Legion of the Living Dead

by Brant House

  Having made sure that the servant would be unconscious for some time, “X” picked up the doctor’s telephone and called a number which had never appeared in any telephone directory. Speaking into the transmitter, the harsh voice which had identified him as “Dummy” Vance slipped down into a smooth, deep pitch. It was the one voice by which Harvey Bates recognized his chief.

  “Bates,” ordered the Agent, “have the house of Felice Vincart watched. Try to shadow anyone who enters or leaves.”

  “Right, Chief,” replied Bates. “Have two men in that district now. They can reach the Vincart house in a few minutes. Just a moment, please. Have further information.”

  The Agent waited until he again heard Bates voice. He could hear the rustle of his henchman’s report sheets.

  “Sleepy Meguire,” Bates announced, “former public enemy who was incarcerated in the state penitentiary, has been granted special parole. This information has not been made public. Our agents inform us that Meguire has been out of prison nearly a week. He convinced authorities that, given a month of freedom, he could lay hands on the man responsible for the police massacres. Meguire’s brother is being held in prison as hostage.

  “Half an hour ago, another robbery and police killing took place—the former at the Graystone National Bank and the latter three blocks west. Our own agents positively identified a man seen loitering near the bank a few minutes before the robbery as Meguire. He is living in the Armedale Apartments under the name of Randolph Schnell.”

  “Good!” the Agent rapped. “Anything more? Any information regarding Peter Krausman, the jeweler?”

  “Krausman was seen to enter his own apartment early this morning,” replied Bates. “All of our efforts to locate the gang’s mystery car from the air were failures. Pilots report visibility poor.”

  “Keep trying,” urged “X” cheerfully. He hung up the receiver.

  9 AUTHOR’S NOTE: Considerably larger than the Hobart Agency is the group of men and women selected by “X” to comprise his staff of intelligence workers, and directed by Harvey Bates. Unlike the Hobart group, the world does not know of the existence of the Bates organization. Bates recognizes his chief only by a certain voice the Agent uses when communicating by telephone or radiophone, or by one of the codes which he employs in telegraphic transmission. Both of the organizations are paid for their services from an almost inexhaustible fund contributed for the Agent’s use by certain public-spirited men.

  10 It will be remembered the Agent “X” used this aerial device first in that adventure which was recorded in the novel entitled, “The Murder Monster.” It consists of an automatic moving picture camera mounted beneath the cockpit of an airplane. This camera is controlled by the pilot of the ship. What he sees through a glassed-in opening in the floor of the plane, is recorded on the film of the camera. This device is one of the Agent’s most valuable accessories inasmuch as once sighted by the pilot of the plane, the camera produces a permanent record of the action of the crime, and the route taken by the escaping criminals.

  11 This dye which simulated blood, it will be remembered, was used by the Agent when he was engaged in conflict with the strange criminal society known as The Seven Silent Men. On that occasion, the dye was used when he was forced to pretend to murder Betty Dale. The incident was recorded in the story entitled, “The Corpse Cavalcade.”

  CHAPTER VI

  KRAUSMAN’S SECRET

  Had Mr. Randolph Schnell’s neighbors in the Armedale Apartments known anything about Mr. Schnell beside the fact that he drove a Lincoln and paid four hundred dollars a month rent, they would have probably packed their belongings and vacated immediately. “Sleepy” Meguire, otherwise known as Randolph Schnell, did not look like an ex-convict. With his suits, shoes, ties, and socks all of the softest shades of brown, Mr. Schnell looked the gentleman—or at least a gentleman’s gentleman.

  He was in the act of distractedly accepting an invitation to bridge when the door of his apartment opened, and he was confronted with a surly-faced, tow-headed youth whose clothes were shiny and who obviously didn’t care. Half an hour before, another makeup miracle had gone on before the triple mirror of Secret Agent “X.” And when “X” had left his hideout he had stepped directly into the character of “Butch” Bently, former torpedo in Meguire’s group of criminals.

  Mr. Meguire registered alarm. The sudden appearance of this man placed Meguire in a precarious spot; for it was well known that Bently was scheduled to walk through Sing Sing’s little green door, and be carried back.

