by Brant House
In the heels of his shoes were secret compartments where he carried materials which had often aided him in getting out of tight spots. He would probably have to employ the tube of makeup material which one of his heels contained, in order to affect a disguise that would enable him to get out of the house.
But his first task was to destroy the record of his fingerprints which he had snatched from Foster. Light from a basement window pointed out a monstrous furnace which heated the house. It was far too late in the spring for him to hope that there would be a fire inside the furnace. But near at hand, he found a small glass containing matches. He opened the glass jar, took out a match, and scuffed it against the floor.
It was only after he had crushed the charred scrap of paper beneath his heel that his old self-confidence returned to him. Now, with a little good fortune, the great work which he had undertaken could go on.
As he turned from the little pile of black paper ash which had once marked him for certain doom, he bumped directly against the muzzle of an automatic pistol. The brilliant beam of a flashlight burned into his eyes, blinding him.
“Got you this time, Secret Agent ‘X’.”
Instantly, “X” recognized that voice. It was the voice of one of Burks best men, Detective Keegan.8
“And I’m not taking any chances, either!” The detective’s flashlight described a brilliant arc above the Agent’s head and descended in a blow to “X’s” temple. Agent “X” dropped to the basement floor, and lay still.
A few minutes later, Detective Keegan, hat mashed down over his head, triumphantly entered the presence of Inspector John Burks who was bellowing orders to his men. Betty Dale, in the meantime, had recovered under the apparently kindly ministrations of Felice Vincart.
“Find anything in the basement, Keegan?” demanded Burks.
Keegan coolly nodded as he shook a cigarette from a battered pack. “Secret Agent ‘X’,” he replied between puffs of smoke.
“Agent ‘X’!” Burks sprang across the room, and clamped both hands down on Keegan’s shoulders. “You found him, and let him slip through your fingers without giving us a signal? By heaven, you’ll lose your badge for this!”
Keegan spread his right hand, palm down. “Easy, sir. I’ve got your Agent ‘X’ all tied up with sash cord. I brained him with my flash. He’ll keep for weeks.”
Had Burks been watching Betty Dale, he would have seen her cheeks grow deathly pale.
Burks’ eyes seemed to pop from their sockets. “Foster!” he cried. “We—we’ve—he’s got Secret Agent ‘X’!” Burks thundered through the room and out into the kitchen. He plunged down the basement steps, closely followed by Foster, Major Derrick, and several men of the force.
In the furnace room, Burks knelt before a recumbent figure. The man was securely tied with a soot-soiled rope. Burks turned him over. It was indeed the heavy-faced man whom Burks had declared to be Secret Agent “X.”
“So that’s the devil!” exclaimed Derrick. “Got him at last. No more police massacres, Foster. This man ought to be lynched!”
Burks was staring down into the face of the unconscious man. “You got to hand it to him,” he muttered. “You wouldn’t know that face he’s wearing from real flesh and blood! But there’s a way of finding out what’s underneath.”
The inspector dug his fingernails deep into the plastic material that enabled “X” to adopt any feature he chose. His hands trembled with suppressed excitement. Time after time, this mystery man had defeated Burks. He could scarcely believe that at last he was about to look upon the true features of his old enemy.
“Keegan shall have a promotion for this!” declared Foster.
Burks said enthusiastically: “Keegan’s good, but I don’t see—” His sentence wandered off into a whisper. His hands dropped limply to his sides. Foster and Derrick looked at each other and then down at Burks. Words failed the inspector. Unconsciously, he molded bits of plastic makeup material between his fingers, and stared down at the face of the man on the floor. For the man who had been so completely knocked out, the man who had been so securely tied, was none other than Detective Keegan himself.
7 AUTHOR’S NOTE: The Agent’s unorthodox methods have been grossly misinterpreted by the members of the police force. They believe him to be a dangerous criminal. On several occasions, crimes with which “X” has had no connection have been laid at his door. The casebook of Inspector Burks is filled with records of crimes attributed to Agent “X”. It is Burks’ belief that Agent “X” will stop at nothing — even murder — to gain his own ends.
