Legion of the Living Dead

by Brant House

  He had staked much to frustrate the thieves’ scheme. But his chief desire was to capture one of the members of the gang and thus dispel the mystery that had baffled the police. For though the idea seemed too ridiculous to warrant its publication in newspapers, the entire gang of murderous thieves seemed to be made up of criminals who had long since died. Scar Fassler was only one of a legion of corpse criminals.

  Had some master scientist actually discovered the long-sought secret for reviving the dead? Had some mad doctor taken criminals, fresh from the execution room, and brought them back to life, to recruit a vast underworld army of men who, knowing death once, would not fear it a second time?

  This was the riddle that Secret Agent “X” sought to solve. Wise in the way of the perverted geniuses who directed major crime groups, “X” knew that the knowledge of life eternal could be a greater scourge than all the lethal weapons that man could produce. Fear of death, he knew, was the only thing that prevented thousands of men from forsaking the law for the lawless.

  CHAPTER II

  GREEN EYES

  * * * *

  Turning from the shower room, Secret Agent “X” disguised as Kraus­man the jeweler, encountered the redheaded clerk who had conducted himself so cour­a­geously throughout the encounter with the criminals. His hair was a tangled mop, and his jaw was swoll­en.

  “What happened to that scar-face?” he demanded excitedly. “I’ve seen that man before. He looked like a hood by the name of Fassler. But Fassler is supposed to be dead. You should have let me shoot him, Mr. Kraus­man.”

  “No, Hobart. I wanted him alive,” declared Agent “X.” He conducted Jim Hobart to the closet in the shower room, and showed him the hole in the floor. “That will bear investigation, Jim. I hadn’t the slightest idea there was anything of that nature in here. It seems to be an avenue of escape well known to that criminal.”

  Frowning, Jim Hobart looked from the opening in the floor to the swarthy face of the man who had em­ployed him. Perhaps he was think­ing that it was ex­tremely odd that Peter Krausman did not know every detail of his own office.

  “Did they get much loot?” Secret Agent “X” asked of his aide.

  Hobart shook his head. “But that policeman was badly wounded. One of your customers, a Mr. Stinehope, was knocked out. That’s about all at this end of the line.”

  “What do you mean by that?” inquired “X.”

  “Why, Commissioner Foster is outside there now with a group of police and he told me that the officer who was shot got in an alarm before he entered the store. One of those special squad cars was on its way here when they encountered that mysterious black roadster with the mounted machine gun—the car that’s been made so much of in the papers.”

  “X” seized Hobart by the arm. “Did it—”1

  Hobart’s nod interrupted him. “The police car was completely wrecked. Only one of the men is expected to recover. No clues at all as to the mystery car. In fact, the mystery has deepened. It seems that the sole survivor of the police car wreck insists that he got in several shots at the driver of the death car. Two of the shots went home, he is certain. Yet the car steered unerringly on its course, the machine gun spitting death.”

  “Maybe the driver of the black roadster wore a bulletproof vest,” the Agent suggested, “just as you and I did.”

  Hobart nodded. “Possible, of course. But this cop, who’s expected to pull through, swears that he sent a bullet straight through the forehead of the driver of the mystery car. The driver didn’t so much as budge, he says. What is more, the cop recognized the man as Slash Carmody—who was executed in Sing Sing only a day or so ago.”

  Frowning, Agent “X” turned toward the door of the office. On the other side of the broken glass, he saw a grave-faced man of medium height whom he recognized immediately as Police Commissioner Foster. Foster’s thin lips curved into a smile. He nodded at the man he supposed to be Krausman, opened the door and walked in.

  “One of your customers informs me that you managed to frustrate this attempt to rob your store, Mr. Krausman. You are to be congratulated.”

  Agent “X” shrugged. “I am afraid that your praise has fallen in the wrong place, commissioner. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Hobart, here, I wouldn’t be talking to you at this moment.”

  * * * *

  The police commissioner nodded at Hobart just a bit reservedly. Though the Hobart Detective Agency was rapidly making a name for itself, Foster habitually re­garded all private detectives with suspicion.

