Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 4 Page 31

  When he heard the answering call which assured him that he had succeeded in contacting Bates, “X” tapped out complete instructions. Bates was to put every available man to patrolling the river front in small boats for the purpose of picking up Betty Dale after the murder hoax had been carried out and she had been thrown into the water.

  “X” heard a vigorous knock at the door. He closed the radio cabinet, hurried into the front room, and turned off the motion picture projector. He then shoved the projector and all its accessories back into the closet and returned to answer the door.

  “Telegram for you, sir,” said a khaki-clad messenger as he shoved his way into the room. The messenger drove his hand into the pocket of his breeches. In the act of locating the telegram, a pair of ivory dice dropped from the messenger’s pocket. The eyes of Secret Agent “X” followed the dice as they fell to the floor.

  HE knew that it was not mere coincidence that the dice landed with the five and two uppermost. Agent “X” remembered the dice that the leader of the Seven had given him. He took them from his pocket and dropped them on the floor beside the other pair. They, too, rolled so that the sum of their exposed surfaces totaled seven. His shrewd eyes drilled the messenger.

  The man in khaki nodded, handed a telegraph slip to “X.” Upon its surface was scribbled:

  “Two men will meet you with a car at the corner of this building in three minutes.”

  “X” winked knowingly at the messenger, pressed a fifty-cent piece into the man’s hand, and opened the door for him to depart.

  Secret Agent “X” required a few minutes to collect the equipment that he thought might be useful. True to his character as Pete Tolman, “X” had to carry a small dagger. Tolman preferred the knife to any other form of weapon. Then there was his own gas gun as well as small vials of drugs which he had found most useful in his battle against crime. The latter were contained in a small, velvet-lined leather case together with hypodermic needles for their injection.

  Leaving the apartment building, he walked slowly towards the corner. Down the street, a car glided smoothly from the curb and cruised towards “X”. A searchlight attached to the car’s windshield was turned directly upon “X’s” face as the car approached. At the corner, it drew up. One of the two men in the back seat lighted a cigarette. In the yellow flame, “X” made out the inhuman, waxen features of the mask which characterized a member of the gang. He walked to the car and without a word stepped inside.

  Immediately, the driver shifted gears and accelerated to the center of the street.

  “You are punctual, Pete Tolman,” said a soft, curiously intonated voice of the man at Secret Agent “X’s” side. “Might I inquire how a man so suddenly released from prison, has managed to engage an apartment so quickly? As you may have guessed, you were followed from our headquarters.”

  “That’s easy,” explained the Agent. “I leased that apartment for a girl friend of mine just a few days before the bulls picked me up. I had it paid for a long way in advance. When I goes up there tonight, whatcha think? The skirt has walked out on me! But you never catch me tearin’ my hair over no dame!”

  THE man seemed satisfied for he dropped the subject at once. “There has been some slight alteration in the plans of Number One. The river front swarms with police looking for the body of Lewey, the Smoke, who made his exit at the same time that Detective Fletcher did. It will be necessary to kill Miss Dale at the place where our spies say that she may be found—at her apartment.” At this announcement, “X” went cold.

  “You are capable of killing without making a sound, Tolman?” asked the other man—a man whose voice “X” instantly recognized as belonging to that member of the gang whom the leader had referred to as Number Four.

  “Sure,” the Agent replied instantly. “They don’t talk before nor after. A Chink in Frisco taught me a trick or two with the knife. No noise and not much blood, see? I use a toad sticker, give ’em just a little prick, and that’s that. Some sort of poison smeared on the blade does the trick.”

  “Aconite?” questioned Number Four.

  “Aco-what? Oh, I gets it. You mean the name of the poison. Cripes, I dunno! Some Chink stuff. It’s sure death no matter what’s its monicker.”

