Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 4 Page 27

  “X” picked up an office chair and lunged with it towards the high-arched windows at the rear of the balcony. The pane crashed into a thousand cutting fragments. With a pang of disappointment, “X” saw that behind the frosted glass window pane were heavy iron bars. He dropped the chair and leaped into one of the private booths opening from the balcony and placed there for the convenience of the owners of safety deposit boxes. A frosted glass window at the end of the narrow booth admitted light. “X” twisted the window catch and threw up the sash. Nothing but a wood-framed copper screen was now between him and freedom.

  A bullet lanced the thin wood panel of the booth. There was not a minute to lose. He kicked out the screen with his heel, threw a leg over the sill, swung full length out the window and hung for a moment from the sill. Since the balcony was between the first and second stories of the building, it could not be more than fifteen feet to the alley pavement. Kicking against the wall as he released his grip, “X” threw himself out as far as possible to avoid hitting any projections on the wall of the building. He landed on his hands and knees, and regained his balance only in time to scuttle crablike out of the way of a huge van that was bearing down upon him. Past experience had taught him to make the most of any opportunity offered, and as the truck rumbled past him he leaped to the rear platform and crawled beneath the tarpaulin that partially covered the end of the van.

  In this haven of comparative safety, he immediately set about changing his make-up. Darkness and lack of makeup material made any elaborate disguise impossible. However, he removed his hat and tossed it into a corner of the van. He next took off his gray-flecked toupee that had been a part of his disguise as Federal Agent Hunting. His own natural brown hair was revealed.

  His deft fingers smoothed out the lines in the make-up material which covered his face. Then standing upright in the moving truck, he removed his overcoat and quickly turned it inside out. A plaid gray lining rendered the coat reversible and, on putting it on again, it had all the appearance of a sporty topcoat. Simple as these alterations were, “X” looked like quite another person when he dropped from the rear of the moving truck a few minutes later.

  Inasmuch as a few pieces of small change remained in his pocket, he boarded an elevated as the quickest means of getting to one of his hide-outs.

  Chapter IV

  DESPERATE PLANS

  ON leaving the elevated, “X” walked westward for two blocks. He came to a small one-car garage that jutted out from an old house that appeared to be abandoned. He unlocked the garage door and went in. The garage contained a small sedan. Using his key, “X” opened a door in the wall of the garage that led into the house. He hastened up creaking stairs and turned into a small room at the top. All the shades were drawn and it was necessary for him to turn on the light.

  Seating himself before a small dressing table, “X” opened a drawer and took out a make-up kit. The disguise which he was about to assume was so well known to him that he might have made the changes in the dark. His fingers worked swiftly, building up the contours of his face with metal plates and layers of plastic volatile material.

  When he had completed his task a few minutes later his face appeared to be that of a man about forty years old with commonplace features that no one would look at twice. While he was getting into another suit of clothes, he crossed the room to a small compact radio and tuned in the police band. He set the pointer of the dial for the local police radio station in hope of hearing a repetition of the mysterious “static” that had prevented police headquarters from communicating with the prowl cars.

  As “X” buttoned the vest of a gray tweed suit, he heard the monotonous voice of the police announcer droning out the description of a man.

  “About medium height; weight about a hundred and sixty pounds; hair, dark varying to gray about the temples; thin, slightly Roman nose; name, James Hunting. This is probably an assumed name. He is wanted by federal authorities on an alleged counterfeiting charge. All police be on the look out for James Hunting—”

  “X” took a final look in the mirror above the dressing table. He wondered what Inspector Burks would think if he knew that the man known as James Hunting had become A. J. Martin, an Associated Press correspondent in the matter of a few minutes time.

