Legion of the Living Dead

by Brant House

  “X” decided that if he was to enter the tailor shop, he must do so from the rear. The front was too brilliantly lighted. He would attract the attention of the cop on the beat in no time if he attempted to pick the lock on the front door.

  “X” steered the car around the corner and into the alley. Then he got out, having made certain that no one was watching, and approached the shop. A light was burning in the rear.

  Upon a tailor’s bench and beneath a dim light, a man sat with his legs crossed under him. His back was toward “X” and his head was bent far over, eyes close to his work. There was nothing whatever to indicate that the shop was to be the scene of a meeting of a ruthless criminal organization. And perhaps it was not. It was possible that “X” had misinterpreted the note he had found in Krausman’s pocket. At any rate, there was no turning back now. “X” approached the door, and knocked.

  From where he stood, “X” watched the shadow of the man on the tailor’s bench unfold and cross the room. In another moment, the door had opened and a soft, husky voice said, “Come in, Mr. Krausman, the coat is ready for fitting.”

  “X” stared into the face of the man he had seen on the bench. Scarlet lips smiled at him; narrow, acutely slant­ing brows winked; eyes of emerald green scintillated in the light of the shop.

  “Surprised, Peter?” came the query in the unmistakable voice of the Leopard Lady. For the person in male attire who had been seated on the tailor’s bench was none other than Felice Vincart. She closed the door, and bolted it behind “X.”

  “Now, if you’ll just slip off your coat, Peter,” she whispered, “we’ll get on with our work.”

  “X” glanced about the room. There were three other figures in the shop. In the dim light, they appeared as tailor’s dummies so still did they stand. But their faces were the faces of corpses-criminals who had met their just deserts years ago. Aware that the Leopard Lady was watching him closely, “X” crossed the room, took off his suit coat and tossed it onto a chair. The Leopard Lady helped him into a half finished coat of rough tweed.

  “There’s work for you to do tonight,” said the Leo­pard Lady softly. She busied herself with chalk and tape­line. “About fifty thousand dollars worth of jewels to dispose of. The chief is getting a little anxious to see them turned into cash. But you’ll have to pay a fair price.”

  “Haven’t I always been fair with the chief?” asked “X” in Krausman’s voice.

  The Leopard Lady nodded. “I was merely warning you. Stand still, can’t you? You don’t look like a man who’s trying on a new suit.”

  “X” laughed uneasily. “You don’t expect me to, do you?”

  “She does,” one of the criminals who posed as a clothing store dummy said. “She’s got ice water in her veins. What’s more, she doesn’t give a damn. Just does this for a thrill.”

  The Leopard Lady uttered her purring laugh. “Don’t you get a kick out of it, too?” she asked of the “dummy.”

  “X” saw the man tremble slightly. “Not always,” he replied. “X” noticed that the man did not have the peculiar intonation and pronunciation of a creature of the underworld. His voice definitely belied his hard-looking face. Perhaps beneath those coarse features was the face of a man who was considered a distinct asset to society. Or he might be some whitecollar worker whose luck had not lasted, and who had taken up crime as a means of getting rich quick.

  “The key to the chief’s success,” explained the Leopard Lady, “lies in his daring. He planned this meeting here tonight. What could be more simple? No drawn blinds; no black masks. If the cop on the beat should pass this alley window at this moment, he would notice nothing out of the way. Why, I might even ask him in for a smoke.”

  “Don’t try any tricks like that!” said one of the dummies with a shudder.

  “And now,” said the Leopard Lady, as she helped “X” from the coat, “we’ll go into the bank. One of you men stay here. The others follow Krausman and me.”

  “X” was given no opportunity to regain his own coat. The Leopard Lady led them through a door and into a little room that was without lights or windows. Flashlights, in the hands of the two criminals who followed them, cut through the gloom and centered upon a section of the brick wall. One of the men approached the wall, and tapped out a loose brick. Thrusting his arm into a deep hole in the wall, the man seemed to grasp some sort of a handle.

