by Brant House
“X” snapped open his makeup kit and removed a small, cylindrical bottle. Inside of it were two crystal glass capsules filled with a colorless fluid. From the pocket of his vest, he pulled out what appeared to be an ordinary fountain pen. Removing the cap revealed that it was a hollow barrel. “X” took one of the capsules from the cylindrical bottle and dropped it into the fountain pen. He inserted one end of the pen between his lips. The pen had resolved itself into a conveniently small blow gun. He drew deep lungs full of air, sighted the tube on the lolling figure of the guard, and blew with all his strength.
The tiny glass capsule pinged against the wall a few inches above the guard’s head, releasing a tiny cloud of fog. The guard sprang upright. The startled expression on his face was supplanted by one of inane peacefulness. He collapsed on the floor.4
The Agent thrust the blowgun back into his pocket, and immediately went to work on the lock. Tiny, finely tempered tools, the product of a professional lockpick, dropped from the Agent’s tool kit. In spite of the panic which possessed him, “X’s” hands were perfectly steady as he guided a gleaming tool into the tumblers of the lock. There had not been sufficient quantity of his anesthetizing gas in the tiny capsule to keep the guard unconscious for long. Eagerness, triumph, and doubt were expressions that alternately crossed the Agent’s almost boyish features.
In another moment, the lock was released. A backward glance at the television screen showed him that the circular door in the leopard cage had opened far enough to permit one of the savage beasts to thrust its drooling muzzle through the opening.
Agent “X” sprang into the hall. Without looking to right or left, he made for the door beside which the guard had lolled. A simple skeleton lock yielded to the key which “X” extracted from the guard’s pocket. Then he plunged down the stairs, and into the dismal street.
He was several miles from the house of the exotic Leopard Lady, and in such a district, at such a late hour, there wasn’t a taxi in sight. However, parked a short distance from the house from which he had escaped, was a car. He ran to it, opened the door, and turned his flashlight on the instrument panel. The key was in the ignition lock.
Again that strange premonition that this was not a coincidence passed over Agent “X.” It was all too easy—his escape and the finding of a car that must enable him to reach the Leopard Lady’s house in time. But this was not a time for hesitation. He was certain of trickery somewhere, but the scene he had witnessed on the screen of the television set could not have been faked.
* * * *
In a moment, he was speeding down the street, steering with one hand and fumbling with the makeup kit which he had opened on the seat beside him. He needed no light for the disguise he was about to assume.5
Thick layers of plastic volatile material lent a heaviness to his face. Dark pigments rubbed into his jowls simulated blue-black beard stubble. Plastic material widened his nose. The dark toupee which he had used in the character of Peter Krausman had not been removed by the gang chief. By the time the car nosed into a suburban residential district, he appeared to be an entirely different person than the man who had left the dismal back street fifteen minutes before.
The house that Felice Vincart had inherited from her wealthy husband was one of somber gray stone approached by a winding drive of white gravel. Agent “X” parked the car in front of the gate, got out and crossed the drive to the velvety lawn. There he broke into a run, eyes strained ahead to catch some sign of life in the great house. If there were lights inside every curtain had been securely drawn.
“X” sprang up the steps of the portico. The door was locked, but it required him only a moment to unlock it with the aid of his special master keys. He entered the hall, needling the darkness with his flashlight. Everywhere were furnishings that reflected the exotic personality of the woman who owned the house. “X” pushed back a door of carved wood and crossed a sumptuous living room. He stopped stock still, listening for the moment to the sound of bestial claws rasping over some metal surface. He sprang to a great oak-paneled door and flung it wide.
The pale light from a pierced brass lamp reflected upon a high, carved ceiling, and the narrow twisted pillars of the Leopard Lady’s drawing room. In a gloomy corner of the room, he saw two pairs of baleful yellow eyes. “X” rounded the bulky apparatus of the television transmitting equipment. He inhaled sharply. Crouching near the golden divan to which Betty Dale was bound, was the lithe form of a huge leopard. Aside from the switching tip of its tail, it was entirely motionless.
