Legion of the Living Dead

by Brant House

  * * * *

  In a moment, “X” had opened the car door. The hands of the corpse were taped to the stock of the machine gun. It took “X” only a moment to loosen these bonds, and drag the gruesome, stiffened body from the car.

  Looking around for a place to hide the body, he discovered a small washroom, just off the garage. With his grisly burden, he entered the washroom. Then he began the most trying disguise of his career.

  From the heels of his shoes, “X” took a small tube of plastic makeup material. The plastic volatile substance which he used to change his features was nearly colorless. He would require no pigment for this impersona­tion. With a speed that did not sacrifice care, he removed the makeup that identified him as Peter Krausman and quickly altered his features to resemble those of the dead man.

  The effect achieved by the pale makeup material was nothing short of horrible. In five minutes time, “X” transformed his face from that of a normal, healthy man, into the immobile, death-sharpened features of a corpse.

  Then he had to strip the body, and put on the dead man’s suit and hat. He had only time to lock the washroom, pocket the key, and take his place in the black roadster before the garage door opened, and two men entered.

  “You got to hand it to the chief,” one of the men was saying. “He sure gets the ideas!”

  “I’m breathing again now that Agent ‘X’ is out of the way,” said the other. “The chief says he always knew he’d get him.” The man was unscrewing the gas tank top in order to inspect the fuel supply. His companion rounded the car and approached the side where “X” sat.

  “Well damn me if Slash Carmody hasn’t come loose!” he exclaimed. “Somebody removed the tape that held his hands to the gun.”

  The Agent’s heart gave a bound. He had, acting solely from memory assumed the same position as that of the corpse. His hands were on the machine gun, but there had been no way to tape them there.

  “Probably,” said the other man callously, “the chief had Carmody out for an airing. Here, Smokey—” he tossed a roll of friction tape to the man near “X”.

  Smokey eyed “X” a little fearfully. “X” stared back, dull-eyed, and unblinking. He knew that if the mobster should touch his flesh and discover that it was warm and living, his daring scheme would come to an abrupt termination.

  But Smokey was not a man to fondle a corpse. Gingerly, he pressed the friction tape to the gun and wrapped it securely around “X’s” wrists without touch­ing his flesh. When he had completed the job, “X” was securely tied to a machine gun that was fully loaded for its murderous work.

  Suddenly, the door from the kitchen opened. On the top of the little flight of steps stood the great shapeless shadow of the gang leader himself.

  “Agent ‘X’ has escaped!” he shouted.

  “Escaped? You said he was dead!”

  “One of his damned tricks!” the shrouded figure growled. “The duel must begin all over again. But—” he added after a moment’s consideration—“that need not stop us. Nothing can stop us. You two join the others in the alley. Drive around in front, and be prepared to leave at once.”

  The man called Smokey shook his head. “It’s a lot of risk to take. Agent ‘X’ may have warned the police.”

  The black-clad butcher laughed harshly. “What good would that do? The police believe that ‘X’ is responsible for the police killings.”

  “Right, chief! We’ll start as soon as I put a little air in this rear tire.”

  The black-robed one left the garage to his lieutenants. “X” heard the rush of air as the roadster’s tires were filled. He dared not move a muscle; for the man called Smokey watched him closely. Was there a glimmer of suspicion in the cold eyes of the killer?

  Had “X” been given a moment alone, he could have managed to break away from the bonds that held him to the death car. But no sooner had Smokey and his companion left the garage than “X” felt the car in which he was seated tremble slightly. He darted a look at the corpse at the wheel. Had he been mistaken? Was this stiff, wooden-faced thing alive after all? But the corpse beside him remained motionless.

  By an unseen hand, the black roadster started. Gar­age doors folded back by some concealed mechanism. The destroying black car rolled smoothly from the garage, down a steep drive, and into the street directly in front of a blue sedan. Out of the corner of his eye, “X” saw that the blue sedan was filled with men—men whose faces were the faces of the dead. Once again, the Corpse-Legion had been mobilized for another attack against all that stood for law and order.

