Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 4 Page 38

  For a moment, Agent “X” was too dazed to comprehend what had happened. He stared at Corin, wondering vaguely why the building had not blown up. Had Corin been bluffing? He sprang to the cabinet before which Corin had been standing on “X’s” entrance. He opened the door. His eyes lighted upon a perfectly wired bomb large enough to blow up half of the city.

  He pivoted, staring at the still form of Alice Neves. Blood crawled from the knife wound in her breast, but there were also little strings of blood trickling down her lips. “X” crossed over to where she lay. Across her mouth, but not touching, were two ends of a wire. “X” followed the wire with his eyes. It led to the switch beneath Corin and over to the cabinet of explosives. He knelt beside the woman, took her hand in his. Her pulse could hardly be detected, but her eyelids flickered back. Her lips moved in a husky, death whisper: “Did—I redeem myself—Mr.—‘X’?”

  There was a faint smile on her lips even after she was dead. Then Agent “X” knew why the bomb had not exploded. Alice Neves had found the wire leading to the bomb not far from where she had fallen. She had bitten the insulation from the wire, then broken it with her hands.

  “X” sighed softly, got to his feet, and went to work. Removing the vial of narcotic from the heel of his shoe, he gave Corin enough to keep him unconscious for several hours. Then he took the waxen mask he had carried beneath his coat, and put it over Corin’s face. The police could not fail to recognize Corin as Number One now!

  And very quietly Secret Agent “X” left the office.

  IT was two hours later. Thermite, that hottest of all substances, had enabled the police to melt through the steel door that guarded the Seven headquarters. Burks and his men had swept the place clean of criminal life, for, as Number One had said, many of the underworld hirelings had been locked in the execution chamber. The body of Milo Leads, together with the tongueless remains of Pete Tolman, were taken to the morgue.

  Still marveling at the completeness of the gang’s hideout, its electrical devices, and its sound-proof construction, Inspector Burks was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of a young man wearing the uniform of a telegraph messenger.

  “Special message for Inspector Burks!” shouted the young man as he crossed the floor of the Oak Room.

  “Here!” snapped Burks. He snatched the envelope from the messenger and ripped it open. Enclosed was a neatly typed note. It read:

  Dear Burks:

  You will find signed confessions to various murders committed by the Seven, in a small, asbestos box in the fireplace of the Oak Room. This should aid you materially in rounding up the gang. The confessions are written in invisible ink. Three of these seven leaders have already paid with their lives. Abel Corin, the actual brains of the mob, will be found in his office. I believe you will find secret telephone lines from Corin’s office to the Seven headquarters above.

  Most of the stolen currency as well as a large amount of the counterfeit bills will be found in the gang’s headquarters. Go to Jersey to find the plates and presses from which the phonies were printed.

  Concerning the construction of the Seven headquarters: I have taken some pains to learn that Lynn Falmouth, the owner of the building, rented the unfinished top section to a Mr. Jephard who purposed to turn it into a studio for a local broadcasting company. You will understand the truth of this when you examine the sound-proof construction, the private elevator, the Oak Room which might well be used as a main studio. But Jephard could not find sufficient funds to put the studio into operation. As is actually the case, the place was never really intended for anything else than a headquarters for the gang. Mr. Jephard was simply an agent for Abel Corin.

  The pretended kidnaping of Alice Neves, the sponsoring of Sven Gerlak, the holdup of the Suburban National Bank, in which Corin was interested—were all tricks to divert suspicion.

  My regards to Lynn Falmouth, who has a flare for amateur criminology as well as an ability to throw whoopee parties—

  Thus, whimsically, the message ended. And though there was no signature, Burks knew that the note was from Secret Agent “X.” Grim and tight-lipped, Inspector Burks hurried from the Seven headquarters. He was bent on following the messenger who had brought the note. How had the young man known where to reach Burks? Why had he so discreetly withdrawn without waiting for the usual tip?

  In the street outside the Falmouth Building, Inspector Burks found his answer. For as he elbowed through the crowd, eyes sharpened for the sight of the messenger’s uniform, a strange, eerie whistle, weird yet mingled with a note of mockery, pierced the excited murmur of the crowd.