  Meguire dropped his French type telephone, sprang to his feet, and got behind his chair. “Get out of here!” he snarled.

  The tow-headed young man with the mauler’s face closed the door behind him, and walked over to replace the phone that Meguire had carelessly dropped.

  “A dame pulled that on me once,” explained Bently in a voice that was hardly more than a squeak. “All she and me had to say got out over the telephone wire. Wasn’t long before I had to leave town and rest up.”

  “How—how’d you get out of stir?” asked Meguire huskily.

  “Walked out,” explained Agent “X” in the voice of “Butch” Bently. “Them screws is all dumb. And ’memberin’ how you and me used to be pals, I thought I’d come here.”

  “What do you want? Money?”

  Eagerly, the magnificent Meguire reached for his check book.

  “Nope,” the Agent declined. “Just some info. I know you didn’t get paroled just to go to bridge parties. And havin’ measured your streak of yellow, I know you’re not out to get this guy called ‘X’ who’s supposed to be runnin’ this gang that’s tearin’ the town apart. You’d light out if you thought you might accidentally bump into him.”

  Meguire’s heavy eyelids drooped. He licked fat lips that had suddenly gone dry. “Well, to tell you the truth, I had a little business I had to take care of. It was a little awkward in stir trying to transact business.”

  “X” nodded. “Now, let’s have all the truth. What kind of hot stuff are you tryin’ to handle now?”

  “Just a few jewels, and a carload of silk we picked up before Christmas,” explained Meguire. “I’m willing to give you your split. Remember—” as “X” came a step nearer—“I offered to split before you asked me.”

  “X” shook his head in mute negation. His eyes never left Meguire’s perpetually tired face. Suddenly, Meguire’s hand struck at his coat pocket. He drew an automatic. “You get out of here!” he growled.

  “X” smiled. “Still packin’ them—eh? Well, I’d as soon be plugged by you as be fried in the chair. I’d know you’d follow me straight to hell when they found out you did it. Besides, even with a slug in me, I could choke you just like this!”

  “X” sprang like a cat. His long fingers were wide spread. Panic gripped Meguire. The gun fell from his nerveless fingers. “X” kicked it to one side. His arms dropped. The ugly mouth that he had adopted, sneered. “Still yellow. Now you speak up before I tear you apart!”

  Meguire raked his perspiring face with a trembling hand. “You ask me anything. I’ll tell you anything I know. But you gotta get out.”

  “Okay.” The Agent scuffed a match on his thumb nail, and lighted a cigarette. “Who fences that stuff for you?”

  “Peter Krausman,” whispered Meguire; “but if you let on I told you, I’m done for!”

  “I’d feel tough about that! So Krausman, the big-shot jeweler, is also a number one fence? And you wouldn’t mind confirming the fact that Krausman is also working with this gang of cop butchers?”

  Meguire turned the color of dough. “I—I didn’t say that!” He seized “X’s” coat lapels and hung there, his eyes pleading for the Agent’s silence.

  “When are you goin’ to see Krausman?” the Agent persisted.

  “In about fifteen minutes. He’s coming here. I tried to meet him by appointment in front of a bank a while ago, but he didn’t show up. But he’s coming here now, and you’ve got
to get out!”

  “X” pulled on his cigarette and held it almost be­neath Meguire’s nose. In another moment, there was a faint pop. The cigarette in the Agent’s fingers disintegrated. A cloud of gray vapor swirled about Meguire’s head. “X,” holding his breath, received none of the small charge of anesthetizing gas which the cigarette contained. Meguire sagged forward. His eyes were no longer sleepy. They were wide with fright.

  “Who—who are you?” he stuttered.

  “X” chuckled. “If you knew, you’d die of fright.”

  But it was doubtful if Meguire heard “X’s” scoffing remark. The anesthetizing gas was already dragging him down. “X” supported the man, carried him across the room, and dumped him into a closet. He closed the door, and entered Meguire’s bed room.

