by Brant House
“X’s” eyes hurried around the garage, paying particular attention to the floor. At length, he tiptoed to the roadster, dropped on hands and knees and looked beneath the car. On the floor beneath was a flat steel plate that looked as though it covered a pit intended for draining oil from the car. Flat on the floor, “X” wormed himself beneath the mystery car until he could reach the steel plate in the floor. He hooked his fingers on the edge of the plate and pushed it forward. It moved easily on oiled guides. As “X” had expected, an oil draining pit was concealed beneath the plate. “X” rolled over the edge of the pit and dropped to the sunken floor below.
He beamed his flashlight over the walls of the narrow pit. Nothing escaped his keen eyes. Everything seemed to indicate that here was an oil drain pit and nothing else. However, “X” noted that a green-painted cabinet attached to the wall, was considerably larger than was necessary to hold automobile wrenches. He opened the green door of the cabinet. Four shelves held as many tools. He tapped gently on the back of the cabinet. He felt sure that he would find an opening behind it. His sensitive fingers hurried about the inside of the cabinet, searching for some sort of a concealed spring.
It was only after lifting an extra heavy pipe wrench that he understood the mechanism; for in lifting the wrench, the shelf upon which it rested raised slightly, releasing a hidden latch. “X” pushed on the back of the cabinet. Shelves and all swung inward on well oiled hinges. He stepped through the opening into a rough-walled, narrow passage.
His flashlight lanced ahead. “X” saw that the earth-walled corridor widened only a few feet ahead into a tiny room. Here, uneven timbers formed rough walls that extended in a chimneylike shaft through the basement, and into the upper part of the house. A rude bunk was fastened to one wall. On the other wall several black, shroudlike garments hung on hooks.
Probably, “X” thought, this room was known only to the leader of the gang. Here, he could adopt the black, shapeless garment which identified him. Then an audacious scheme occurred to Agent “X”. He took down one of the shroudlike garments, draped it over his head and shoulders, and tied it in place with the black cord provided. Eyeholes cut in the cloth enabled him to see perfectly. No disguise could have been more difficult to penetrate; none could be more simple.
“X” located a rude ladder nailed to the wall and extending up the shaft into the house. He climbed it quickly to bump his head against the floor above. For a moment, he remained stationary, listening. But he could hear no sound. Very slowly, he pushed up against a trapdoor until his eyes were level with the floor. He was looking into what appeared to be a large closet. He pushed open the trapdoor more fully, and crawled inside. He unlocked the door of the closet—it latched on the inside—and stepped into the room beyond.
Agent “X” froze. A man sat in a chair directly in front of him. The man’s head was hidden behind a newspaper. Evidently, he had not heard “X” enter. Beneath the black robe, “X’s” hands found his gas gun. He held it ready for immediate use. He coughed slightly.
The man in the chair dropped the newspaper and leaped to his feet. He was a narrow-headed man with a thin, twisted nose, and a receding chin. “X” recognized him immediately as Steve Pyke—a little older than when “X” had last seen him, and perhaps more worldly wise than when he had entered prison some years ago.
“Cripes, chief, someday you’re goin’ to send me into a panic! I didn’t hear you come in. You’re about five minutes early. When do we start for Memorial Hall?”
To the best of his ability, “X” recalled the voice of the gang chief. “There is no need to hurry,” he replied, evading Pyke’s question the best he could . . . Memorial Hall! “X” recalled an announcement he had seen in the paper. The famous antique treasures from the monastic shrines of the city of Kiev, Russia, were to be exhibited in Memorial Hall. The Soviet Government, as a good will gesture, was sponsoring the exhibit in the city. Aside from the value of the treasures from an antique collector’s viewpoint, nearly everything in the exhibit was fashioned from purest gold and set with precious stones. The exhibition was to open that night for the benefit of a large number of wealthy art collectors. With the price of gold soaring, it was just the sort of thing that would attract the corpse-gang.
“Sure hope you know what you you’re doin’, chief,” Pyke went on. “I don’t get it. You say you warned the police? Now if the hall’s filled with police, how do you expect to pick up all that gold stuff?”
“Do you question my ability?”
Pyke paled slightly. “No. But there was one time when things went haywire—that time Agent ”X” turned up behind the machine gun in the robot car.”
“Do not worry about Agent ‘X’,” he said to Pyke. “Step a little closer and I will tell you exactly what I intend to do with him.”
Pyke obeyed a little reluctantly. “X” tossed aside the folds of the black garment he wore. The snout of the gas gun menaced Steve Pyke. Pyke opened his mouth, but the cry of terror choked in his throat as “X” directed a full charge of gas straight into the man’s face. Pyke’s knees melted under him, and he sagged to the floor.