  On well-oiled hinges, a section of the wall, big enough to admit a man, swung outward. Through the opening, “X” saw a wall of metal. An oblong piece had been rimmed by the cutting flame of an acetylene torch. At a touch from one of the gang members, the steel section swung open. Agent “X” was led into the vaults of Mr. Stinehope’s own bank.

  What better place could the gang have had for a cache for their loot? The bank was closed; its vaults were supposedly empty.

  The Leopard Lady knelt before a large safety deposit box, unlocked it, and pulled it open. Inside was a canvas bag. She took the bag out, loosened the drawstrings, and emptied its glittering contents on the floor. “X” knelt beside her, picked up a great handful of rings, bracelets, and necklaces. He let the jewels sift through his fingers, and tinkle against the floor.

  “Well, how much?” demanded the Leopard Lady.

  “X” hesitated. Though he knew good gems when he saw them, he had no idea of the amount of money a fence would be expected to advance on the lot. “Really,” he said, “you can’t expect me to make an offer without a day or so to think it over. I will take these with me, and let you know later.”

  The green eyes of the Leopard Lady were fixed on his face. The narrow brows drew together in a tight frown. “I don’t understand, Peter. You have always set the price, and paid cash immediately. Why the hesitation this time? You know that the chief never picks up anything but the very best stuff. Cash is all that he’s interested in. He’s always treated you fairly.”

  “X” tugged at the lobe of his left ear. “What did I pay you for the last haul? I am afraid I can’t do so well. The risk is tremendous.”

  One of the criminals laughed. “It must be! And all you’ve got to do is dig out the stones, melt the gold, and turn the stuff into new jewelry for which your customers pay triple the price the chief asks.”

  Felice Vincart placed a slender hand on “X’s” coat sleeve. “What did you pay for the last catch, Peter?”

  “Twenty thousand, wasn’t it?” It was a blind shot. “X” hadn’t the slightest idea what the last haul of gems had been worth.

  Suddenly, two automatics flashed into prominence. “X” sprang to his feet, but his head was wedged between the muzzles of two guns in the hands of the corpse-faced criminals.

  The Leopard Lady’s lips twisted into a sneer. “Sometimes you actually disappoint me, Secret Agent ‘X!’ Keep the guns on his head, men. He probably wears a bulletproof vest. March him back the same way. The chief will be delighted.”

  Slowly, the group moved to the back of the vault. “X” knew that his slightest move would be stark suicide. One of the criminals stepped through the opening in the wall, pressed a gun to the back of “X’s” head, and ordered him to step backward through the opening.

  “X” had no choice in the matter. In another moment, he was hurried up the alley, his head still held between two guns. A car awaited them, and with infinite care “X” was forced into the back seat. With a gunman on either side, ready and willing to shoot, he was made to sit stiffly upright. The Leopard Lady slid in under the wheel.

  Suddenly, one of the guns was removed from his temple. “X” half turned his head, met blinding white light, felt sickening pain, and lapsed into unconsciousness.

  “X” regained his senses in a room that blazed with light. He was sitting in a large oak chair, hands and arms unfettered. Across the room from him, a door was partially hidden by a row of six men, all with the corpse-faces that characterized those associated with the mob of killers. Each man stood stiffly erect, a rifle in his hands.

 
Standing a little to the left of Agent “X”, was a shapeless figure in black. A shroudlike garment covered the creature from head to foot. Only tiny holes for eyes were visible.

  “I’ve grown tired of this nonsense, Agent ‘X’,” spoke the somber figure. “I had hoped to frame you and put you into police custody. No form of execution can compare with the electric chair. Unfortunately, inasmuch as I am compelled to change headquarters frequently, I can­not carry an electric chair with me. I have decided that you shall be shot as a spy as the clock strikes the hour of nine.

  “Nine? Is it morning, then?” asked “X” quietly.

  “Yes,” replied the gang leader. “You have been un­conscious for a number of hours due to the blow you received on the head.”

