Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 4 Page 33

  “Will you be at this blow-out, boss?” asked “X.”

  Number One drew himself up proudly. “If I were to go to that party, not even Agent “X” himself would recognize me. You must not attempt to learn my true identity. Only two persons in the world know who I am!”

  Number One returned to his desk and pressed a button. Evidently, the room was perfectly sound-proof, for “X” heard neither bell nor buzzer.

  “Later,” Number One went on, “you may be called upon to obtain the plates for the printing of five and ten dollar bills which were hidden by Joseph Fronberg. At present, we have all the counterfeit money necessary for immediate needs. Rest assured that a few hours from now, this city will be mine—police and all officials will be under my thumb. Those who serve me well will be rewarded. For those who fail me, there is justice and execution as the law demands—or the Bishop!”

  “X” noted that at the mention of the Bishop, Number Seven, who had been all the time standing behind the leader’s chair, shuddered slightly. Who was the Bishop that men trembled at the name?

  But “X” was given no time to reflect on the identity of this mysterious being. The man who was designated as Number Four entered the office, and “X” knew that he would be doped with the strange drug that deadened his body while his brain remained alive. He had only time enough to look at his watch before the dreaded needle was thrust into his arm. It was seven o’clock, and he supposed it was morning.

  Chapter XIV

  “CALLING SECRET AGENT ‘X’”

  WHEN Agent “X” again regained the use of his eyes, he found himself wandering aimlessly outside his own apartment. He looked dazedly up and down the street. There was no sign of the lame begger who had followed him on the previous occasion.

  He entered the building and took an elevator to his own apartment. He wanted to think. His problem, instead of slowly unraveling, was becoming more tangled every hour. So far, he had been completely successful in only one thing—Number One had been entirely fooled by “X’s” impersonation of Pete Tolman. But that triumph, he knew, would not be long lasting.

  He spent the rest of the day in ascertaining the extent of the deadly virus of discontent that the Seven gang had spread throughout the city. There had been numberless riot calls. Business had been tied up. Panic was impending in Wall Street. Nothing could be done to dam the flow of spurious currency, save close the doors of every bank and business house which distributed large quantities of money. The city was teeming with federal men, all busy in sorting real money from counterfeit. The populace was enraged. Nearly half the money in the working man’s pocket was found to be spurious.

  Turning on his radio for a few minutes, “X” was surprised to hear a familiar voice coming from a local radio station. It was the voice of gray-haired Abel Corin:

  “Calling Secret Agent ‘X,’ the People of New York calling Secret Agent ‘X.’”

  With a puzzled frown on his face, Secret Agent “X” listened to every word that Corin uttered.

  “Secret Agent ‘X’ if you are within the sound of my voice, know that my fiancée, Alice Neves, has been kidnaped by the Seven Silent Men. If you have a spark of human feeling about you, move heaven and earth to return her to me. This is much more than a personal appeal. I am speaking for thousands who are suffering at the hands of these ruthless criminals. Sven Gerlak, the noted detective, has advised me to call on you. He adds his appeal to mine. You can help us if you will!”

  And there Corin’s message ended.

  IT was eleven-forty when Secret Agent “X,” still in the guise of Pete Tolman, drove his car beneath the porte-cochère and crossed the veranda of the stately old Falmouth mansion. He had been careful to add the red wig and mustache that had been given him at the Seven headquarters.

  For all he knew, the Seven headquarters might be located in the dark and lofty turrets of Falmouth House itself. In the lower stories of the house there was certainly nothing sinister. All was gayety, scintillating lights, rhythmic music. The dignity of the old walls was occasionally mocked by shrieks of drunken laughter. Even before Agent “X” entered the door he knew that glasses had clinked far too often.

  A butler whose stiff attitude would have put a clothes-prop to shame, took the Secret Agent’s hat and coat.

  “Good evening, Mr. Six,” the butler whispered.

  “Cheez, you, too!” the Agent exclaimed. The butler put a warning finger to his lips. Lynn Falmouth was approaching, crossing the reception hall on somewhat unsteady legs. His too yellow hair was faultlessly brushed, his tie a knot of perfection. Nevertheless, “X” believed that unless his host slowed down on his liquor schedule, he would be unable to wish his guests good night.