“X” sprang toward the big cat. He swept up a chair. The beast turned, and launched itself straight for him. The chair in the Agent’s hands swung up above his head, meeting the hurtling yellow shadow in the midsection. But the weight of the animal sent “X” crashing to the floor. With a snarl, the beast’s forepaws lashed out. Powerful claws ripped splinters of wood from the chair.
Every muscle in the Agent’s powerful body was brought into play in a mighty heave that hurled the leopard to one side. “X” sprang to his feet. His eyes darted toward the cage. The second leopard crouched in the circular door of the enclosure. “X’s” lips puckered. He uttered a piercing whistle. The effect of that whistle on the beasts was remarkable. The muscles of the leopard in the cage relaxed. The other beast slunk into a corner, and sat down upon its haunches.6
Agent “X” sprang to the couch to which Betty Dale was tied. Apparently, she was unharmed, though unconscious. The agony of waiting for that circular door to open and free the hungry beasts had been too much for her. She had fainted. “X” took out his pocket knife and cut the cords that bound her. He was in the act of taking his medical kit from his pocket in order to give Betty suitable stimulant, when a soft, husky laugh sounded behind him. “X” pivoted.
Felice Vincart stood not ten feet away. A dark traveling suit hugged her slender form. Her peculiar greenish eyes were smoky behind the wisp of veil on her smart hat. Her slender, gloved hand held a small automatic.
“I advise you,” she said softly, “to put up your hands. I am rather a good shot. I would not hesitate to shoot an ordinary house breaker.”
Agent “X” regarded the woman calmly. He closed his medical kit, and returned it to his pocket, but not until he had craftily palmed a small glass capsule in his right hand.
“Put up your hands.” The woman’s purring voice was unaltered. Slowly, “X” raised his hands above his head.
“I suppose you know who I am?” he asked.
The Leopard Lady shrugged. “I am sure I have no way of knowing. I’ve been a little out of touch with the East, having just returned from California half an hour ago.”
“X” was certain that she was laughing at him. He leaned slightly forward, throwing his weight on the balls of his feet. The woman turned her head slightly and uttered a sharp command in French. “X” saw the leopard get up from its corner and slink toward the cage. In another moment it was inside the cage beside its mate.
The Leopard Lady moved toward the couch where Betty Dale lay. “One of your victims, or a partner in crime?” she asked softly. She brought her left wrist up ever so slightly. For a moment, her eyes rested upon her watch. It was a movement that another man might have missed or misinterpreted. But Agent “X” knew that the Leopard Lady was expecting some one to come to her assistance. It was, as he had expected, some sort of a trap into which he had been forced to walk.
But action was imperative. His legs shot out like two springs, hurling him toward the woman. She fired instantly, the bullet jerking at the Agent’s coat sleeve. “X’s” left hand chopped down to lock over the woman’s gun wrist. With a quick, twisting motion that brought a wince of pain from Felice Vincart, “X” disarmed her. But hardly had he obtained the gun before the doors at the opposite ends of the room opened.
“Reach for the ceiling!” a voice well known to “X” bellowed. He dropped the gun, raised his hands, and turned, slowly. Through the door at the rear of the room, came
Inspector John Burks followed by six policemen. “X” looked over his shoulder at the other door, weighing his chance of escape. But at the other door stood Commissioner Foster, and his jumpy little friend, Major Derrick. Behind them was a second group of policemen.
4 AUTHOR’S NOTE: In the constant war Agent “X” wages against crime, he is forced to employ new tricks as often as possible so that his movements are seldom anticipated by his enemies. He is constantly on the lookout for new devices to strengthen his defense. This simple pocket blow gun, with its special missiles containing a form of his anesthetizing vapor, is one of the products of his own inventive genius.
