Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 4 Read online

  They stopped at the side of the police car. The driver was already at the wheel. A second car behind the first was already being loaded with men. One of the detectives entered the rear seat of the car in which “X” was to be taken down to headquarters. There remained room enough for Burks and “X” in the back seat. Behind Agent “X” was another detective, but the Secret Agent knew that the gun in this man’s hand would be as useless as if it had never been loaded. This detective who brought up the rear would not dare to fire into the car for fear of hitting one of his companions.

  As Burks stepped into the car, dragging “X” after him, the Secret Agent moved like lightning. His left hand came up towards his cigar. At the same time, the joints of his right hand compressed to such an extent that he jerked free from the bracelet.

  Before the inspector could realize that his man was free, there came a deafening, stunning explosion. The car was swallowed in blinding, silver light. And when Burks recovered from the shock, both doors of the car were open and his prisoner had disappeared.

  The Secret Agent’s movements were simpler than they seemed. He had touched the short fuse of the magnesium bomb to the glowing tip of his cigar. He had dropped the little bomb on the floor of the car at the same time that he pulled free from the handcuff. Before the explosion came, he had marked the exact location of the latch of the opposite door, and in that moment when the police were stunned and blinded, he had opened the door and dived out the other side of the car. The magnesium bomb was comparatively harmless, though as was afterwards apparent, the explosion had singed the inspector’s eyebrows.

  As Agent “X” zigzagged across the lawn, darting in and out of the shadows cast by the numerous clumps of shrubbery, a tracer of slugs followed him from the second police car. But he was far out of range and running like a rabbit.

  He doubled back towards the house with a twofold purpose in view. The house where Falmouth had betrayed him to the police was probably the last place where the police would expect to find him. Then, he hoped that he was still in time to save Mrs. Leads.

  Crawling along behind the foundation planting of the old house, “X” came upon a wooden trellis upon which a stout, well-rooted ivy vine climbed up the wall of the house. Far across the lawn, he could hear the police beating through shrubbery. He must act quickly before they closed in on the house. Without further hesitation, he dug his fingers into strong, bare tendrils of the ivy vine and crawled up.

  He knew that his ascent was dangerous. The vines in winter were dry and treacherously brittle. However, he gained the second story window without mishap. The casement was unlocked, and though the room beyond was lighted, it was also empty. He swung back the window and climbed over the sill. Passing the lighted window, he knew that he was in comparative safety.

  HE crossed to the door, opened it cautiously, and peered out into the hall. Below stairs, dance music had been uninterrupted. Noisy laughter echoed throughout the house. Evidently, the gayety of the party was picking up. “X” stepped into the hall and started down its winding length. He had not proceeded more than half a dozen steps before he heard the sound of a door opening directly ahead of him.

  Two men came stealthily down the hall. “X” sprang back into a darkened doorway. Looking around the corner of his hiding place, “X” immediately recognized one of the men as Milo Leads. The famed toxicologist was wearing evening clothes. His face was extremely pale and gaunt. And walking beside Leads was a broad-faced Japanese, also in evening clothes. The Japanese, however, did not continue towards Agent “X” as did Leads. Without a word to the toxicologist, he turned off into a small dressing room.

  “X” watched Leads. Did he look like a man going to commit murder or like a man who had recently committed murder? If he had not yet killed his wife, then “X” knew that he probably would never have the opportunity.

  Quickly knotting a handkerchief over the lower portion of his face, “X” sprang into the hall directly in the path of Milo Leads. And as he leaped, his right fist drove out. The blow landed with full force just behind the toxicologist’s ear. Leads hadn’t a chance even to groan. His long legs sagged under him and he collapsed on the floor.

  Agent “X” sprang up the hall in the direction from which Leads had come. He glimpsed the Japanese in the small dressing room putting on his coat. Evidently, the wide-faced yellow man was going to leave the party. Ahead of him, “X” saw a pin-point of light coming through a keyhole in the door at the end of the hall. “X” ran for the door, knelt, and looked through the keyhole. He could see some one moving about the room—a man whose rotund body was strangely familiar to “X.”