8 AUTHOR’S NOTE: It will be remembered that Agent “X” met Keegan in his long battle against a master extortionist who threatened his victims with an insidious chemical weapon known as “The Amber Death.” The instance of this meeting was recorded in the novel entitled “The Golden Ghoul.”
CHAPTER V
THE DUMMY
The actions of Secret Agent “X” from the moment that Keegan had swung his flashlight in an effort to knock him out, were as simple as they were surprising. Keegan was a powerful man, and perfectly fit. But he had acted hastily. In almost complete darkness, it is difficult to strike a man in a vulnerable spot at the first blow. The detective’s flashlight, aimed at the Agent’s temple, had grazed “X’s” ear and landed squarely on his right shoulder.
“X” had collapsed on the floor to lie perfectly still. The moment that Keegan had pocketed his gun and started to kneel at his captive’s side, “X” had thrown up both legs to lock in a powerful scissors grip around Keegan’s knees. The detective had fallen full length upon “X” and had taken a short, chopping left on the head.
The struggle had not lasted a minute. Keegan was no match for the fighting skill of Agent “X.” Having tied the detective and appropriated his flashlight, “X” proceeded to remove makeup material from his own face. Then, using makeup material which he obtained from one of the secret compartments in his heel, “X” worked over his own face to resemble the contours of Keegan’s face. Master of his art that he was, “X” was able to duplicate Keegan’s features from memory. A change of clothing, and he was ready to face Inspector Burks.
No sooner had Burks and his followers trooped into the basement, than Agent “X” sauntered out of the house, and regained the car he had borrowed.
The sky was graying in the east by the time “X” arrived at one of his hideouts miles away from the Leopard Lady’s house. He knew that Betty Dale was in good hands. Burks, who had known the girl since childhood, would not have permitted any harm to come to her. But “X” knew that more than ever before, the police would hamper his efforts in the cause of justice.
The Agent’s first act on reaching his hideout—a brownstone dwelling in the west end of town—was to enter a closet and open what appeared to be a large wardrobe trunk. Inside, was concealed a small shortwave radio transmitter and receiver. By means of a telegraph key, he tapped out a code message which was transmitted on a clear wave channel. He was anxious to get in touch with Harvey Bates, director of the Agent’s vast secret organization.9
Almost immediately, the reply came through—a series of Morse dots and dashes. Again, the Agent’s key clicked, this time to inform Bates to use a certain code, known only to Bates and himself. Then he tapped out a question which when decoded read: “Are camera planes ready for immediate use?”
Bates replied that two of the Agent’s aerial eyes were ready to take off at a moment’s notice.
“Then,” the Agent tapped out, “put them in the air at once. Patrol city. Watch for Corpse-Legion’s mystery car. In case of another police massacre, trace car, and deliver record of route taken.”10
Having completed these instructions, “X” leisurely removed his makeup which had aided him in the impersonation of Detective Keegan. Seated before a triple mirror, his skillful fingers worked miracles. Transparent adhesive twisted his lips into an ugly snarl. Plastic material helped him achieve a hideous, flattened nose that was almost
apelike. A clever toupee of coarse, black hair, a suit of flagrant checks, and a tie that flamed completed his disguise.
Staring for a moment at his reflection in the mirror, he believed that his new face was the result of genuine inspiration. He looked the sort of a man a policeman would arrest on sight. He could think of no face which appeared to need the aid of a plastic surgeon any more than the one reflected in the mirror.
It was his intention to visit the home and office of Jules Planchard. Previous investigation had led “X” to believe that the greedy doctor was not above using his skill to change the features of fugitives from justice. So far, Planchard had slipped beneath the fingers of the law; but “X’s” great group of secret investigators had ferreted out Planchard’s true character. Then the incident of the jade bracelet—first purchased by Planchard and next seen on the wrist of Felice Vincart—made “X” doubly suspicious.
“X” believed that there were but two possible explanations for the existence of the Corpse-Legion. Either some scientist had discovered a means of reviving the dead, or there was trickery somewhere—trickery of a sort that “X” knew better than any other man. Such trickery—the alteration of the real features of a man’s face—could be greatly simplified if the skilled Jules Planchard served the unknown leader of the gang.