  “X” fully realized the peril of his position. The roadster was closely followed by the sedan, and the occupants of the latter never moved their eyes from the car in front of them. “X” hadn’t a chance in the world of freeing himself from the machine gun as long as those criminals were watching him. They would have shot him down at the first movement. No, he had impersonated a corpse. He knew that unless the odds should suddenly shift in his favor he would be a corpse inside of a few minutes. He was caught between two fires. The police would unhesitatingly shoot him on sight; the gangmen follow­ing the roadster would shoot him if he made a move.

  The mystery car moved smoothly ahead. The steer­ing wheel in the hands of the corpse remained motionless, though the car negotiated turns easily enough.

  The roadster gained speed. It was heading toward a part of the city where many factory workers dwelt. No doubt the objective was some bank where hard working men and women stored the savings of a lifetime.

  Staring straight ahead over the long hood of the car, “X” saw the rear end of a special police cruiser. Suddenly, the siren of the police car began to whine. It wheeled to the center of the street, and fairly leaped ahead. “X” ventured a look behind. The blue sedan no longer followed. Evidently, it had speeded ahead to the bank that was to be robbed. The ever-alert police had heard the alarm and were rushing to the scene of the crime.

  But if the police car seemed to leap, the black roadster seemed to have suddenly begot wings. Its powerful motor abruptly opened up. The acceleration was so great that “X” felt as though his head would be snapped from his shoulders. The distance between the black destroyer and its prey shortened alarmingly.

  But Agent “X” was not idle. He knew the hidden hand that guided the car would open up the machine gun as soon as the roadster overhauled the police car. He knew, also, that police guns would send a hail of lead that “X”, in his position in the roadster could not possibly avoid. The powerful muscles of the Agent’s arms swelled until it seemed that his skin must burst. There was a sound of ripping fabric as he broke through the friction tape which held him to the gun.

  As his hand pulled free, a great shout arose from the police car. They had sighted the roadster that was overtaking them. One of the police leaned far out and sent a shot whining above the Agent’s head. There were few people on the street, and the police would have no reason to hold their fire; they would shoot to kill.

  The Agent’s hands worked like lighting, tugging at the clasp that held the ammunition drum of the machine gun in place. The clasp yielded. He fastened both hands on the drum, and yanked it free. He hurled it into the street. At the same time, police automatics barked. A slug thudded against “X’s” bulletproof vest. He could not hope to be that fortunate always; one of those hungry pellets must find his head.

  Staring down, he saw the pavement, a speeding rib­bon beneath him. To leap meant—But where was the choice? Without a moment’s hesitation, “X” swung one leg over the door of the roadster. A bullet sliced across the calf of his leg and spanged against the armor plate body of the roadster. The Agent’s body rocked. He was thrown completely off balance. His arms shot out in a mighty heave that threw him off into space. He had a sickening sensation, as though he were being hurled off of a spinning planet. He was running before he touched the pavement, but it would have been impossible for him to time his pace with that of the roaring, speeding roadster.

>   His legs doubled under him. He rolled like a ball. A slug imbedded itself in the asphalt not more than an inch from his head. His left shoulder encountered the curb with such force that his entire left arm went suddenly dead.

  But he was on his feet, dizzy with the speed of his fall, and momentarily sick with pain. He ran as he had never run before. It was something more than the thought of what might happen to him if he were caught that gave him strength. He was urged on by that exhilaration that comes to a man after he has attempted the impossible and succeeded. For the first time, the terror car was crippled. This time, the killer could not kill.

  Swinging in an alley toward a haven of refuge that he knew of, the depressing thought returned to “X”—while he had saved a carload of police and possibly thousands of dollars, the master criminal remained at large. The thought that this monster knew the Agent’s true face hung like a Sword of Damocles above his head.