  Another man appeared in the office door. He was small, gray-eyed, and thoughtful looking. “X” recognized the man as one who had entered the store only a few moments before the robbery. The little man stroked thin, blond hair nervously, and glanced from Foster to “X.”

  “Commissioner,” he said hesitantly, “what is to be done? I declare, the police make no headway against this mob of killers! Mr. Krausman has done more to check them than the police.” The man opened the door of the office, and approached “X” with his thin right hand extended. “I would like to shake your hand, sir. Stine­hope is my name.”

  Agent “X” took Stinehope’s limp hand. Stinehope was a name that had been famous in the banking world. For the past year, however, the bank which Stinehope had directed had been closed. Nevertheless, little Mr. Stinehope seemed to retain an envied position in the realm of finance.

  Commissioner Foster winced slightly. “I am sure we all commend Mr. Krausman most highly, Mr. Stinehope. However, we can all feel somewhat relieved. The police force is about to be firmly reinforced by one of the great­est criminologists this city has known. I had a long talk with my old friend and former superior, Major Derrick. Derrick, you will remember, was the police commissioner who retired in my favor some time ago. He has promised to give us every assistance. He should be here by now.”

  Stinehope nodded thoughtfully. “Ah, yes. I re­mem­ber Derrick. Splendid man, he was. A hard worker; a straight thinker. No offense intended, Foster.”

  “X” said nothing, thoughtfully studied Stinehope.

  “And now, Mr. Krausman,” said Foster, “can you give us a description of some of the men who took part in this attempted looting of your store?”

  Agent “X” frowned. “Perhaps I can. I think there were four of them. That right, Hobart?”

  “The leader,” Agent “X” continued, “had a long scar down his left cheek—or perhaps it was his right.”

  He knew that it would not do for him to give too accurate a description. In the character he was playing, he would not be expected to show as much accuracy in matters of detail as a trained criminologist would.

  Commissioner Foster fumbled in his pocket and brought out a picture. “This the man?” he asked. He handed the picture to “X.”

  The Secret Agent took the picture. It was indeed the photograph of the supposedly dead Scar Fassler. He nodded slowly. “Undoubtedly, that is the man.”

  At that moment, the door of the office snapped open. A wiry, blond little man who seemed a bundle of nerves stepped into the room. He jerked a birdlike glance from first one to another of the men in the room. The nostrils of his little nose spread, and he inhaled quickly and noisily as if he were taking snuff.

  “Foster!” he rapped.

  The commissioner turned, a smile lighting his usually grave face. He seized the newcomer’s hand, began pumping it up and down. “Major Derrick! You’re just in time to help us out!”

  “Glad to, glad to,” Derrick sputtered. He nodded at Stinehope. “Hello, hello.” He turned on “X,” looked him up and down. “Mr. Krausman, I suppose. Hello. Most unfortunate circumstances.” He sniffed sharply.

  “Derrick,” said Foster, “Mr. Krausman has positively identified the man who led this mob as Scar Fassler!”

  Turning abruptly to “X,” Derrick rapped out: “And what would Mr. Krausman say if I told him I saw Fassler executed in the electric chair five years ago?”

  Agent “X” regarded the
blond Lt. Major Derrick for a moment. “I would be inclined to say that one of us had made a mistake.”

  “Possible, possible,” Derrick whipped out. “But I don’t make mistakes of that sort, Mr. Krausman. And, I might add, you do not appear to me as a man who makes mistakes.”

  “How does it happen that you were prepared for this holdup, Mr. Krausman?” asked Stinehope curiously.

  Agent “X” laughed. “When you have half a million dollars tied up in rare gems, you don’t take chances, Mr. Stinehope. I always have some one in the store to watch things. Today, it just happened to be Jim Hobart.”

  Foster turned to his former superior. “What would be our best first move, major?” he demanded.