  An ugly scowl spread across Falmouth’s brow as he approached. He turned toward the butler.

  “Nothing wrong, sir, I hope?” the butler asked with the deepest concern in his voice.

  “This person—” Falmouth gestured indefinitely towards “X”—“I’ve never seen him before!”

  “No, sir? But you invited him, Mr. Falmouth. This is Mr. Church, the author.”

  Falmouth’s pale hand partially suppressed a drunken guffaw. He staggered over to “X” and pawed the latter’s shirt front. “Sho shorry, old man. Should have guessed by the fit of your clothes. Author’s privilege—wearing mussy clothes. Shtill can’t remember of meeting a Mr. Church, but whatever Lewish says tonight goes. Come on, old fellow.” And taking “X” by the arm, he led him into the next room where dance music swayed thirty couples across a polished floor.

  Falmouth beckoned to a servant who was bearing a tray of tall, chill drinks. Falmouth offered Agent “X” a glass. “Have one with me,” he invited cordially.

  Agent “X” accepted a glass. He had avoided speaking to his host because he had not been able to decide whether he should attempt to sustain the character of Church, the author, which had so suddenly been thrust upon him, or whether to retain the role of Pete Tolman. If Falmouth or anyone at the party happened to be a member of the Seven gang, then “X” dared not speak in any other manner than that of Pete Tolman.

  He decided that Falmouth, at least, was too drunk to notice much difference. As he clinked glasses with Falmouth, he said, “Sure, t’anks,” in the nasal twang that was an exact imitation of Tolman’s voice. He thought for a moment that he detected a flash of suspicion in Falmouth’s cool blue eyes. Was Falmouth’s drunkenness merely clever acting? At any rate, he was very much relieved when Falmouth said, “I’ve got to leave now, old man. Musht see that everybody has a nishe time. But I’m putting you in good hands.” Falmouth’s liquor-cracked voice raised in a boisterous halloo: “Oh, Genevieve!”

  A tall, strikingly beautiful blonde woman broke away from a circle of admirers and came smiling towards Falmouth.

  “Genevieve—” Falmouth stumbled over the name—“want you to take care of Mr. What’s-his-name, here. Mister—mister, this is Genevieve—Genevieve—”

  “Genevieve Leads,” prompted the blonde woman.

  Secret Agent “X” muttered some sort of an acknowledgment. Actually, he had trouble speaking at all. For the tall blonde woman was the same whom he had seen in the hall outside Betty Dale’s apartment. It was she who had tipped off the police. It was she who had tried to blackmail her husband on information that he had inadvertently dropped concerning the Seven Silent Men.

  “X” UNDERSTOOD now how the Seven gang obtained its powerful drugs. Milo Leads, this woman’s husband, was one of the greatest toxicologists in the country. It was Milo Leads who drugged the gang members before they were taken from the Seven headquarters. It was Leads who had engineered the escape of “X” from the deathhouse. Milo Leads was Number Four in the gang.

  For a longer time than he realized, Agent “X” had stared at this amazingly beautiful Genevieve Leads. With a provocative smile on her lips, she suggested that they dance.

  “Sure, er, Miss, er Genevieve,” the Agent stammered. He took the lovely creature in his a
rms, and dancing with the clumsy, familiar embrace that he thought best fitted his identity as Pete Tolman, he steered her towards the center of the floor.

  Genevieve Leads was enduring him, nothing more, so well did Secret Agent “X” play his part. The farce continued for another chorus before “X” danced his partner towards French doors opening on a softly lighted conservatory.

  “How’d ja like to sit the rest of this out with me, baby—I mean, lady?” he asked.

  Determinedly, she disengaged herself from his arms. “I think not. I think Mr. Falmouth is looking for me—” Her voice tapered off evenly as her eyes compassed the dance floor in search of Lynn Falmouth.

  Secret Agent “X” permitted his hand to slip down the length of her bare, white arm. His fingers locked tightly over her wrist. Mrs. Leads fixed him with a frigid look. “Please, Mr.—”

  “Church is the name, but most everybody calls me Bill.”