  One of Secret Agent “X’s” most remarkable traits is his memory. Once he has mastered a disguise, he requires no photographs to recreate it. Seated before a mirror, “X” unfolded his compact makeup kit. He spread pigment and plastic makeup material before him. Then he took out a black toupee. A few minutes of careful work, and he was once again Peter Krausman, wealthy jeweler and receiver of stolen goods.

  He was in the act of putting the finishing touches on his makeup, when the front door buzzer sounded. Going out into the hall, “X” spoke into the speaking-tube, imitating the voice of “Sleepy” Meguire to perfection. The real Krausman announced himself, and “X” told him to come up at once.

  When Krausman knocked at the door of the apartment, “X” opened quickly, swinging with the panel so that Krausman was inside the room before he had time to see the Agent.

  The dusky skin of Peter Krausman paled. For a moment, he could do nothing but stare at this exact counterpart of himself. With a movement that seemed no more than a gesture, “X” drew his gas pistol.

  Slowly, the color returned to Krausman’s face. “So,” he said, “it is true what they say of you—that you can assume any features you choose and impersonate anybody. You are Secret Agent ‘X’.”

  “X” bowed. “I am the reason for your suddenly leaving town yesterday morning.”

  Krausman frowned. “I do not understand. I was forced to fly to Chicago—”

  “To make room for me in your jewelry store,” the Agent interrupted. “The game’s up, Krausman. When the man who looked like Scar Fassler chose such a convenient means of getting out of your store when he was cornered, I knew that Fassler had been there frequently. Why? Because you associate with Fassler and the rest of the murdering gang that has terrorized the city. You were forced to fly to Chicago, because your chief ordered it. He knew that, since I had been tipped off to the robbery, I would be there. He was hoping that I would choose to appear as Peter Krausman. Your leaving town when you did, made the adoption of your character very easy for me. In that manner, I was marked by your chief.”

  “My chief! A most fantastic story!” declared Kraus­man. “You can’t prove a word of it.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” replied “X.” “I intend to search you carefully—”

  Krausman’s right hand shot toward his coat pocket. “X’s” gas gun hissed. For a moment, Krausman’s gypsy­like face was clouded with vapor. His dark eyes flickered. He would have fallen to the floor had not the Agent caught him and let him down easily. The threat to search Krausman had brought terror to the jeweler. Evidently, he had something of vital importance concealed on his person. “X’s” heart beat high with hope as he knelt be­side Krausman. At last he could hope for some key to the identity of the hidden creature who directed the corpse gang.

  In another moment, “X” had emptied the jeweler’s pockets. Keys, handkerchief, change wallet, and watch—all of these “X” transferred to his own pockets. It was only after searching Krausman’s vest that he came upon something that he thought might be important. It was a neatly folded piece of ivory-finished note paper. A delicate feminine hand had penned this little memo: “Be at my tailor’s at 10 P.M.”

  The words, “my tailor’s” implied that the writer of the note was a man—supposedly Krausman. Yet there could be no doubt that a woman had written it. That, coupled with the fact that the appointment was at such a strange hour, made “X” suspicious. Then too, the paper was not the sort a man would pick up in order to make some brief notation. And it had been exactly folded to fit a small envelope. “X” was certain that here was a message that, when correctly interpreted, would reveal the information which Krausman would have risked his life to guard. Perhaps the note had been a summons to a gang meeting. Perhaps it had been written by the green-eyed Leopard Lady.

  Because he had long since learned that the correct answer to the most complete riddle was often the simplest one, “X” turned back Krausman’s coat. The suit had been tailor made, but there was no identifying mark on the lining.

  Agent “X” sighed. There was nothing to do but make a trip to Krausman’s office. There, he hoped to find the information he was seeking.

  He removed his leather covered medical kit, took out a hypodermic needle, and deftly filled it with a drug of his own concoction. He injected sufficient amounts in both Krausman and Meguire to keep them both unconscious for several hours. After putting the men in separate rooms, he left the apartment. He nodded at the doorman.12

  “My car,” he muttered. “I’m becoming dreadfully absent-minded. I can’t remember whether I took a taxi or—”

  The doorman smiled. “Your car is at the curb, sir. When you went upstairs a moment ago, you said you would only be a moment.”