  As a matter of fact, there would be no poison on the knife. Agent “X’s” hands were busily at work in the dark of the car. Through slits in his overcoat pocket, he had reached the little leather-covered case containing various drugs. Different shaped caps on every bottle told him which one to select. As the car sped along, “X” filled a hypodermic needle with a powerful sedative which injected into Betty would immediately depress her heart to such an extent that pulse would be detectable only by an expert. But the one danger was—she was totally unprepared for it. This, however, “X” had to risk.

  Suddenly, Number Four said to his companion: “Number Three, you are to hand Tolman one of our masks which designate the members of the Seven group. Such were the orders of Number One. He is to wear it when engaged in this job.”

  The soft-spoken man addressed as Number Three, handed the mask to “X”. He put it on at once. Number Three and Number Four held a brief conversation in whispers. Suddenly, “X” felt a sharp, fiery sting in his left arm. A long needle had entered his flesh. Its cargo of dope was pumped into his blood stream. “X” cried out sharply: “Say, what is this?”

  “Just a little something to make you relish the job,” replied Number Three. “You will probably not recognize the symptoms of the drug as it spreads over your body. But if you had no appetite for killing before, you will have one now!”

  Flame seemed to consume “X”. He writhed with the agony of it, yet with the pain was a strange, exhilarating sensation. Muscles tightened. Fists clenched. An inexplicable voice in his mind screamed: “Kill .... Kill .... Kill!”

  Then something snapped within his brain. He was plunged into a mental battle such as he had never before experienced. His knowledge of narcotics served him well. He knew the dread, fiery substance that was seeping through his body. He understood, too, the frantic desire to kill. The narcotic which had been injected in him was some preparation of hashish. What was more, he knew that the effects of the drug were augmented by hypnotic suggestion that at that very moment battled to enslave his mind.

  The soft-spoken man at his side immediately became as noxious as a serpent. “X” understood the honey in his voice. For the man at his side was an expert of hypnotic suggestion.

  Agent “X” feverishly marshaled his superb mental control to prevent himself from falling beneath the insidious charm of the dreaded assassin’s drug. A cold chill trickled along his spine. For if he permitted both the drug and the hypnotic suggestion to take effect, he would have the desire to kill, would take the keenest pleasure in plunging his knife into the lovely body of Betty Dale.

  Chapter XI

  THE MURDER HOAX

  IT was close to midnight when the car stopped at the rear entrance of the apartment where Betty Dale lived.

  “Number One thinks of everything,” the soft-voiced man explained. “That the custodian should be dead drunk tonight is not a coincidence.”

  They got out of the car and one of the men unlocked the door with a key that had probably been obtained from the drunken janitor. The hall was deserted, and they had no difficulty in entering the automatic elevator, and mounting to the third floor.

  In front of Betty’s door, the trio stopped. The man who was known as Number Three listened a moment at the door. “There’s a typewriter going inside. The noise of it will mask the sound of our entrance.” He fitted another key into the lock, twisted it slowly, and flung open the door. An automatic sprouted from the fist of Number Three.

  Agent “X,” bathed in cold sweat, weakened by the terrific mental battle he was still waging, went unsteadily into the room.

  Betty Dale sprang up from her desk. Her face blanched. She smothered a scream with the back of her hand, and retreated slowly step by step as the
three sinister figures approached. “X’s” iron will alone forced him to spring ahead of his companions. He was like a wolf eager for the kill. With the two gang members at his back, he brandished his drawn knife in such a manner as to draw a letter “X” in the air.

  The glimmer of recognition in Betty’s eyes would have been noticeable to only Secret Agent “X.” His long left arm flung out, strong fingers seizing her shoulder, dragging her to him, smothering her scream against his chest. Betty kicked mercilessly at his ankles, pounded his back with small fists.

  The knife in the Secret Agent’s hand darted upwards. The terror at that instant in Betty Dale’s eyes was involuntary. Yet it cut Agent “X” to the quick, unnerved him so that he dropped the knife as soon as the deed was done. The blood-colored dye, gushing apparently from the soft flesh of her throat, was almost too realistic. Still he held her tightly, teeth grimly clenched over his lips lest he open his mouth and cry out a word of encouragement.

