids to droop as though he had become sleepy with waiting.

  As Commissioner Foster’s head appeared in the aperture, “X” yawned. “It’s about time,” he said irritably. “Some one closed the door on me by accident. I might have been suffocated in here and no one would have been the wiser.” He stood up. The vault door was open, but his exit was prevented by quite another barrier. Lynn Falmouth, Foster, Burks, and a man whom “X” had never seen before stood in the opening. Burks and the stranger trained automatics on “X.”

  The Secret Agent’s jaw dropped in amazement. He tilted his hat back and scratched his head. “What the—say, it’s no wonder you men have trouble in catching your criminals! Don’t point those guns at me!”

  Inspector Burks’ eyes narrowed to mere slits. “This time we didn’t have any trouble!”

  “We?” asked Falmouth sarcastically. “I rather think you’ll have to give me credit for this catch. I saw him sneaking over to the vault, followed, and watched him break into that money.”

  “X” laughed. “You should have introduced me to Mr. Falmouth, commissioner. It’s my job, you know. I was merely comparing bank notes within the vault with some bills in my own possession.”

  Burks motioned with his automatic. “Come out of there. You’ll not talk yourself out of this!”

  With a careless shrug, “X” obeyed. “Washington will hear of this, inspector!”

  “True enough,” said Foster. “Mr. Lyons, here—” he nodded towards the stranger—“will hear quite a bit, I imagine. Mr. Lyons is a federal man here on the counterfeiting case. You see, just before leaving my office, I took the opportunity of having you looked up. I learned not ten minutes ago that James Hunting, so far as the Washington office is concerned, doesn’t exist!”

  “X” thrust his hand into his coat pocket.

  “Hold that!” Burks rapped. His gun bobbed up so that his cold, narrowed eyes were centered on Secret Agent “X’s” forehead. “Put your hands up in the air. I’m going to give you the once over.”

  “X” smiled disconcertingly. His eyes darted about the room. Police filled the bank. The front entrance was blocked. Iron-barred gates closing over the accounting rooms at the rear would prevent his escape through the back. But with the exception of a single cop, the balcony overlooking the bank proper was deserted. “X” withdrew his hand from his pocket. His fingers were clutched tightly over a small package.

  “Surely you’re not afraid of a package of cigarettes, Inspector Burks,” he taunted. He flicked a cigarette from the pack, palmed it a split-second before he tossed the rest of the package onto the marble counter.

  BURKS stepped forward until he was able to hide the muzzle of his automatic in “X’s” middle. “You keep your gun on this bird, Mr. Lyons,” Burks directed, “while I frisk him.” Then Burks’ eyes drilled the Secret Agent’s inscrutable face. He said in a whisper: “I’m going to enjoy this, Mr. ‘X’!” And Burks proceeded to make a careful search of “X’s” pockets.

  The Agent’s cigarette lighter, which also served as a tiny tear gas gun; a small vial of a powerful but harmless narcotic; a compact tool kit; his gas gun; and a wallet were all handed over to Commissioner Foster.

  The contents of “X’s” wallet created considerable disturbance. “Let me see those bills,” Federal Agent Lyons demanded. And Foster had scarcely handed them over before Lyons uttered a triumphant oath. While Lyons and Foster were examining the bank notes which they had taken from “X’s” pocket book, “X” passed his left hand over his mouth, took out the cigarette he had been smoking in the bank vault, and put the fresh one between his lips.

  Burks was too good a policeman to allow his attention to waver toward what Foster and Lyons were doing. He watched “X” narrowly to find nothing suspicious in the way “X” lighted the fresh cigarette from the butt of the first.

  “X” inhaled smoke deeply, luxuriantly. Actually, he was mentally timing the speed at which the cigarette in his mouth burned. His thumb and forefinger closed over the cigarette as if he were about to remove it from his mouth. Suddenly, his middle finger snapped out, flicking the cigarette straight at Burks.

  The cigarette burst with a sharp explosion, emitting a frothy cloud of vapor that for a moment completely hid Burks’ head. For the half inch of tobacco acted simply as a fuse for a small tear-gas bomb concealed within the cigarette. Such a small cartridge could not contain sufficient tear-gas to fill the entire room. It had, however, immediately rendered Burks helpless. He dropped his automatic and dug both fists into his eyes.

  But Agent “X” did not wait to see other results of his surprising trick. At the moment the bomb had burst, he had pivoted and dashed toward the balcony. He took the steps four at a stride. The single policeman on the balcony came for him with gun drawn. This was exactly what “X” had anticipated. He knew that police below stairs would not dare shoot at him for fear of hitting their companion.

  “X” gambled on the man on the stairs shooting hurriedly and consequently inaccurately. Hurried it might have been but certainly not inaccurate. The slug from the police special walloped squarely into “X’s” chest. Ordinarily, the Secret Agent’s special bullet proof vest of choice manganese steel would have rendered the shot ineffective. But the distance between “X” and the cop was short and the terrific impact of the slug striking the bullet-proof vest was centered directly above an old shrapnel wound which occasionally caused “X” pain.

  Master of himself that he was, “X” could n
ot check a wince of pain. For a moment, he staggered and seemed to waver on the brink of oblivion. Then, teeth grinding, he made a superb effort and flung himself upon the cop. The policeman was so sure of the success of his shot that he was taken by complete surprise. “X’s” left arm swung up sharply, his fingers closing over the cop’s gun. The point of his thumb dug deeply between the central knuckles of the policeman’s gun-fist and struck a particularly sensitive nerve. The cop’s fingers stiffened and his gun clattered to the steps. At the same instant, “X” drove hard and fast with his right, straight to the point of the cop’s chin.

  THE blow seemed to lift the cop from his feet. The point of his heels slipped on the marble floor. He began sliding down the steps. “X” side-stepped to avoid the falling cop and sprang to the balcony. He had lost precious time. Some of the other police who had received little of the effect of the tear-gas were ganging up the stairs. “X” leaped towards the rear window that looked out upon the alley.

  He jerked a glance over his shoulder and saw that he would be hopelessly trapped in another moment. His eyes lighted upon a heavy desk that was used by one of the bank stenographers. Large casters were fitted into its walnut legs. “X” sprang towards it, crouched behind it, and gave it a powerful heave. The desk rolled straight to the top of the stairs, where its momentum carried it over the edge and crashing into the advancing police. The falling desk turned the group of policemen into a tangle of sliding, tumbling bodies.