  With an imprecation on his lips, Burks returned to the building. For he knew that that whistle had come from the puckered lips of Secret Agent “X,” standing perhaps only a few feet from the inspector and looking for all the world like one of the thousands of people in the street.

  The Golden Ghoul

  Chapter I

  FANGS OF DEATH

  NIGHT had invaded the city. In the living room of suite 10B in the Hotel Empire a dozen powerful electric globes shed searing-white light. The doors were locked; the shades were drawn. Gilbert Warnow had ordered it so. Night must not enter here.

  There was a certain tenseness in the stale, stagnant air that was almost electric. Though Gilbert Warnow napped in a luxurious lounge chair, it was a sleep that brought no rest, that was often broken by nervous leg twitchings. The anxiety of the past three days and nights showed plainly on the deep lines that crossed his gray face. Three police detectives sat wakeful in chairs about the room, and smoked or idled through the pages of magazines.

  The muffled sound of a buzzer was like a stab to the frazzled nerves of Gilbert Warnow. He sprang out of his chair, stood stiffly, unblinking eyes darting about the room.

  On his feet at the sound of the buzzer, Detective Malvern spread his hands in a gesture that was intended to pacify Mr. Warnow. “Everything’s okeh,” he said. “Just somebody at the door.”

  But Warnow was not to be comforted. He whispered inaudible words, his eyes followed the somewhat jumpy movements of Detective Malvern as the latter unlocked the door of the living room and crossed a small foyer. Gilbert Warnow’s Chinese valet, Ah-Fang, was about to unlock the hall door when Malvern’s ham of a hand swept the Oriental to one side.

  “I’m tending to this, chink,” Malvern said bruskly. He yanked open the door to confront nothing more formidable that a small, square hat box on the door sill. The box was tagged for Mr. Warnow. The corridor was empty.

  Malvern slammed the door and, carrying the box at arm’s length, returned to the living room. Ah-Fang, his inscrutable slits of eyes never leaving the box, followed Malvern soundlessly on slippered feet. An excited clamor arose in the living room as soon as Malvern had entered.

  “Get that box out!” Warnow’s tight voice snapped. “A bomb—”

  Malvern shook his head. “Too light.” He regarded the box suspiciously. “You get way back in the corner, Mr. Warnow. We take the risks. That’s what we’re paid for. Keegan!” he rapped to one of his men. “Cut this cord for me.”

  But before Keegan could obey, Ah-Fang stepped forward. A gleaming tongue of steel darted from the sleeve of his black silken jacket, and lashed across the cord. Malvern scowled into the broad, yellow face. “What you doin’ with that knife, chink?”

  Ah-Fang regarded the detective unblinkingly. “Always carry knife for the protection of honorable sir, and own worthless flesh.”

  Malvern grunted, peeled paper from the box, nipped up the lid and sprang back. Nothing happened. The box seemed to be stuffed with tissue paper. This paper, Malvern gingerly lifted. A curse snarled from his throat. The three detectives and the Chinese, who seemed possessed by insatiable curiosity, pressed around the table and stared into the box.

  Resting on a cushion of yellow silk was what appeared to be a life-size mask. It had a hellish, pain-racked appearance—eyelids were sunken yellow veils; cheeks, chin, and nose were the color of amber. A
downy mustache fringed the upper lip of a mouth that was distorted by a silent scream.

  “What the hell!” gasped Keegan. “Looks like a Halloween false-face.”

  The lean hand of Ah-Fang darted into the box, explored the surface of the mask to find it hard as stone. His finger grasped the mustache and gave it a vigorous twitch. He raised his eyes to meet Keegan’s face. “Humble opinion that this is face, but not false.”

  “What the devil are you gettin’ at, chink?” Malvern grumbled. Then he called: “Come over here, Mr. Warnow. What is this thing?”

  Gilbert Warnow approached hesitatingly and peeped over Ah-Fang’s shoulder. “Good—God!” he breathed. He struck his eyes with his shaking hand, shutting out the sight. “That—that isn’t a mask. That’s the face of Steven Bainbridge! The Amber Death! That’s a warning from the Ghoul. He wants me to know how I’ll look after—after—” And Gilbert Warnow dropped into a chair.

  “Perhaps,” Ah-Fang suggested in his odd, crackling voice, “it is an act of wisdom to take backward glance and learn who sent unpleasant box.”