  Her struggle had abated somewhat. She was playing her part like a veteran actress. “X” snapped a look over his shoulder. The two waxen-faced witnesses were standing back near the door. They could not possibly have detected “X’s” movement as he drew out the small hypodermic needle which he had prepared. He thrust the fine, sharp point deeply into her shoulder. He pressed the plunger to the limit. This was something that he had not prepared Betty for. Doubt and pain of the needle-thrust battled in her eyes as they raised appealingly to meet his face—a face that was as hideous and inhuman as those of his companions.

  That appeal was more than Agent “X” could resist. Beneath the mask, his lips parted. “Courage,” he whispered, his voice sounding alarmingly loud behind the hollow of his mask. But it was doubtful if Betty could have heard it even so. The powerful sedative had already taken effect. Her eyes, still open, were glazed. Terror had frozen there as unconsciousness had crept upon her. Her body became limp in his grasp.

  He let her fall as gently as possible and still retain a semblance of callousness in the action. She lay on the carpet, a pitiful, huddled form, throat darkly stained in contrast to her pale face. So realistic was the picture, that “X” went cold with horror. He feverishly wondered if he had won the battle with the insidious hashish.

  “X” stooped, picked up his knife, and wiped its edge on his handkerchief. With the swaggering air that was characteristic of Pete Tolman, he turned to the silent figures at the door. “That job’s done. Neat, too, if I do say so myself.”

  THE men in the doorway bobbed their heads. Then Number Three advanced to where Betty lay. He gave her body a push with his foot. Wrath that was almost beyond control boiled within Secret Agent “X”. Yet he swallowed it and watched with bated breath as the man knelt beside the girl and seized her wrist in his long fingers.

  “A good job, Tolman,” he commended. “No pulse. Sometime I would like to make an analysis of the poison you use. It would be an interesting study.”

  Number Three then took from his pocket something that appeared to be a fountain pen. When he had unscrewed the cap and “X” had a chance to observe the special non-metallic nib, the Secret Agent quickly guessed that this was the instrument used for branding the gang’s victims with acid.

  “Hey, wait a second,” the Agent interrupted. “This is my job, and I’ll put all the finishin’ on it. Let me do that.”

  Number Three turned. At the back of the eye cavities of his mask there was a suspicious gleam. “Do what?” he asked softly.

  “Why, mark the dame with the good old Seven trade-mark. Ain’t that what you’re goin’ to do?”

  Number Three stood up. “You have been in prison for quite a time now. Just how did you know about that?”

  “X” knew that in his eagerness to prevent Betty Dale’s lovely face from being forever marred by an acid burn in case Number Three’s pen should slip beyond the boundaries of the plastic material which “X” hoped would protect her, he had made a false step. “Why,” he explained glibly, “didn’t I read the papers tonight while waitin’ for you fellows to give me the high-sign? There’s nothin’ much in them except about the Seven Silent Men.”

  Number Three shrugged. “If you want to do it, I can see no objection. It is of the greatest importance in this case. Secret Agent ‘X’ must not have the slightest doubt but what this is our work. Only then can we be certain that he has turned his attention to the Seven. Number One hopes that his rage at the assassination of this girl will lead him to fight in the open. Go ahead.” He handed the acid pen over to “X” and withdrew towards the door.

  “X” knelt beside the still, silent form of Betty Dale. The powerful sedative had simulated death so effectively that the sight unnerved him. “Just what kind of a figure seven do you want?” he asked to hide his hesitancy.

  No answer. “X” glanced over his shoulder. Then he stood up slowly, turning towards the door. His two companions had disappeared. He stepped quickly to the door, pulled it open, and looked out into the hall. They were nowhere in sight. This was an unlooked for opportunity. He would have a chance to revive Betty, perhaps. Still, he was extremely puzzled at the actions of the two gang members. Had they discovered that he was an impostor? Surely in such a case they would not have deserted him. It would have been to their advantage to kill him on the spot, silencing him forever.