  What would be the shrouded monster’s next move?

  He asked the question, dreading the answer.

  CHAPTER VIII

  NIGHT ATTACK

  * * * *

  The following afternoon, the newspapers made gratifying reading for the thousands who lived in fear of the corpse gang. Crippled by the loss of its machine-gun ammunition, the mystery car had had to beat a speedy retreat. The corpse gang, in the act of looting the bank, heard the whine of the police car siren coming nearer and nearer. When it was not interrupted by the rattle of machine-gun fire, the entire crowd took to its heels, narrowly escaping with a few dollars loot.

  The police were at last making definite progress, the papers said. But Commissioner Foster silently shook his head. As far as he knew, the failure of the black roadster to wreck the police car was due to carelessness on the part of some one in the criminal group. He felt none of the sense of security returning to him. The Corpse-Legion would strike again and again. He knew of the dogged determination of Secret Agent “X”, whom he still believed backed the Corpse-Legion.

  It was nine o’clock that evening when Commissioner Foster entered the apartment of Major Derrick, his friend and advisor. Little did Foster know that one minute later, a shadow slipped across the front of the apartment building to enter a telephone booth in a neighboring drug store. Calling a number that was listed in no telephone book, the man who had shadowed the commissioner spoke briefly:

  “Foster entered Derrick apartment.”

  In a small, poorly furnished little room in an old brick-faced dwelling several miles away, a grave-faced man listened to that announcement over the phone. “Good!” he whispered. “And where is Burks?”

  “Last report stated Inspector Burks in headquarters office looking over reports.”

  The grave-faced man quietly hung up. Here, in this poor tenement, Secret Agent “X” had established one of his many hideouts. It had been a busy day for him. Through him, a tip had reached police headquarters as to the location of the building where “X” had been forced to face a firing squad. In the disguise of a policeman, “X” had taken part in a raid that had netted the police nothing. The wily creature whose identity was always hidden beneath a shroud had moved his headquarters immediately after the frustration of his bank-robbing scheme by Agent “X”.

  “X” had then repaired to this tenement hideout where he had been in close touch with Bates and his agents. Various suspects had been carefully watched, but aside from “Sleepy” Meguire’s visit to a one-time speakeasy, there was nothing to arouse suspicion.

  As soon as he had hung up the phone, Agent “X” went about creating another of his masterful disguises. This time, under his magic fingers, the grave, gray face which he had affected all afternoon gave place to the plump, rosy face of Inspector John Burks. It was one of his most daring simulations, yet one which had gained him valuable information many times before.

  “X” left the tenement and went to a garage where a car was waiting for him. It was a roadster with the letters “P.D.” lacquered on both doors.

  A quarter of an hour later, “X” pulled up in front of the apartment where Major Derrick lived. In a moment, imitating the voice of John Burks to perfection, he announced himself through the speaking-tube which led to Derrick’s rooms. He was told to come up at once.

  “What’s on your mind, Inspector?” Foster de­manded, when “X” put in his appearance.

  “Plenty!” retorted the Agent. “I’ve got a straight tip, commissioner. Dope on this corpse gang. If the tip’s okay, it’ll knock you over!”

  “If it’s okay,” remarked Foster skeptically.

  Major Derrick spread his nostrils, and sniffed sharp­ly. “There’s been so many false leads lately, inspector, I’m beginning to get discouraged.”

  “You know Stinehope, the banker?” asked “X”.

  Both men nodded.

  “Then come along. We’re going to pick up Stinehope, and go out to his bank.”

  “The bank’s been closed for a long time,” declared Foster.

  “You don’t know that Stinehope’s connected with this crew, do you?” Derrick demanded,

  “X” shrugged. “Stinehope’s bank has failed. But—well, do you see what I mean?”

  Derrick nodded gravely. “He doesn’t seem to be hurt financially, does he? With you in a moment. The sky looks threatening.” Derrick hurried into the next room to reappear a little later carrying a raincoat. “Right, gentlemen. On our way.”