  “I don’t think I care,” replied Genevieve Leads. But her austere glance seemed to have no effect upon “X.” He drew her closer to him, holding her with his strange, magnetic eyes. “Chee, kid, you can’t give me the air like that!” He thrust his head forward in a pugnacious attitude so that his lips were only a few inches from her ear. His lips scarcely moved, but his whisper was clearly audible to the woman.

  “Mrs. Leads, I must talk to you. You are in deadly danger!”

  The abrupt change of his voice, the power of persuasion in his tone, seemed so utterly out of place with the underworld character whom he impersonated, that Genevieve was astonished. For a moment, she could not speak. Then:

  “Did you say something, Mr. Church?”

  A dancing couple swung near to where they were standing. “X” was surprised to see that the man was short, red-haired Sven Gerlak, the Milwaukee detective. Gerlak’s small eyes darted from “X” to Mrs. Leads. “X” raised his voice to imitate Tolman’s.

  “Sure I said somethin’. You and me is goin’ out in this greenhouse.” And “X” jerked his head towards the conservatory. He fairly dragged Mrs. Leads through the door.

  With his arm tightly locked through hers, Agent “X” swaggered through the room. Here flowers and ferns of varieties found in tropic countries blossomed and grew for the delight of Lynn Falmouth and his guests. “X” lighted a thick, black cigar and puffed out a huge mouthful of smoke. “Some dump, I’d say,” he commented.

  “You like it?” Obviously, she understood that he was but making conversation for the benefit of a couple who occupied a small divan that had been placed in a shadowy corner.

  “X” led Mrs. Leads to a similar divan at one end of the room. They sat down. His powerful fingers closed gently, impersonally upon the woman’s hand. His right arm went about her shoulders. It was his purpose to deceive anyone at the opposite end of the conservatory into thinking that he had engaged Genevieve Leads in amorous conversation.

  “Mrs. Leads,” the Agent whispered in a deadly seriousness that his presuming smile did not betray, “you must leave this house at once. Take my advice and go at once to the nearest police station. Get in touch with Inspector Burks and tell him everything you know about your husband and the Seven Silent Men.”

  A frown of perplexity crossed the woman’s forehead. “Who are you? A detective?”

  “That is beside the point. If you remain here you will most certainly be killed—and by your husband’s own hands. He has his orders to kill you. He dare not disobey.”

  MRS. LEADS uttered a laugh that was harsh and altogether out of tune with one so attractive. “My husband? Do you think he would dare lay hands on me in this house?”

  “How do you know that you are not in the headquarters of the Seven gang right now? Do you know who the leader of the gang is?”

  She was very serious, and “X” knew that she was speaking the truth when she said: “I do not. Certainly, the leader isn’t Milo Leads! He couldn’t be the head of anything except some rotten laboratory!” There was venom in her words, and Agent “X” guessed that her marriage to Milo Leads had been anything but a happy one. Leads was noted for his ability to get into scandalous difficulties with other women.

  “You will heed my warning if I tell you that there is more than one member of the Seven gang here tonight?” Agent “X” urged. “Why even the butler is in their employ.” His voice suddenly mounted. His alert eyes had caught sight of a man moving behind the wall of ferns at the side of them. “Chee, baby, you’re a swell looker!” he said in the voice of Pete Tolman.

  The man suddenly stepped out from behind the ferns. He was tall and undeniably handsome. Yet there was craft in his eyes that glittered darkly against his olive skin.

  The dark man flashed a smile, bowed low, and addressed Mrs. Leads. “Ah, the charming Senora Leads!”

  Mrs. Leads stood up quickly. As “X” glimpsed her smile, he knew that she was already captivated by the continental manner of the man.

  “Count Camocho!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been all evening? You have not been hiding from me?”

  “Si, senora. I have been hiding lest your beauty turn this poor brain of mine. Ah, but I could resist no longer.” The man who had been addressed as Count Camocho turned politely to the Agent. “I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting you.”

  Mechanically, “X” took the hand of the Spaniard. The feel of those soft fingers sent a sensation of revulsion over “X.” For Camocho was a crook of international reputation.