  As though some sixth sense had warned him, the man in the room glanced apprehensively over his shoulder straight at the door where Secret Agent “X” watched. Then the man walked across the room to a door in the opposite wall, opened it quickly, and disappeared beyond.

  Agent “X” stood upright. A puzzled frown knotted his brow. For the round little man that he had seen within the room was none other than Sven Gerlak, Milwaukee’s ace private detective.

  “X” seized the doorknob, gave it a twist, opened the door and stepped into the room! Involuntarily, a gasp of horror escaped his lips. For lying in the center of the room, her evening gown torn as though she had engaged in a desperate struggle, was the body of Genevieve Leads. Her face was swollen and blue-black. Her mouth gaped hideously. The marks of fingers that had killed were on her white throat, and the brand of Seven was on her forehead.

  On the other side of the body, “X” saw something that he pounced upon and examined closely. It appeared to be nothing more than a penny. But punch-stamped upon its surface was the number three. It was the badge of one of the Seven. “X” pocketed the penny. His own penny insignia had gone with the wallet the police had taken from him when he had been searched. Probably this penny had been dropped by one of the gang when the murder had been committed.

  “X” was about to leave when he heard the sound of voices in the room adjoining. He crossed to the door and pressed his ear to the panel. He recognized the voice of Count Camocho talking in whispers to some one. He could not distinguish the words. But when the second man spoke, “X” immediately recognized the voice as that of the underworld character he had met in the Seven headquarters—the man who had worn the diamond insignia of Number Two.

  “It’s a hell of a note, count,” Number Two was saying. “I’ve seen the dame alive. Number One thought it was funny that there was no report of her death in the papers. Then I seen her at the window just above the apartment where she’s supposed to live. The chief is plenty sore! He’s detailed me and the doc, and you, too, to light out after Tolman. He think’s Tolman’s crossed him. He’s goin’ to take up the dame himself. Then the doc went and lost his penny so he’s got no chance of gettin’ back into headquarters. I tell you, if some of us don’t get a taste of the Bishop before ten hours go by, it’ll be a surprise to me!”

  The two members of the gang were directly outside the door now, and “X” heard the count’s reply: “The doctor might have dropped his badge in this room when they were struggling with Senora Leads. Let us search, my frien’.”

  “X” waited for no more. The count’s hand was already on the doorknob. “X” sprang across the room, hurdled the body of the murdered woman, and got through the door into the hall. The Agent’s heart was pounding like a triphammer, for he knew that the “dame” to whom Number Two had referred could be none other than Betty Dale. Then his deception had been discovered. He was being hunted by the Seven Silent Men.

  Chapter XVI

  A CLUE

  “X” WENT into the room at the opposite end of the hall through which he had entered the house. He closed the door behind him and stepped over to a mirror. He took the handkerchief from his face and examined his make-up critically. Removing the red wig and mustache, he looked exactly like Pete Tolman. Lack of time permitted only slight alterations—the reshaping of his nose and smoothing out lines i
n his cheeks.

  Then he turned once again to the window and climbed out on the ivy trellis. The breaking of a dried ivy tendril hastened his descent. He picked himself up from the bushes, waited a moment to see if the noise of his fall had warned anyone inside the house. But the noise within would have drowned out any disturbance that “X” had created.

  He ran across the lawn to the circular drive where his car had been parked. He leaped in, started it, and turned directly across the lawn in order to avoid the slow procedure of backing and wheel twisting in order to get out of the line of parked cars.

  As he sped through the gate into the street, several policemen tried to stop him. Shots from their pistols struck his tires, but had no effect upon his speed. For beneath the fabric of his special tires was a ply of woven chain armor. “X” knew well that the police would give chase, but he had a long lead on them even before they were started, and the terrific power of his car widened the breach between them every time he opened the throttle on a straightaway.