  Then, disguised as A. J. Martin, “X” left the house through the garage where he entered the small sedan, and drove in the direction of an office which he leased under the name of Martin. He stopped on the way, however, to telephone. On calling the Suburban National Bank, “X” left an anonymous message for Commissioner Foster. “Do not permit any of the money in the bank vault to be distributed until it has been carefully checked over,” he said, disguising his voice. “I am convinced that it is all counterfeit.” He did not say that it was his belief that the bank hold-up was not the failure it appeared to be. He was certain that the nefarious gang which trade-marked its exploits with the brand of the figure seven had actually looted the vault, substituting counterfeit bills in place of the real ones. Thus the criminals probably hoped to gain time for the disposal of their loot

  HIS first act on entering the office of A. J. Martin was to telephone the Hobart Detective Agency and get in touch with Jim Hobart. He told Hobart to meet him at the office as soon as possible. Then “X” went over to a steel index file that stood in one corner of the office. He pulled a sheet of onion-skin paper from the division marked “F.”

  At the top of the page was a single name “Fronberg.” The rest of the report would have presented an almost indecipherable puzzle to even a cryptographer. It dealt with the particulars of the German engraver, Joseph Fronberg, who had turned his genius into the paths of crime and was thought to have headed a band of counterfeiters that persistent federal men had wiped out a few years back. Every member of the Fronberg gang was either thought to be dead or behind the bars of some federal prison with the exception of one man.

  That man was a killer known as Pete Tolman. It had been impossible to tie Tolman up definitely with the Fronberg gang, though “X” was convinced that he had taken an active part in the counterfeiting. But Tolman, too, was about to meet his just deserts. Tolman was being held in a Louisiana penitentiary on a first degree murder charge. One of Jim Hobart’s most trusted operatives had been watching Tolman for some days and had already gained information that “X” considered invaluable.

  As “X” was reinserting the report sheet in the cabinet file, he heard Jim Hobart’s knock on the office door.

  “Come in, Jim,” the Secret Agent cordially invited in the voice that was associated with his identity as Martin.

  Hobart entered, smiling. “Hello, Mr. Martin. I’ve got some good news for you.”

  “X” seated himself on the top of his desk and swung one leg back and forth impatiently. “Let’s have it, Jim.”

  “You were right about Pete Tolman communicating with some one outside the penitentiary. My man has been watching Tolman’s cell after dark. Tolman gets up to the window and smokes a cigarette. If you weren’t on the lookout, you’d never notice it, but Tolman isn’t smoking for pleasure. He sends Morse signals! He takes a long pull on the cigarette for a dash and a short for a dot. The glow from the cigarette can be seen from outside! What’s more, every message is addressed to somebody by the name of Seven!”

  “Good, Jim! You be ready to leave for Baton Rouge in about an hour.”

  Though Hobart expected quick moves from Martin, he was a little taken back by this announcement. “What’s up this time, boss?” he asked.

  The Secret Agent’s eyes twinkled. “No questions asked. Simply go out to that little airport where I keep my plane. There you’ll meet a man in aviator togs. Obey him implicitly. His name will be Bedford. That’s all now, Jim.”

  As soon as Hobart had left the office, “X” locked the door and set about changing his make-up. When the job was completed fifteen minutes later, “X” appeared to be a heavier man than Martin. His face was dark, brooding, and hell-scarred. A
toupee that looked like a shock of unruly black hair added to his unpleasant features. He was wearing a suit of flagrant checks, a tan overcoat with exaggerated, padded shoulders, and a derby hat.

  “X” LEFT the office of A. J. Martin and taxied out of the city to a small, private airport maintained in the name of Martin. He entered the hangar where his mechanic was fussing over a low-winged Lockheed monoplane.

  “I’m takin’ Mr. Martin’s bus up,” he explained to the mechanic. “Here’s a note from him so’s you won’t think it’s a steal.” And “X” tossed an envelope to the mechanic. Then he went to a locker and had time to put on flying togs before Jim Hobart arrived.

  “X” greeted Hobart with a deep, raucous voice that suited his rough appearance perfectly. “Guess you must be Hobart. I’m Nick Bedford, You’ve got your orders, so put on a flyin’ suit and we’ll get going.”

  Jim obeyed and in another ten minutes they taxied across the field into the wind. From a clean take off, “X” circled the field, pointed the nose of the plane southwest and gave it the gun.