5 AUTHOR’S NOTE: The genius of Agent “X” in the matter of disguise and voice impersonation is well known to the regular reader of these records. Because he never knows when he will be called upon to effect a complete change of features in a few moments time, he has practiced certain stock disguises until he knows them well enough to permit him to assume them without the aid of a mirror and in the dark if need be.
6 AUTHORS NOTE: One of the mysteries revolving about Secret Agent “X” is his peculiar influence over animals. This weird whistle which he utters upon occasion seems to have a fascination for all beasts who hear it. The magnetism of his glance probably also plays a part in this strange power he has over animals.
CHAPTER IV
FRAMED
The red lips of the Leopard Lady curved into a brilliant smile. “Thank you very much, Commissioner Foster. I was afraid, right after I called you, that this man would leave before you could capture him. I decided to risk holding him until you came.”
“A nice piece of work, Miss Vincart,” commended Foster. “Burks, search that man. If that tip was on the straight, he’s a member of that gang the papers call the Corpse Legion.”
“Why, what do you mean?” demanded the Leopard Lady.
It was Major Derrick’s whipping voice that answered her question. “Just before you called, Commissioner Foster had a tip that your house was being used as a headquarters for the Corpse Legion while you were in California. It isn’t the first time that criminals have made use of empty houses.”
The Leopard Lady bit her lip. A worried frown crossed her face. “You don’t think that I will be involved in any way in this business, do you?” she asked appealingly.
“Don’t worry, lady, you’ve done your part in capturing this bird. We won’t bother you any longer than is absolutely necessary,” said Inspector Burks. He stepped through the ring of detectives around Secret Agent “X.” He regarded the Agent a moment through half closed eyes. “Well, sir, either you’re Secret Agent ‘X’ or some member of his gang!”
He glanced up at “X’s” raised right hand; it was tightly closed over the glass capsule he had taken from the medical kit when the Leopard Lady had put in her appearance. “Open up that hand, you,” ordered Burks.
A slow smile crossed “X’s” features. “How do you know, if I am Secret Agent ‘X’ as you suppose, that my hand does not contain sure death for you?”
“I’ll take that chance,” said Burks gruffly. “You’re pretty fond of your own skin.”
“X” opened his right hand. It was empty. It had required but the tiniest gesture for him to drop the little glass capsule into the sleeve of his upraised arm. It would be instantly available whenever he wanted it.
Inspector Burks grunted his disappointment, and proceeded to search each one of the Agent’s pockets. In the meantime Foster, Major Derrick, and the Leopard Lady were busy over Betty Dale.
“She’s just fainted, poor girl,” declared Foster. “Look at her wrists. She’s been tied. Looks as though the gang had gone in for kidnapping as well as robbery. I am afraid, Miss Vincart, that your leopards are not as good watch dogs as you imagined them to be.”
“Ah, no, my leopards are as pet kittens. They would hurt no one. But are you sure this girl is not associated with your strange criminal gang?” asked the Leopard Lady.
“Why, this is Betty Dale, a reporter on one of the local papers,” explained Foster. “Her father was on the police force back in Major Derrick’s day—eh, Derrick?”
“Of course, of course,” jerked Derrick. “Miss Vincart, if you have a little brandy in the house, I think we can revive this young lady in a moment. She will probably be able to tell us enough about our prisoner to put him behind bars for the rest of his life.”
“Certainly. A cellarette over there—”
Major Derrick started for the cellarette the Leopard Lady had indicated. In doing so, he tripped over something which extended out from beneath the edge of the couch on which Betty lay.
Inspector Burks quickly went over, demanded—“What the devil have we here?” He saw that Derrick had tripped over the end of a small black traveling bag that had seen considerable wear.
“This anything of yours?” asked Derrick of the Leopard Lady.
Felice Vincart’s lips curved into a slight sneer. “Dear me, no. All of my traveling gear is upstairs waiting for the maid to unpack.”
Burks, Derrick, and Foster knelt beside the black bag and opened the clasps. The opening of the bag was too much of a surprise for even Commissioner Foster to retain his usual composure. “Good Lord!” he gasped. “It’s filled with jewels!”