  Derrick sniffed. “Reward, first off. Post a reward for a starter. We need a responsible citizen, some one the people respect to head a committee to post a reward.” His birdlike eyes jumped at Stinehope. “The very man!” his voice lashed like a whip. “Stinehope, will you head the reward committee? Advise you to make the appointment, Foster, if Stinehope will accept. And you will, eh?”

  Stinehope considered a moment. Then: “Certainly. I will be glad to do anything.”

  “Good!” declared Foster. “Will talk with you in a moment, Stinehope. And now, Krausman, can you give us any further information concerning the men in the criminal group?”

  “X” shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m not very observant. I suggest that you interrogate Mr. Hobart. He is trained in such matters. I’m rather tired now. If you don’t mind, I’ll look around the store, and see if there has been much damage or anything stolen.”

  Without waiting for permission, “X” strode through the door of the office. He had sighted a group of news-hungry reporters, and among them a young girl. She was undeniably beautiful. From beneath her jaunty hat, he observed wisps of golden hair. Her starry eyes were deep blue. Her smart attire became her perfect figure.

  As the man who looked like Peter Krausman entered the store proper, the reporters came at him in a body, waving notebooks and clamoring for permission to take pictures. “X” endured the searching rays of photoflash lamps, and then tried to get past them toward the door.

  “Statement for the press, Mr. Krausman?”

  “Sure, give us a story, Mr. Krausman.”

  “Yeah, tell us how it feels to sock a gunman.”

  Agent “X” smiled: “Try it yourself and get first hand information,” he suggested.

  “Ah, give us a break!” a young reporter appealed.

  “Very well. But I dislike talking before a crowd. One of you, that young lady, perhaps—I’ll see in private. She can give you all the story when I’m through.”

  Smiling, the golden-haired girl came forward. This was Betty Dale of the Herald. Little did she know that this swarthy-skinned man with the broken nose was her old friend, Secret Agent “X.”2

  “Where can we go, Mr. Krausman?” she asked.

  “X” indicated a little room apart from the store proper. There were a number of similar rooms in the building. Some were used as showrooms to display gems of rarest quality to prospective buyers. Others were small offices set apart for certain members of Krausman’s staff.

  “Don’t hold out on us, Betty,” cautioned one of the reporters good naturedly as “X,” steering Betty by the elbow, entered the tiny room. The Secret Agent closed the door, and quietly twisted the key in the lock. He turned toward Betty, a smile on his thick lips. If the girl wondered at his locking the door so carefully, there was no sign of alarm on her lovely face.

  “Please sit down.” The Agent indicated a chair behind a small walnut telephone desk. She complied with his request, spread her notebook before her, and regarded the man she believed to be Peter Krausman inquiringly.

  “If you don’t mind, I should like to hear the story of the robbery as you observed it, Mr. Krausman. Just when did you first realize that the store was being held up?”

  “X” seated himself on the edge of the telephone desk. “I knew that it would be held up nearly ten hours ago. I really don’t know just how I would have managed to be here at the exact moment, if it hadn’t been that Krausman left town this morning.”

  Betty’s white forehead crimped into a tight frown. “You knew it ahead of time? I—I don’t quite understand.”

  “Then don’t bother your pretty head about it any longer. Perhaps this will clarify matters for you, Betty.” Secret Agent “X’s” forefinger traced the letter “X” on top of the desk.

  “No!” she exclaimed excitedly. She smiled happily. “I should have known! But—but I never do. I had no idea that these strange robberies were so serious as to attract your attention.”3

  “Not serious, Betty? Do you realize that in the last two weeks nearly a score of police have met death in conflict with that black car?”

  “Then there is a definite connection between the mystery car and these robberies?”

  “Assuredly. As soon as a robbery call goes out over the radio, that black, torpedo-shaped car puts in its ap­pearance. With total disregard for the lives of innocent bystanders, the machine gun on the killers’ car opens up. Slugs rake the squad cars hurrying to the scene of the robbery. Not once have the police reached the scene of the robbery in time to prevent the crime from being committed.” The face of the man who looked like Krausman became suddenly grim. “It is the most ruthless butchery I’ve ever encountered! The man behind it all must be bent on wiping out the entire police force. And through it all, he remains hidden, as invisible as a black panther at midnight and far more dangerous.”