  It was nearly seven-thirty that evening when they landed at the Louisiana capital. According to information “X” had obtained through Hobart’s operative, the change of guard, in the death house where Pete Tolman awaited the hangman, occurred at eight-thirty. From the same source, “X” had learned the particular habits of the two guards who were on night duty in the condemned cell. They were granted a few hours leave preceding their check-in for the night’s work. Hobart’s operative had been directed to shadow these two guards and make reports at thirty-minute intervals to a companion who had been installed in a private dwelling in the city. Hobart telephoned directly from the airport and learned that the two guards were at present in a small lunch-room near the penitentiary. Jim Hobart and “X” taxied to a garage where, by previous arrangement, “X” had stationed one of his own cars. Not far from the garage he had established a temporary hide-out as was his custom before entering a city on dangerous business.

  “Now get this, Hobart,” the Agent said, as they drove toward the restaurant where the two guards were passing the time. “I’m on orders, same as you. And what we do is wait until they come out of that hamburger house and then give ’em a blast with the guns—”

  “Hold on,” Hobart interrupted. “If it’s just the same to you, I’ll use my fists.”

  “Gas guns, yah sap!” “X” growled. “The boss wouldn’t stand for any lead shooting.” He took a pair of chromium-plated gas guns from his pocket. They were not unlike ordinary pistols in appearance. An invention of Secret Agent “X’s” fertile brain, these guns could shoot a highly concentrated but harmless anesthetizing vapor. He handed one to Hobart. “Be careful with that thing and don’t look in the end to see if it’s loaded. What we’ve got to do is wait until everything’s clear, then get out of the car and stick ’em up. Don’t give ’em a chance. Give ’em a shot of gas right in the pan.”

  They were cruising past the restaurant and “X” saw two men wearing the uniforms of the prison guards hunched over the lunch counter. Another figure, standing in the shadow of a billboard, seemed intent on watching the lunchroom. “X” recognized this man as Hobart’s operative. “That guy standing in front, is he your man?” “X” asked.

  Jim Hobart nodded. “That’s Carson.”

  “Right. You get out now and tell him his job’s done. If we can do as well as he did—well, we’ll be okeh.” And “X” stopped the car long enough to permit Hobart to get out. Then he speeded the car to the next corner and turned around.

  Hobart’s man had no sooner disappeared than the two guards came out of the lunchroom, and started in the direction of the place where “X” waited with the car. The Secret Agent saw that Hobart was following them a short distance behind. He swung from the car and ambled leisurely towards the guards. An unlighted cigarette dangled from his lips.

  “Hello, buddy,” he said, addressing one of the guards. “Either one of you got a match?”

  The two men stopped, and “X” saw, to his satisfaction, that Hobart was closing in from behind.

  “I think I have,” replied one of the guards, groping in his pocket.

  “X” glanced up and down the street. Everything was clear. He jerked his gas gun from his pocket and fired directly into the unsuspecting guard’s face. The man uttered a surprised exclamation. His hand got halfway to his holster. Then his legs seemed to desert him and he wilted to the sidewalk. Hobart was somewhat slower than “X.” The second guard fired a wild shot before the gas from Jim’s gun pitched him forward on his face.

  “Quick, Hobart!” the Agent snapped. “Get your man to the car. Not a spare second!” And “X” picked up one of the guards by the middle, slung him like a sack of meal over his shoulder, and hurried towards the car. Jim followed with his man, cursing his own clumsiness.

  The two unconscious men had been tumbled into the rear seat of the car and the door had been closed before “X” heard the sound of heavy footsteps. Some one was running up the street toward them. “X” looked up just in time to see a policeman turn the corner.

  INSTEAD of arousing suspicion by an attempted getaway, “X” rounded the nose of the car and opened the hood.

  The policeman stopped abruptly and looked up and down the street. Then he looked over to where “X” was pretending to fuss with the motor of his car. “Say, didn’t you hear a shot, mister?” he asked.

  “X” said: “Just my car. Carburetor is a little off, I guess. You must have the shakes tonight. What’s goin’ on?”