  MALVERN sprang to the phone, called the hotel desk, and got in touch with a plainclothes man who had been posted in the hotel lobby. He issued brisk orders for the tracing of the package. He clamped the phone in place, turned, with an oath, and snatched the hideous death mask from the hands of the inquisitive Ah-Fang. Malvern turned the gruesome object over. He could see clearly the marks made by the knife that had been used to peel the hard, amber-like flesh from the bone of the skull. With an exclamation of disgust, he dropped the filthy, dead thing back in the box.

  “The Amber Death!” he whispered. “That’s what got Ivan Trasker and this—this poor devil, Bainbridge. The job of that damned extortionist, the Golden Ghoul!” He twisted around facing Warnow. The wealthy manufacturer was staring at his own twitching fingers. “How much was the Ghoul trying to stick you for, Mr. Warnow?”

  “Seventy-five thousand,” Warnow muttered mechanically. “And I can’t raise it. God help me! The Ghoul doesn’t give enough time. This is my second warning. And it’s pay up, or be like—like—” He gestured helplessly toward the box.

  “Don’t take on like that, sir,” said Malvern, almost kindly. “Nothing can get in here, not even a mouse—”

  “Gilbert Warnow.”

  Malvern snapped a glance from one to the other of his fellow detectives. “Who said that?” he demanded.

  Out of the air that had suddenly become pregnant with disaster, came a voice.

  “Gilbert Warnow!” The voice, disembodied, and mere whisper though it was, was compelling. All eyes turned toward a single point of focus—the radio in the corner. But the pilot-lamp behind the radio dial was not turned on.

  “Gilbert Warnow.” A third time came the voice. “Does life mean so little to you?”

  Warnow was standing upright. His fingers clutched at his own throat. His eyes burned with a feverish light. “Good Lord! The Ghoul!”

  “You have disobeyed the Golden Ghoul, Gilbert Warnow,” the voice sighed. “You had instructions not to call in the police. Yet I know that there are detectives in your room at this very moment. What madness leads you to believe that you can escape the Ghoul? I am all-powerful. My decree is inexorable. There is no escape. You were offered your life for a price. And you have failed to pay. Bolted doors, latched windows, police! Do you think that I, who am invulnerable and invisible, care for the police? Die, then, as Bainbridge died, and within the hour!”

  A hoarse, fear-maddened voice grated from the throat of Gilbert Warnow. “Ghoul! For the love of heaven, wherever you are, listen to me! I can’t pay! Give me more time!” And Warnow’s voice rose to a shriek that filled the room with its terrific cadence. “Time, Ghoul, only a little more time!” He dropped into a chair. He pressed moist palms to his throbbing temples.

  “I must be going mad! The Ghoul spoke to me—in this room.”

  Ah-Fang padded across the room to the radio, thrust his arm behind the console, and pulled it out again. “This foreign devil machine voice of Ghoul.”

  Malvern ignored the Oriental. “You’re perfectly safe, Mr. Warnow.” His voice lacked conviction. “Ten stories above the street—”

  WARNOW blurted out: “I wish to hell you were all rich! Maybe you’d know what it is to be hounded to death .... Get out, all of you! If I’m going to die, I don’t want a squad of half-witted police standing about!”

  Malvern shook his head. “Sorry. We’re here on special orders from Commissioner Foster. We’re stayin’. I’m going to call a doctor. Your nerves are shot.”

  Ah-Fang shuffled toward the door. “Ah-Fang call doctor.”

  “Ah-Fang’ll stay right here!” roared Malvern. “Keegan, get a doctor.”

  “Please.” Warnow stayed the detective. “If you must have a doctor in, get Dr. Luigi on the floor above. He’s my friend.”

  “Okeh,” Malvern complied. “Make it Luigi.”

  Malvern walked over to the radio. “Here, Connelly,” he called to the other detective, “take a look at this radio. You know something about them.” He pulled out the cabinet from the wall and Connelly ran his hands over the tops of the tubes.

  “Must have been the radio. Tubes are warm.”

  “Was own humble opinion,” Ah-Fang volunteered.

  Malvern silenced him with a look. “Too darn clever, these Chinese!”

  Keegan suddenly opened the door to admit a small, well-knit person with dark skin and polished black hair. He carried a small satchel in his hand. He was followed by a broad-shouldered man with graying hair above an impressively high forehead.