  Soon he was lost in the traffic of theatre-goers returning to their homes. He made further provision against being halted by touching a concealed lever beneath the dashboard. This lever operated strands of piano wire which flipped his license plates over. On the reverse side of these plates, a new set of numbers was deceptively painted.

  A short time later he pulled up in front of the apartment building where Betty Dale lived—where he hoped she still lived. He leaped from the car and bounded into the entrance. He sprang to the elevator and pressed the fourth-floor button. Out into the hall, he hurried to the door of the apartment that Betty Dale had appropriated. He did not wait to knock; but using one of his chromium master keys, which he had taken from his car, he opened the door.

  The searching eye of his flashlight swept the room. It was completely empty. He opened the bedroom. The bedclothes had been disturbed. Dainty lingerie was scattered about the room. He turned to the kitchenette. It, too, was empty. Betty Dale was gone.

  But with all the keen disappointment that knifed the Secret Agent, there was one ray of hope: had the Seven gang killed Betty in the apartment, they would have left her body there. Perhaps she was still alive. Perhaps they were holding her, hoping to draw Agent “X” into a trap.

  “X” turned into the hall and whisked down to the street floor in the elevator. Across the entry way and out into the street he went. He was walking towards his car when someone hailed him with:

  “Oh, Mr. Robbins!”

  “X” PIVOTED and saw a familiar figure coming towards him—old Thaddeus Penny, a blind man who peddled packages of chewing gum in the streets. Though it was nearly two A. M. old Thaddeus still carried his tray with a few packages still remaining. He was walking as fast as he could towards the Secret Agent.

  “Sorry, I haven’t time to talk with you, Thaddeus,” said “X” kindly, as he put his hand on the handle of the car door.

  But the blind man’s hand fastened tenaciously on “X’s” coat sleeve. “I know you’re a detective now, Mr. Robbins,” the man piped in a thin, quavering voice. “What were you doing comin’ out the Falmouth Building after two o’clock yesterday morning? Nobody but detectives, criminals, and these good for nothin’ playboys are out at such indecent hours.”

  “I wasn’t coming out of the Falmouth Building at that time, Thaddeus,” replied “X.” “What makes you think I was?” He was extremely interested in the old blind man’s deductions.

  “Oh, don’t try to fool me, Mr. Robbins. I’d know your step anywhere. I was out tryin’ to get a few pennies from the theatre folk and I heard you come out of the Falmouth Building just as I was passing. I’d have hailed you except that there was two other men with you and I thought—”

  Agent “X” gripped the old man’s hand. “You’re sure of that, Thaddeus? Positive?”

  “Sure and positive. Say, your voice sounds tight, like maybe you was in some sort of trouble.”

  “Right, Thaddeus!” the Agent rapped. He pressed a crumpled five-dollar bill into the old man’s hand. “You’ve helped more than you’ll ever know!” And Secret Agent “X” leaped into his car. The blind man’s super-sensitive ears never failed to identify “X” by his walk. If, then, as Thaddeus Penny had said, he had come out of the Falmouth Building, he had done so when he was under the influence of the Seven gang’s powerful drug. It was possible that the headquarters of the gang was somewhere in the mighty Falmouth Tower, in the very heart of the city.

  Secret Agent “X” headed for his apartment hideout. Motor open, he drove skillfully and at the same time planned a schedule of preparation that he hoped would cover every possible emergency. At his apartment, he changed his make-up and assumed one of his stock disguises, that of Roger Cole, a middle-aged business man. He thought that this disguise would be less apt to attract suspicion than any other when he was prowling around the Falmouth Building.

  Many important business enterprises were controlled from the Falmouth Tower. Business men came and went at all hours of the night. The coat of the suit he put on had many secret pockets, and these he loaded down with special devices that he thought would prove helpful. Among them were a small galvanometer for detecting the presence of electrical current, a cubical black box with a dimension of about two inches, a small make-up kit, gas gun, and a case of special drugs. Beneath his coat he carried the waxen mask which had been given him at the headquarters of the Seven Silent Men.