  The cop’s face reddened. “Well, we’ve got some special orders to keep our eyes open for trouble. It’s on account of Pete Tolman.”

  “Who?” the Agent asked as though he had never heard of the name.

  “Tolman, the killer. He goes on a necktie party tonight. He always was a blowhard, and he’s boastin’ that they’ll never hang him. He’s got a lot of friends in the underworld who might try to stir up a prison break or something.”

  “X” laughed as he climbed into the front seat of the car. “Well, Telman or whatever his name is, must be an optimist!” He gave the motor a spin and steered from the curb.

  “Gosh, that was a narrow squeak, Bedford!” Jim Hobart exclaimed. “You’ve got nerves like ice!”

  “X” bent over the wheel. His face was grim. Minutes were sliding by all too fast. At eight-thirty the two unconscious guards in the back seat were supposed to go on duty. At twelve midnight Pete Tolman was to go to the scaffold. These were two things which Agent “X” was resolved should not happen.

  “X” pulled the car to a sliding stop in front of a ramshackle old house that he had previously selected because of its comparative isolation. For some reason or other neighboring houses had been vacated. The street was dark and deserted. From the floor of the front compartment of the car, “X” took out a compact traveling kit.

  “I’m going into that house and open up,” he said to Hobart. “Make certain that you’re not being watched, then carry the two guards in after me.”

  With traveling bag in hand, “X” hurried up the walk that led to the door of the dark old house. He entered without a light and walked through the central hall to the back room. There, he turned on a light. The windows of the room were all boarded over, and he was certain that not a ray of light penetrated to the outside. Agent “X” opened his traveling kit and removed a hypodermic needle and a small bottle which contained a narcotic compound known only to Agent “X.” He had time to load the needle before he heard Jim Hobart stumbling around in the front part of the house. Calling softly through the door, he directed Hobart to bring the two guards into the back room.

  When Hobart had completed his share of the task, “X” walked over to where Jim stood looking down at the two senseless guards. “I’m goin’ to fade out now,” he said gruffly. “And the next guy who’ll be your boss will look enough like that sandy-haired guard to be his twin brother.”

  Then with a movement swift as a s
triking snake, “X” drove the hypodermic needle squarely into Hobart’s biceps. Hobart stepped back, bewilderment clouding his face. Then before he could say a word, his legs buckled under him and he fell to the floor.

  The hard-lined face of Bedford softened. His lips twisted in a smile. “Sorry, Jim,” whispered the real voice of Secret Agent “X.”

  Chapter V

  HOUSE OF THE DOOMED

  “X” ENTERED immediately upon a task of seeming impossibility. First he removed the uniforms from the two guards. Putting them to one side, he opened his traveling kit and selected tubes of plastic volatile material, pigments, and plates for changing the contour of the face. Then he straightened out Hobart’s crumpled form and, kneeling over him, went to work.

  A few minutes later, he stood up and glanced from the face of the guard and back to the newly created face of Jim Hobart. No sculptor could have made a more remarkable similarity. He had only to select a toupee from the large stock which he carried to make the disguise complete. He noticed regretfully that Jim was about two inches taller than the guard.

  “X” took out a folding triple mirror and set it up on a table in front of him. Following the lines of the sandy-haired guard’s face, “X” reproduced every feature in his own make-up. He then stripped off the uniform of the sandy-haired guard and put it on. A glance at the identification card on the uniform he was wearing, told “X” that the man whom he impersonated was named Lawson.

  Next, he gave both of the guards a dose of his harmless narcotic, dragged them to a closet, and closed the door.

  Though Secret Agent “X” had only heard Lawson speak four words, a moment’s practice enabled him to imitate the man’s voice. His next task was to revive Jim Hobart. This was accomplished by injecting the antidote for his narcotic into Jim’s arm. When the private detective came to a few seconds later, he stared about in bewilderment. “Snap out of it, Hobart,” said “X,” speaking in the voice of Lawson, the guard whom he impersonated.