  “X” glanced at his watch. The hands spelled a quarter of nine. “Just how do you propose to carry your schemes out without me?” he asked. “If you kill me, you won’t have anyone to blame your crimes on. After challenging the police in my name, you can’t very well kill me. Obviously, I can’t be the man behind the gang if I am dead.”

  A dull laugh sounded from the shroud. “Fassler, Carmody, and many of the others were dead to police records; yet when I wanted them, they appeared to serve me. With you, the same thing can be accomplished. You have no idea what I did to you with my own hands when you were first brought into my presence.”

  “On the contrary, I have a very good idea,” replied “X”. “It was all rather simple for a man of your skill.”

  “Then you will understand that I no longer need you. I am sorry that our last visit must terminate so abruptly. Breathe deeply, Agent ”X”. You have now just ten minutes on this earth. A pleasant thought for you to mull over in that time, is that within a month, I shall have probably wiped out the entire police force and become the wealthiest man in the world.”

  The shrouded figure turned, passed through the line of armed guards. At the door, it paused, turned, and said:

  “It would do you no good to cry for help, Agent ‘X’. You are in a room that is perfectly soundproof.”

  Again “X” chuckled grimly. “You rather underestimate my courage.”

  “Good bye, then.” The shrouded figure moved through the door. The panel closing behind him sounded hollowly throughout the room. It was like the closing of a coffin.

  To all outward appearances, Secret Agent “X” was perfectly cool. Actually, a righteous hatred consumed him; hatred for the black-clad butcher. For “X” knew that the eyes visible through the arch-criminal’s black shroud were the eyes of the one man who had seen “X’s” true face. And from what the shrouded one had said, “X” believed that the killer had obtained a permanent record of the Agent’s features.

  “X” stared straight ahead of him. The squadron of killers opposite him stood like statues, their eyes on the clock above the Agent’s head. These strange faces—corpse-faces out of the past—were to haunt him for the rest of his days. They were so cold, so void of every human trait, so filled with an eagerness to destroy life.

  “X” looked at his watch. In five minutes—less than that—six guns would blast him into eternity. If he chose to make a break for liberty, the shooting would be less accurate, certainly more painful, with death approach­ing more slowly but just as inevitably.

  But the Agent’s brain pounded out: “I dare not die!” So much depended upon his living; and the chances of his living depended upon only one thing—the gold timepiece in his hand. Three minutes until the balance of life and death swung one way or another.

  Agent “X” pressed his watch between his palms and unscrewed the back of the case. Beneath, was a second crystal which one might have imagined was placed there to keep dirt and water out of the movement. “X” looked up at the guards. A deceptive smile stole across his lips. “My watch seems to have stopped. Can any of you gentlemen tell me the correct time?”

  Each of the corpselike faces grinned. “You aren’t going to care,” said one of the men.

  “Oh, yes,” the agent contradicted. “I’m going to care a lot. You see, I’m duty bound to attend a funeral within the next day or so.”

  One of the guards guffawed. “You’re a cool one! Sure, you have got a date with the undertaker, haven’t you? Well, I don’t imagine there’ll be enough of you to bury.”

  “You misunderstand me,” said “X” quietly. “I re­ferred to the first of a series of funerals—the funeral of your leader. I rather imagine he’ll go down to stir the fires of hell—a sort of preparation for your descent to the self-same spot.”

  The agent leaned far forward in the chair. The heavy lips he had affected in his disguise as Peter Krausman remained fixed in a smile of contempt. “You see,” he whispered, “I’m going to walk out of here in a few minutes. That’s something that I am afraid you will be unable to do as—”

  The first stroke of nine boomed throughout the cell. Agent “X” stood up, still smiling. Simultaneously, six rifles were raised to six shoulders. The Agent’s right arm swung high up over his head and then came thrashing down. Across the room, a little gold missile flashed. A faint pop and broken glass tinkled on the paved floor. With the agility of an adagio dancer, “X” sprang to the side of the room.