  “Have you any idea who the hidden criminal may be?” Betty asked.

  “Not the slightest,” replied “X” without hesitation.

  A worried frown crossed Betty’s face. “Commission­er Foster thinks he knows,” she said. “I was in his office this morning when he received a mysterious note. He permitted me to make a copy. But I just can’t turn it into the Herald. It’s too absurd!”

  “May I see it?” “X” asked.

  The girl reached into the pocket of her jacket, and took out a piece of Paper. “It—it frightens me,” she said simply as she handed the note over to “X.”

  The Secret Agent opened the paper and read through the letter quickly.

  Dear Foster:

  This is an open challenge. Dare you pick up the glove? For every man who has met death at the hands of the law, I shall take the lives of ten members of the police force. A vaster army than you can muster is behind me. It is the Legion of Corpses. The secret of life eternal is mine; yet to my enemies, I mete out certain death. Dare you take up the glove?

  The paper jerked almost imperceptibly in the Agent’s hands. For this open challenge from the lawless to the law was signed, “Secret Agent ‘X’.”

  “X” looked at Betty. A fear that his smile could not dispel was in her deep blue eyes. “You know what that means?” she asked. “Foster will demand your capture, alive or—or —”

  The Agent laughed quietly. “There’s been a price on my head before. Go ahead and publish that note in your paper. If you don’t, some other paper will. It doesn’t matter, anyway.” He handed the piece of paper across the desk.

  As Betty extended her hand for the note, her elbow knocked over the telephone. The girl uttered a startled: “Oh!” and started to recover the instrument.

  Agent “X’s” hand shot out and closed over her wrist. A strange change had come over his face. His eyes were like bright points of gleaming steel. Gently, he disengaged Betty’s fingers from the phone, picked up the instrument, and stared at it a moment before setting it down. Then he slid from the desk, crossed the room on tiptoe, one finger on his lips. He beckoned to Betty. Wonderingly, the girl got up, and followed him. The Secret Agent put both hands on her shoulders, bent his head, and whispered into her ear:

  “Go back to the desk, sit as you were sitting, and keep talking for about a minute. Then, newspaper or no newspaper, leave this office immediately. I don’t want to hide
from you the fact that you are in deadly danger. Avoid all strangers. Take care of yourself, but don’t be afraid. Go back now.” He gave her a gentle push, and turned toward the door.

  * * * *

  Agent “X” unlocked the door, opened it, and stepped outside. Reporters were waiting for him, eager with ques­tions. With his back to the door, “X” inserted the key in the lock, and turned it. Then he dropped the key to the floor, found it with his heel, and kicked it under the door.

  “Where’s Miss Dale?” demanded one of the re­port­ers.

  “Inside,” the Agent explained. “She’s putting her notes in some order. Don’t worry; she’ll not hold out on you.” Then he pushed past the reporters, turned abrupt­ly to the left, and entered another office. It was empty. He hurried over to the desk and bent over the telephone. A moment’s scrutiny told him what he wanted to know. Beneath the receiver hook of the instrument, was a small wooden wedge driven far enough in to open the telephone circuit. A similar wedge he had seen on the phone in the room in which he had talked to Betty.

  It was safe to wager that every phone in the building had been similarly opened so that anyone listening at any of the extension phones on the circuit might have heard his conversation with Betty Dale.

  As “X” hurried from the little office he was wondering if the robbery attempt that afternoon had been the failure he had thought it to be. Perhaps there was another motive—one that spelled danger for himself—and for Betty Dale. He wondered, too, if Krausman’s absence from the city that afternoon was as innocent as it ap­peared to be.

  Avoiding Commissioner Foster and Major Derrick, who were busy with the police investigation, “X” hurried along the wall of the store, stopping at every door to look in the rooms beyond. All were empty. The police had herded all the store’s employees into one group, and were busy firing questions at them.