  “Luigi!” exclaimed Warnow. “Thank heaven you’ve come!” He rose weakly to his feet and shook hands with the dark-haired doctor. To the broad-shouldered man, he said: “Hello, Gage. Why’re you here?”

  The man called Gage smiled pleasantly. “Just dropped in for a chat with the doctor when your call came in. What’s the matter with you, man? You look all in.”

  Warnow wearily shook his head. “No sleep for days. Heard a voice calling me out of empty air—”

  Dr. Luigi smiled slightly. “Your nerves are frayed, Warnow. You can’t expect to live without sleep.” He snapped open his satchel and took out a hypodermic needle. “I am going to give you a little morphine. Then I want you to go to bed and rest.”

  “Rest! Would you rest when your life hangs by a thread?”

  “Yes. I am resting. Relaxing, at any rate.”

  Warnow’s jaw dropped. “Lord! You don’t mean—”

  The doctor nodded. “I mean I either raise seventy-five thousand dollars, or the Ghoul tries his Amber Death on me.” Luigi prepared the hypo with professional dexterity, rolled back Warnow’s sleeve, and made the injection.

  The broad-shouldered Lionel Gage patted Warnow on the back. “Buck up, old man. I know how you feel. You see,” he whispered, “between Wall Street and the Ghoul, I’m pretty well stripped myself.”

  Warnow would have said something had not Luigi checked him. “Not another word, Warnow. You go to bed. Sleep as long as you can. And remember, the police have tackled racketeers before now. The Ghoul’s just a racketeer with a flare for sensation.” He got up, and started toward the door. “Come along, Gage. Warnow’s got to rest. He’ll not get it as long as you are talking Wall Street with him.”

  Detective Malvern laid a hand on Dr. Luigi’s arm. “You mean to tell me the Ghoul has threatened you?”

  Luigi nodded with magnificent unconcern. “I’m not worried. You’ll get the Ghoul before he gets me.”

  Having said good night to Warnow, Lionel Gage followed the doctor from the room. Warnow, accompanied by his Chinese valet, started for the bedroom.

  “Just a minute, Mr. Warnow.” Malvern held up an arresting hand. “I wouldn’t go in there alone with that chink if I were you.”

  “With Ah-Fang? Nonsense!” Warnow regarded his servant affectionately. “Why, I’d trust him above anyone in the city—even you.”

 
MALVERN shook his head doubtfully. “Well, maybe you can trust him—” He pushed ahead of Warnow into the bedroom, crossed rapidly to the bathroom and made a careful search. Not content with that, he looked into Warnow’s closet. Ah-Fang had led his master to the bed and was in the act of unlacing Warnow’s shoes.

  Almost hostilely Warnow glared at Malvern. “Please go,” he ordered. “I assure you that I’ll be perfectly safe with Ah-Fang. I insist!”

  Reluctantly, Malvern crossed the room. At the door, he said: “Remember, we’ll be right outside.” And with a black look at the Chinese, “Get that, chink?”

  Ah-Fang bobbed his head and, as the door closed, continued to assist Warnow to undress.

  After a moment, Warnow asked: “Have you ever heard of a man called ‘X’?”

  The Chinese shook his head. “Remarkable small name.”

  “A remarkable person. Most remarkable. Probably, he’s the only man in the world who could save me from the Golden Ghoul.”

  Ah-Fang looked at his employer. “Where I find this man?”

  “I—I don’t know.” Warnow yawned.”Feel sleepy. . . .One never knows where Secret Agent ‘X’ is. Might be anywhere. Can be anybody.” Warnow’s eyelids dropped. “I could tell him something that might help. There’s a blonde—” Warnow thrust pajama-clad legs beneath satin covers, yawned again. “She doesn’t belong here. Seen her somewhere—” Warnow’s head sagged. He could scarcely support himself. The drug was rapidly taking hold of him.

  “Wait!” the Chinese whispered. “Not sleep—yet. Ah-Fang get water.” He left the bedside, hurried into the bathroom, and drew a glass of water. He was on his way back when a series of sounds, coming one on top of the other, nearly caused him to drop the glass. There was a metallic snap, a ripping of silk, and a shrill scream of pain and terror mingled in hideous cacophony.