  Thus prepared, he left at once for the Falmouth Tower.

  Five minutes later he was standing within the shadow of the mighty structure, that was like a steel gimlet boring through the sky. Lights burned in many of its thousand windows. Flood lamps, advantageously placed, gilded its gleaming metal trim, and touched what seemed to be from the sidewalk a tiny cupola at its top. Actually, this cupola was a magnificent penthouse.

  Sales corporations, life-insurance companies, brokerage offices, offices of almost endless variety could be found in the building. Where, though, in this modern structure of steel, stone, and chromium would he find an ancient, oak-paneled room such as he had seen at Seven headquarters?

  Far above the last gleaming light, was a belt of darkened windows that encircled the building. “X” smiled grimly.

  Entering the building, “X” stepped to one of the elevators. The elevator boy stared at him sleepily and enquired, “What floor, please?”

  “Straight to the top,” replied Agent “X.” And the car speeded on its seemingly endless climb.

  WHEN the car came to a stop and the door was opened, “X” looked out upon a row of frosted glass windows of offices—some without any lettering on them, indicating that they had never been rented.

  “Is this as far up as you go? Isn’t there anything higher?” “X” enquired.

  The boy scowled. “Sure, Mister, but you don’t want an elevator. You want an airplane or one of those stratosphere things. Are you gettin’ out or do you plan to move in here permanent?”

  “X” fixed the boy with his peculiarly magnetic eyes. “Think,” he said softly; “is this the top of the building?”

  The youth flushed. “There’s another floor and a penthouse yet, but it’s never been finished. It won’t be either. Take it from me, this building will never pay,” he said importantly. “Not a lot of these offices are rented and there’s not enough to pay them to finish the top of the thing. But I can’t stay here all night, mister.”

  “Any way of getting up to the unfinished part?” “X” persisted in spite of the youth’s impatience to be gone.

  “Nope. You can’t leave the unfinished part of a building open. It would be dangerous. Curious guys—” with a marked look at the Secret Agent—“would try to get up there and fall through most likely. If I was you, I’d go to the Alps!”

  “X” stepped out into the hall. Few of the offices showed signs of occupancy. He couldn’t search them all without arousing suspicion. He was inclined to believe that the floor above was a longer way towards being finished th
an the elevator boy had said. However, he did find a narrow hall at the end that because of its labyrinthian turns warranted special investigation. Guided by his flashlight, he came upon a door lettered with the one word “Private.”

  The Secret Agent took one of his master keys from his pocket, inserted it in the lock, and opened the door. Immediately his heart leaped with renewed hope. For directly behind the innocent-looking office door was a second panel of solid steel. It presented an unbroken surface apparently without keyhole or lock. However, a moment’s search revealed a small, circular indentation at the lower part of the steel panel at one end. “X” knelt and examined it closely. It looked as though a penny had been pressed into the steel while the panel was yet in the molten stage.

  Every outline of the one cent piece was clearly visible with the exception of the fact that a peculiar design was embossed in the exact center of the surface. Providing himself with his pocket magnifying glass, “X” saw that the design was composed of the Arabic numerals one, three, four, and seven—each laid directly on top of the other.

  Instantly “X” remembered what he had overheard in Falmouth’s house. He had heard the underworld character known as Number Two say to Count Camocho: “The doc has lost his penny and can’t get back into Seven headquarters.”

  The purpose of the indentation was then clear to “X.” It was some sort of an electrical lock that opened when a penny was pressed into it. However, only a penny with the numbers one, three, four, or seven could have been placed in the opening because of the design in the center.

  Agent “X” quickly removed the waxen mask from beneath his coat and fastened it over his face. Then he took the penny-badge bearing the number three from his pocket and fitted it into the little circular indentation. His heart was thumping with excitement as he pushed it home. Without a doubt he had passed through that door before, but then in a drugged state and in the company of one or more of Number One’s trusties.