  “I am sorry to intrude, senor,” said the count, “but I believe Senora Leads has already promised this next dance to me.”

  Dance? Would it be a dance of death? Was Camocho merely making an excuse to get Mrs. Leads away to some dark corner where Milo Leads, Silent Man Number Four, waited to kill her?

  “X” placed himself directly between the woman and the count. He thrust out his jaw and seized Camocho roughly by the coat sleeve. “She don’t want to dance with you!” Agent “X’s” hand started towards the pocket where he kept his gas gun. If he could get Camocho out of the way, he would take Mrs. Leads from the house if he had to carry her.

  “Don’t go for that gun, Pete Tolman, or I’ll drill you!”

  THE command in a voice that was as soft and cold as snow came from directly behind “X.” He turned slowly to face Lynn Falmouth—Falmouth, whose every symptom of drunkenness had disappeared, whose chilly eyes narrowed over the bead of a revolver.

  “X” took a step towards Falmouth. The latter’s gun jabbed threateningly forward. “I’m rather a good shot, Tolman,” said Falmouth. “And even if I miss you, Inspector Burks who has just entered the room will not.”

  “Right, Mr. Falmouth!” came unmistakably in Burks’ voice.

  “X’s” eyes compassed the room. As soundlessly as if they had been conjured from the shadows, plainclothes men entered the room. Each carried a gun. “X” was rimmed by deadly, steel eyes that were focused directly upon him. The inspector and his men could not know that they were actually assisting the Seven gang in their plot to kill Mrs. Leads. He could not tell them. For to the police, he was Pete Tolman, a killer many times over, who had escaped from the death-cell of the Louisiana penitentiary.

  Inspector Burks stepped forward. He was carrying a pair of handcuffs. “Put out your hands, Tolman,” he ordered. “We’ll have to hold you in New York until the Louisiana authorities are notified. That red wig of yours and that mustache might have fooled a lot of people, but not Mr. Falmouth. He recognized you from your picture in the paper the minute he set eyes on you.”

  Secret Agent “X” had no choice in the matter. He thrust out his hands to receive the cuffs. As they nipped Agent “X” and Inspector Burks together, Lynn Falmouth seemed to relax. He smiled his unpleasant, one-sided smile.

  “You really couldn’t think I’d have let a person of your stamp enter this house unless I had recognized you and planned to trap you.” He turned to Genevieve Leads. “Sorry I had to impose this fellow’s company on you, Genevieve, but I thought if an
yone could distract his attention while the police were getting here, you could. Count Camocho, Mrs. Leads looks a little tired. No doubt this has been something of a shock to her. If you will take her into the next room—”

  “Si, Senor Falmouth. I shall be delighted.” And offering Mrs. Leads his arm in a courtly manner, Count Camocho led her from the room. “X” knew that she was walking to certain death, yet he was powerless to stop her. Had he told the police what he expected to happen, they would have laughed. For he was Pete Tolman, a clever killer who would try any trick to gain his freedom.

  Chapter XV

  THE THIRD PENNY

  SECRET AGENT “X” had been carefully searched by Burks’ men. He was firmly linked to the wrist of the inspector by means of the handcuffs. Yet as he was led from the Falmouth home, he felt that he was not entirely helpless in spite of the police guns that were leveled at him. In his free left hand, he had palmed a small, round object that was hard as a marble. He had slipped the little ball out of his pocket at the very moment that Inspector Burks was putting the bracelet on his right wrist.

  That hard little marble was made of compressed paper pulp, hollow inside, and heavily loaded with compressed magnesium powder. Protruding from its surface was a stubby little fuse. As he approached the police car, Agent “X” was still puffing on the cigar he had lighted in the conservatory. In spite of the fact that he had been frisked, Agent “X” was prepared to surprise the police. The only thing that prevented his trying for an escape at that moment was Inspector Burks.

  As far as Burks knew, this man whom he supposed to be Pete Tolman was firmly welded to his wrist. Nevertheless, the cautious inspector kept his eyes constantly upon his prisoner. But “X” knew that his time would come. It would be extremely awkward for Burks when it came time to enter the police car. It would be impossible for him to watch his prisoner then.