  “To be sure,” the Agent pressed a dollar bill into the doorman’s hand, and walked slowly toward a green sedan which the doorman had indicated. A moment of experimentation revealed the key which unlocked Kraus­man’s car. Then “X” was heading downtown in the direction of Krausman’s store.

  * * * *

  Parking the green sedan in a nearby garage, “X” walked the remaining block to the store. On the way, he was accosted by a ragged little newshawk. “Here’s your paper, Mr. Krausman.” The boy thrust the sheet beneath the Agent’s nose. Evidently, it was Krausman’s custom to patronize the boy. “X” gave the lad a quarter, tucked the paper under his arm, and continued on his way.

  Entering the store by the front door, “X” spoke to the clerks and hurried to Krausman’s office at the rear. Work­men had already replaced the glass in the office door, and “X” could be certain of his privacy. Then he began a diligent search through all of Krausman’s records. Kraus­man, the fence, evidently kept his records separate from those of Krausman, the jeweler. At any rate, Agent “X” could find nothing that would incriminate the man whose identity he had adopted. Going through a sheaf of canceled checks, “X” came upon several which had been made out to Otho Berg, Tailor. “X” looked up Berg’s address in the telephone directory, and made a note of it.

  He then opened the newspaper he had purchased, and looked at the front page. The first item his eyes met was:

  CORPSE GANG STRIKES AGAIN

  A score of people meet death or serious injury as police squad car crashes into office building.

  The article went on, telling how once again the death-dealing mystery car with its corpse drivers had prevented the police from getting to the scene of a bank robbery. Fifty thousand dollars had found their way into the grasping fingers of the hidden monster in this latest venture.

  According to the paper, an invention of the energetic Major Derrick had given an impartial and perfect record of the police butchering. On the major’s suggestion, an automatic camera had been installed in the police car and could be set into operation by anyone in the car. This camera had taken a picture of the mystery car and its two occupants at exactly the moment when the driver of the police car had been killed by machine-gun slugs. The picture had been enlarged so that the faces of the men in the mystery car could be plainly seen. Beneath the picture was printed this question:

  ARE EITHER OF THESE MEN

  THE NOTORIOUS SECRET AGENT “
X”?

  This was followed by the announcement made by Commissioner Foster. Fifty thousand dollars would be paid to anyone who would deliver Secret Agent “X” dead or alive to the police. The commissioner went on to say that Agent “X” alone could be responsible for these crimes. “The man,” Foster was quoted as saying, “is a genius gone berserk. He must be checked at all costs.”

  Another boxed-in article dealt with the investigation of the grave of “Slash” Carmody. It had been discovered that the grave had been opened shortly after interment. The casket was found empty. Many were the theories advanced by scientists as to how Carmody might have been brought back to life—for one of the men in the black mystery car was certainly “Slash” Carmody.

  In the office of Peter Krausman, Agent “X” smiled grimly. He had considered each of the theories advanced by men of science, concerning the restoring of life after death. None had guessed the truth. Perhaps Agent “X” was the only living person who understood the method by which the Corpse Legion had been created.

  12 This drug employed by “X” has two remarkable properties. It is particularly speedy in its action; and, unlike other drugs, it leaves no bad after-effects. It is one of his most valued accessories.

  CHAPTER VII

  ALIAS, THE CORPSE

  The Berg Tailor Shop was hardly more than a hole in the wall, in a little, run-down side street. It was sandwiched in between an old residence that had been transformed into a tea-room, and the smoky-faced limestone front of a bank.

  “X” in the disguise of Krausman and driving Kraus­man’s car, circled the block twice, observing every detail. The little show window of the tailor shop was brilliantly lighted and displayed the latest fabrics. The tearoom next door looked innocent enough with its soft rosy lights passing through cheerful, clean windows. The bank was as lifeless as the grave; not a light showed. Its windows were securely barred. For the past year, this bank had been closed. It was the bank of Mr. Stinehope whom “X” had met the day before.