  A sharp cry burst from the lips of one of the guards. Rifles wheeled. One of them cracked. Agent “X” dropped face down on the floor, and began rolling toward the door. His breath was locked in his throat. He dared not breathe; for the back of his watch had contained enough anesthetizing vapor under high pressure to knock out every one in the room in a few moments time.

  Another wild shot. The guard who had fired stumbled forward on his knees, then relaxed to the floor. Another sprang to the door and groped ineffectually at the handle. Springing to his feet, “X” wiped the man’s feeble hand from the knob, gave him a push that sent him spinning across the room. “X” seized the handle, and yanked open the door. He closed it behind him, found the key in the lock, and twisted it.

  For only a moment, he leaned against the door, and sobbed a great lungful of air. He was in the upper hall of a house, the location of which was unknown to him. Through a smeary window, he could look down into an unkempt back yard. The sky was like gray flannel, and the rain fell in a steady drizzle.

  At the other end of the hall, “X” saw a narrow stair­way leading down into darkness. He moved toward it on tiptoe; for though he might have escaped from the win­dow, he was placing other matters before his own safety. The black-robed butcher was still at large.

  Descending the stairs, “X” came upon a closed door. Peering through the keyhole, he discovered that the next room was empty as far as he could see. He cautiously opened the door, and stepped into a small hall. The sound of a muffled voice coming from behind the door at his right, arrested him. With infinite caution, he worked his way over to the door. Leaning against the frame, he pressed his ear to the panel. He could hear the voice of the shrouded one quite clearly:

  “The first thing to attend to,” the shrouded one was saying, “is to check the cars. Refuel the roadster. I believe the guns are fully loaded. Felice Vincart has obtained a plan of the bank building. As you know, the steps leading up to the bank will effectively conceal your approach. It is an ideal setup for us. Have no fear that the police will reach you. They will be unable to answer their radio call just as on previous occasions.

  “From the bank you will go to that place we have decided upon. It does not pay for us to use the same headquarters for more than two days at a stretch. Even though Agent ‘X’ is out of the way, there is no reason to be careless. Remember, tomorrow, we pull the trick that will make us rich beyond our wildest dream. And we will have the police on their knees praying for mercy!”

  “I hate the coppers,” growled a man.

  The chief laughed. “You haven’t the conception of the word ‘hate’!”

  Agent “X” waited for no more. That another robbery and police slaughter was being planned was enough to goad him into action. To warn the police wou
ld he useless. Every man on the force had a duty to perform, even though it meant certain death. They would answer that radio call, announcing another Corpse-Legion robbery. And they would be butchered by the guns on the mystery car. Upon the shoulders of Secret Agent “X” a heavy responsibility rested.

  He hurried back into the kitchen of the old house where the killer had taken up temporary headquarters.

  From a window, he determined the location of the garage. It was attached to the side of the house itself. Opening a door off the kitchen, he descended a short flight of steps, and entered the garage. Inside, was a single car—the great, black, streamlined roadster with its mounted machine guns. This was the speed-demon which had spelled destruction for so many brave men.

  As he stared over its gleaming length, the agent’s breath caught. For a moment, he stood perfectly rigid. There were two men in the car. And “X” was totally without weapons. In another moment, a slow, understanding smile spread over the Agent’s face. The man behind the wheel stared straight ahead. The other crouched low behind a machine gun. The man behind the gun was “Slash” Carmody who had been executed a few days before in the electric chair. And no miracle of modern science had altered that fact. Carmody, though posed behind the deadly gun, was still a corpse. So was the man behind the wheel.

  “X” had not a moment to lose if he was to carry out the daring plan he had conceived. To cripple the car, jam its machine gun, were both impractical ideas. The mystery car, upon which so much depended, would be given a careful inspection before it started on its juggernaut journey.

  “X” rounded the car until he was face to face with the embalmed corpse of Carmody. He had already guessed that Carmody’s grave had been robbed by some member of the gang. The fact that the car’s occupants were corpses explained why the police bullets had had no effect upon them. There were no less than three neat, bloodless holes drilled in Carmody’s forehead.