“And—” Derrick said excitedly“I recognize some of the pieces. There’s the necklace stolen by the corpse-gang from Mr. Nelson’s store. There’s not another like it in the world!:
Inspector Burks looked over at Agent “X.” He nodded his great head up and down slowly. “We’ve made a catch this time!”
A commotion arose at the opposite end of the room. A uniformed messenger was allowed to pass the police guarding the door. “Message for Commissioner Foster,” the youth announced, extending a plain white envelope to the commissioner.
“Where from?” demanded Foster as he tore at the envelope.
The messenger shrugged. “Don’t know. A man gave it to me at the telegraph office. He said it was for you. I’ve hunted for you for some time; then some one told me at headquarters that I might find you here.”
Though Foster had asked the question, it is doubtful if he listened to the explanation, so intent was he upon the contents of the envelope. “Listen to this, Derrick,” he said, his voice trembling slightly with excitement: “‘You have a friend in the enemy camp, Commissioner. I am enclosing the fingerprints of Secret Agent ‘X’. Advise you checking them with any members of the gang you may capture.’ ”
Foster held up the slip of paper which had been enclosed with the message. Even from where he stood, Agent “X” could make out a complete set of fingerprints recorded on the paper. His heart gave a leap into his throat. The secret he had sworn would die with him—the secret of his identity—was about to be revealed. Even if he should succeed in escaping, the police now had a permanent record which could send him to the electric chair any time they laid their hands on him.7
But when another man might have spent precious moments brooding upon his own doom, Secret Agent “X” went into action. The hand of his upraised left arm balled and drove down like a mallet in a brain-rocking blow to the head of the plainclothes man in front of him. It was a blow that might have felled an ox. The Secret Agent hurdled the sprawled form, and ran straight at Foster. He knew that no one would dare fire a shot for fear of hitting the commissioner.
So sudden were his movements that surprise paralyzed everyone for a moment. “X,” with head lowered, drove straight between Foster and Major Derrick. His hand shot out. His fingers ripped the fingerprint record from Foster’s hand. It was a single motion in his mad dash toward the door at the rear of the room.
Ahead of him, police guards massed before the door.
“Stop him!” shouted Burks. “Stop Agent ‘X’!”
But even as Burks shouted, “X’s” right arm dropped and rose again. That motion had sent the little glass capsule he had secreted down into the palm of his hand. As he ran, he threw it with all his strength at the
group of police massed against the door. At the same instant, he drew a deep breath and dived into the center of the police in the doorway. They fell like cardboard soldiers before his furious onslaught. The glass capsule he had broken in their midst contained sufficient anesthetizing gas to send them all into temporary oblivion.
* * * *
“X” tore away from enfeebled hands, hurdled recumbent bodies that cluttered the floor, broke through the door, closed and locked it behind him. As heavy shoulders battered at the locked door, threatening to burst its hinges, Agent “X” sprang up the flight of broad stairs that extended before him. At the top of the stairs, he turned into the first room he came to. It was a large bathroom. He leaped to the window. But a glance out the window showed him that it offered no avenue of escape. It would have been a twenty foot drop, and already the shadowy forms of the police were moving across the lawn, surrounding the house.
“X” could hear the sound of feet hurrying up the stairs. Without any arms other than his wits and his fists, he would probably be completely at their mercy. He turned around, opened a small door which he supposed to be a closet of some sort. His heart gave a bound; for the door opened on the dark, narrow shaft of a laundry chute.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he threw a leg over the frame of the small door, arched his back so as to wedge himself in place, and pulled the door shut behind him. Thrusting his elbows against the walls of the chute in order to break the speed of his descent, he began sliding down the chute.
A second later, he had dropped into a laundry room in the basement. Only a little gray light passed through the basement windows, but after the tomblike darkness of the clothes chute, this light was sufficient for him to see his way about. He went from the laundry into the furnace room in search of a way out.