It was nine o’clock in the morning when “X,” beneath his masterly disguise, pressed the doorbell of Jules Planchard’s great square, brick house. His ring was answered by a servant whose eyes were still puffy with sleep. Dr. Planchard, the servant informed “X,” was still at breakfast.
“Don’t let that bother you, buddy,” the Agent growled. He wedged the toe of his left shoe in between door and sill. “The doc’s expectin’ me. I’m a customer, get it?” He winked knowingly.
The servant would have hesitated to admit “X” had not the latter suddenly thrown his full weight against the door. The servant fell backwards. “X” strode into the hall, slamming and locking the door behind him.
The servant cowered against the wall, staring at the leather-covered blackjack that “X” swung suggestively.
“You lead me to the doc, old wooden face, ’fore I bash your brains out!” Agent “X” snarled.
“He—he didn’t want to see anybody. He’s—”
“Ah, Parkins, what seems to be the trouble?” a nasal voice inquired.
“X” turned. Dr. Jules Planchard, swathed in a quilted silk dressing gown, stood in the door at the end of the hall. His long goatee dangled beneath his pendulous lower lip. He examined “X” with keen, black-bean eyes. His breakfast napkin was in his right hand.
“This bird thought he was keeping’ me out, doc,” replied “X” familiarly. He thrust thumbs into the arm holes of his checkered vest, tilted his hat on the back of his head, and glowered at the doctor. “My name’s Vance, ‘Dummy’ Vance. Maybe me name hasn’t got this far east, but out in Frisco I’m called ‘Dummy’—cause that’s the one thing I’m not. You look like a smart man yourself, doc.”
Planchard bowed slightly in acknowledgment of what was intended to be a compliment.
“Smart enough,” the Agent continued, “not to kick up too much fuss when a guy wants his map dredged a bit. This beezer, now—” the Agent fingered his flattened nose—“without that, the bulls wouldn’t know me from a wooden Indian. You getting’ the idea?”
Planchard motioned to the door through which he had just passed. “Come in here, Mr. Vance. We can talk in privacy.”
“X” followed Planchard through the door into a small study. Planchard motioned to a chair across from a small coffee table laden with the doctor’s breakfast. “X” dropped into a chair, picked up a couple of slices of toast, and munched thoughtfully for a moment. His eyes narrowed.
“That gun you’re hidin’ under your napkin, doc—I spotted it first time I lamped you. Kind of spoils my digestion to have to eat starin’ at a gun.”
Planchard coughed nervously, dropped his napkin, and put a small automatic into his pocket. “One never knows,” he mumbled.
“Sure. And that’s why you got to fix me up so I look like a Sunday-school teacher. I worked myself over from the west coast, if you get what I mean. Maybe I left a record here and there, and maybe I didn’t. How’d you like to earn a grand fixin’ my pan?”
Planchard smiled slightly. “Really, Mr. Vance, you and I don’t speak the same language!”
“X” scowled. “You mean you come higher than that?”
Planchard nodded. “For a man of your reputation, I don’t think five thousand would be too much to ask.”
“X” tossed a crumb of toast into his mouth and chewed it. “Okay, make it five grand. But it’s got to be a swell job.”
“Just step into my operating room,” Planchard suggested, “and we’ll see what can be done. Of course,” he added, as he led toward the door, “I’ll have to have part of my fee in advance.”
“Fair enough,” the Agent said, handing him a thousand dollars. He followed the doctor through a door, down a short hall, and into a small operating room that was complete in every detail. The doctor went over to a white-enameled locker where he traded dressing gown for a short white coat.
“X” removed his hat, and slung one leg over the white operating table. The doctor went over to the wall and switched on a powerful compound lamp suspended above the Agent’s head. He walked to a cabinet, picked up a gleaming scalpel, and approached “X.”
“Let’s see—” Planchard tilted the Agent’s head, and stared long and searchingly into his face. For a moment, “X” wondered if even his clever disguise could withstand such a scrutiny. He eyed the scalpel uneasily.
“Don’t you give an anesthetic or nothin’?” he asked.