  * * * *

  Ten minutes later, the Agent’s fake police car, carrying the commissioner and his friend, pulled up in front of the Stinehope mansion. Derrick climbed into the rumble seat with Foster. “X” went up to the Stinehope house to get the banker.

  “I am afraid I don’t quite understand, inspector,” said the small, thoughtful-faced Mr. Stinehope when “X” informed him that he must come with him.

  “I believe you will when we reach the bank,” said “X” gruffly.

  “The bank? Why, no banks are open at this time of the night!”

  “This one’s open twenty-four hours a day!”

  The Agent waited for Stinehope to get his hat; then taking him by the arm, led him out to the car.

  As the banker began to realize the direction the car was taking, he was seized with a violent fit of trembling. From his position at the wheel, “X” watched him surreptitiously. “Matter, Stinehope?” he asked.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To your bank,” said the Agent, “I want you to see something.”

  “X” drove the police car into the alley, and stopped behind Otho Berg’s tailoring shop. The place was dark, but the door yielded to one of “X’s” master keys.

  “You’ve a search warrant?” asked Foster, who was a stickler for police routine.

  “X” nodded. He had nothing of the sort, but he knew that he was not likely to run up against any opposition from the owner of the shop. He had checked up on Berg. The man was above reproach and half blind from his years at the bench. It was little wonder that the corpse mob had been able to construct the secret door leading from the tailor shop into the bank vault. Probably, they had worked only at late hours of the night.

  After a few minutes of perfectly unnecessary search, “X” found the secret opening in the brick wall. “Now,” he said, “we enter the closed and supposedly empty vault of Mr. Stinehope’s bank.”

  “I tell you, sir, this is the most surprising thing I have ever witnessed!” declared Stinehope.

  “That may be,” replied “X” dryly. He pointed out the place where the steel wall of the vault had been cut by the acetylene torch.

  “Amazing!” cried Derrick as “X” pushed through the steel panel and entered the vault.

  Commissioner Foster was speechless.

  “Got the master key to these safety deposit boxes?” asked “X” of Stinehope.

  “N-no,” the banker stuttered. “They are in my office in the next room. But what you expect to find, is beyond me. These boxes have all been emptied—”
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br />   “Get the keys,” the Agent cut in. “This vault probably contains the cash which was lifted by the corpse gang. Can’t this vault be opened from the inside?”

  Stinehope nodded. “After one of our clerks was nearly suffocated inside this vault, I installed an electric lock operating from the inside as a safety measure.” He approached the great circular door, touched a button on the lock mechanism, and threw his weight against the door.

  As Stinehope was about to leave the vault, Foster seized Derrick’s arm, whispered: “Don’t let Stinehope out of your sight!”

  Stinehope was crossing the room toward what had once been his office. Derrick nodded, and ran on ridiculously short legs to Stinehope’s side.

  Foster turned to the Agent. “Where did you get this information, inspector?”

  “From Secret Agent ‘X’ ” replied the Agent

  Foster frowned. “I don’t understand—”

  “Naturally. Secret Agent ‘X’ is a much misunderstood man, commissioner. He’s done some queer things, but he doesn’t happen to be the head of the Corpse-Legion. Some one is impersonating him.”

  Was there a look of suspicion in Foster’s eyes? “X” knew that he skated on thin ice. Foster knew of the Agent’s many disguises. At one time, “X” had actually impersonated the commissioner himself.

  “You see,” the Agent explained quickly, “anyone could impersonate Agent ‘X’. Had you thought of that? Since ‘X’ seems to have a limitless number of faces, each of which he wears equally well—”

  A cry of stark terror echoed and re-echoed through­out the chamber. The front door of the building had suddenly been thrown open. With deadly machine guns bristling, a small army of men advanced—men whose faces were faces of men long since dead. With silent, terrifying swiftness the Corpse-Legion advanced into the room.