  Still baffled by their untimely retreat, he was about to return to Betty, when his sensitive nostrils caught a vague, pleasant odor—the faintest hint of feminine perfume. He stepped farther along the hall only to learn that the strength of the perfume increased. Perhaps some one who occupied a neighboring apartment had passed along the hall. But surely that would not have occasioned the hasty retreat of the two masked men.

  “X” returned to where Betty lay. He drew from his pocket the small case in which he carried his narcotics. He selected the vial containing an antidote for the drug which he had injected. He was in the act of loading the needle when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He paused, held his breath. If the two gang members returned at this critical moment—

  HE ran silently across the room, shoved back the blind that covered the front window, and looked out upon the street. Two black cars were drawn up in front of the building. In the light that emanated from the door of the building, he could see that they were cars belonging to the police. Shadowy figures could be seen moving along the sidewalk. The place was rapidly being surrounded.

  “X” sprang to the door and twisted the key in the lock. Then back to the unconscious Betty. With haste that did not sacrifice care, he made the injection of the antidote in Betty’s arm. Then, to hasten her revival, he followed it with a small dose of adrenalin, which he was in the habit of carrying at all times.

  Almost at once, the bloom of life returned to Betty’s face. Her eyes met his face and stared bewilderedly. “X” uttered his characteristic whistle very softly. Her lips curved in a tired smile.

  “X” lifted Betty to her feet. “We’ve got to hide,” he said. “Something’s wrong. This place will be alive with police in a few seconds. Is there anyone in the building whom you can trust implicitly?”

  “Trust?” she murmured. Evidently the effects of the drug had not completely worn off. “X” seized her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. “You’ve got to help me,” he said earnestly. “Surely you’ve some neighbor who will permit you to remain in hiding until this thing’s over. Don’t you see? Some one has informed upon the Seven gang—told the police that they had come here to do murder. If it gets out that you are alive, the gang will know that I am an impostor.”

  Betty nodded understandingly. “On the next floor, there’s a young woman who works as a buyer for one of the stores. She’s away nearly all the time. I have the key to her apartment so that I can keep an eye on things. She wouldn’t mind—”

  “Quickly, then. Get the key!”

  Betty turned into her bedroom, and “X” stepped to the door. He pressed his ear to the panel and detected a movement in the hall outside.
He drew his gas gun from a hidden inner pocket. With extreme care, he turned the key and eased the door open a crack. By the light of the hall lamp, he saw a slender, smartly dressed blonde woman pacing nervously up and down and muttering something about: “Why don’t they hurry! Oh, why don’t they hurry!”

  “X” pushed the door wide and stepped into the hall. He took a step nearer the blond woman and thrust his gun forward. Then he coughed slightly. The woman turned quickly, the long skirt of her evening gown swirling. At the sight of the immobile, grinning mask that “X” wore, her mouth opened to scream. Instantly the gas gun in Secret Agent “X’s” hand hissed like a snake. The woman’s scream was suddenly choked by the powerful gas. Her body stiffened and she fell full length on the floor.

  But the sound of her fall was enough to hasten the police. Feet were pounding on the stair. The cold, piercing scream of a police whistle sounded. “X” turned. Betty Dale had just come through the door. The key to her friend’s apartment was in her hand. The sight of the blond woman stretched out on the floor stopped her.

  She would have asked some question had not “X” pressed a warning finger to her lips. Seizing her by the arm, he hurried her across the hall to the elevator. Fortunately, the car was still at the third floor. “X” pushed Betty inside, followed her, and pressed the button.

  The elevator mounted, stopping smoothly at the next floor. Together, Agent “X” and Betty hurried across the hall. “X” took the key from Betty’s nerveless fingers and unlocked the door. Inside, he turned on the light, closed the door, and made a hasty inspection of the apartment. Satisfied that it was empty, he returned to the girl.