Planchard laughed. “Oh, I can’t operate today. I’m merely studying the lines of your face. Your nose is really horrible, if you don’t mind my saying so. I can make an incision here—” the scalpel tapped the bridge of the Agent’s nose. “Possibly one here.” Suddenly, Planchard brought his scalpel down beneath “X’s” chin. Its gleaming point pressed against “X’s” throat. “Now, blundering spy, tell me why you have come here!” Planchard whipped out. “One of your gang has tricked me already. What did you do with my formula?” His left arm swung around behind “X,” and gripped his shoulders tightly. “Tell me, I say, or I operate right now—on your jugular!”
“Wh-what formuler?” the Agent stuttered. “Don’t getcha.”
“You know well enough! No man of your sort comes here without a letter of introduction from some one whom I can trust. You must be a spy. Tell me what you have done with my formula! Doubtless you have come to get further information about it. If that formula becomes public property, I shall be ruined. Tell me, or by heaven, I will kill you!”
Agent “X’s” right leg kicked around behind Planchard, and stuck him behind the knees. At the same time, he sent a pounding blow to the doctor’s midsection, and snatched at the hand that held the scalpel against his throat.
Planchard doubled beneath the force of the blow, staggered back, and tripped over the Agent’s right leg. “X” sprang toward the doctor. He yanked his gas-gun from his pocket. Rage blinded the surgeon. He sprang up from the floor, and flung himself upon “X.” His fingers wilted on the Agent’s throat as he received a full charge from the gas gun straight in the face. “X” picked the man up, and stretched him out on his own operating table.
A soft, purring laugh sounded behind “X.” He swung around. A revolver shot cracked out. The Leopard Lady stood in the door of the operating room, a smoking revolver in her hand. Both of the Agent’s hands were clasped tightly over his heart. Thick, red fluid crawled from between his fingers. He staggered toward the Leopard Lady. His knees melted under him. He fell full length on the floor.
A cruel smile spread slowly across the face of the Leopard Lady. Then her green eyes darted at the operating table where Dr. Planchard lay. With quick, graceful steps, she crossed the room, and bent over the doctor. She h
eld his wrist a moment, feeling his pulse. Then her red lips puckered and she uttered a sharp whistle.
From beneath veiled eyelids, Agent “X” watched what went on in the room. He had sustained no more painful injury than if he had been struck a hard blow over the heart with a man’s fist. His bullet proof vest had stopped the Leopard Lady’s shot. However, Secret Agent “X” often had occasion to “play ’possum.” Beneath his clothing, he frequently wore a small bladder containing a quantity of red dye which closely resembled human blood.11
By pinching this bladder between his hands, he had opened a valve that allowed some of the substance to flow out between his fingers. Coupled with his natural dramatic talents, this trick enabled him to feign death without difficulty.
* * * *
No sooner had the Leopard Lady uttered her whistle than two men stepped into the room. Again, “X” met faces out of the past. One of the men had the face of Willy Hymes; and “X” had last seen Willy Hymes on a slab in the morgue. He had been killed in a gun brawl. Yet here, to all appearances, was Hymes in the flesh. More than ever, “X” was convinced that Planchard had played some part in this hideous hoax. Planchard had lost a formula. “X” had a notion as to the use that formula had been put, and also a vague idea as to the identity of the criminal genius behind the gang.
“We will take Dr. Planchard to the chief,” declared the Leopard Lady. “He is becoming annoying, and I believe he has begun to suspect me. Carry him to the car at once.”
Without reply, rat-faced Willy Hymes and his equally despicable-looking companion lifted the doctor, and carried him from the room. The Leopard Lady saw them out, then crossed to where “X” lay. She gave him a sharp kick between the shoulders with her tiny, high-heeled slipper. Though that kick had struck a particularly sensitive nerve center, “X” did not move. The Leopard Lady laughed softly, and left the room.
“X” lay still, scarcely breathing until he heard the tap of her shoes far down the hall. Then he got up, crossed to the door. The Leopard Lady and her companions had left the house by means of the back door. “X” entered Planchard’s office. On the floor was the surgeon’s servant. There was a red lump at the back of the man’s ear. Evidently, this was the work of the Leopard Lady’s two bodyguards.