Then “X” carried Pyke into the closet which served as an outlet for the gang leader’s secret passage. There he found a small mirror, and propping the unconscious man against the wall, “X” took off the black garment, took his makeup kit from his pocket, and began another transformation.
Never had his skillful fingers moved so rapidly. He did not know but that at any minute, the real leader of the gang would put in an appearance. Plastic volatile material, pigments of his own concoction, worked together to make simulated flesh and features in perfect imitation of Pyke’s face. He replaced the gray wig he wore with a slick brown toupee. Time was passing rapidly. He dared not look at his watch. He must yet change clothes with Pyke, and find some means of concealing the unconscious man.
It required exactly three minutes to effect the change of clothes. A folding-into-the-wall bed in the next room offered a place in which to conceal Pyke. “X” took a last look in the mirror to make certain that his makeup was beyond reproach.
There came a knock at the door. “X” crossed to the panel, turned the key, not to admit, the shrouded leader, but Felice Vincart. She was followed by a retinue of the corpse-faced criminals. The Leopard Lady crossed the room with a graceful, catlike tread. Her green eyes flashed at “X”. For a moment, he was afraid that those strange eyes must pierce his disguise.
“I have a message from our leader,” Felice Vincart purred. “He has been detained. He awaits information concerning the activities of Secret Agent ‘X’. He does not want to move until he is certain that ‘X’ will be in Memorial Hall. It is his intention that ‘X’ shall die along with Foster, Burks, and others associated with the law.
“We are all to proceed exactly as planned. You, Pyke, will go first, entering the building through the basement door before the guests of the evening are admitted into that part of the building where the exhibit is to be held. It will be your duty to assist with the distribution of the monoxide. The rest of the group will enter the building after the gas has done its work. You, Pyke, shall kill the custodian of the building. You will find him in the basement.”
“Let me get this straight,” said one of the men behind Felice Vincart. “We’re to go into that treasure house after it’s been filled with poison gas?”
The Leopard Lady’s glittering eyes flashed upon the speaker. “You will all be provided with gas masks. You will be the only living things in the hall. The chief has selected carbon monoxide gas because of all gases it is the most treacherous. It has neither color nor odor. It will simply put everyone in the building to sleep before they know it. It will be a sleep from which there is no awakening.
“Now, go at once. Pyke, you will probably meet our leader in the basement of the building. A car is waiting for you outside the front door. Do not return to this house. It will be abandoned after tonight. You all know of our next meeti
ng place.”
Rubbing shoulders with death-faced killers, “X” moved through the door, and into a large reception hall. There, the gang idled, waiting, evidently for the gas masks they were to wear. But “X” was free to leave the building.
He went out the front door, and entered a small coupe that had evidently been provided for his use. He drove down the street, turning the next corner on two wheels, pushing the little car to its best. He drove apparently without thought as to destination. Actually, he was winding a trail that he was certain could not be followed.
He braked the coupe in front of a drug store, got out, and entered a telephone booth. There, he called the Hobart Detective Agency.
“Hello, Jim,” he said, using the voice of A. J. Martin, a newspaper man, for it was only in this character that Hobart knew his chief. “I want you to meet a man by the name of Steve Pyke in the basement of Memorial Hall. Get there as soon as possible. Pyke is a man with a thin nose, receding chin, and dark brown hair licked back. Obey him in everything. This is very important.”
He waited only for Hobart’s cheerful: “Okay.” Then he was out in the street, into the coupe, and speeding toward Memorial Hall.
CHAPTER X
BENEATH THE SHROUD
A small cement court backed the great brick and limestone building that was Memorial Hall. The arched windows of the hall were tinted with soft lights. A string ensemble was tuning up in the ball room where, in glass cases, reposed a king’s ransom in the wealth of bygone days.
Chalices, altar pieces, elaborately wrought icons, all worked in precious metals and incrusted with priceless jewels were exhibited for the first time outside of the ancient Russian churches.
Agent “X” drove the coupe into the court. Before he could get out, a man sprang from a shadowy corner and challenged him. Light from the dash of the car revealed the man’s features. “X” recognized him as Malvern, one of Inspector Burks’ best detectives. Yet there was something about the expression in the man’s eyes that was entirely unlike Malvern.
A nervous laugh came from the man’s lips. “Oh, it’s you, Pyke!”
The voice was vaguely familiar to “X.” It was certainly not the voice of Detective Malvern.
“What’s the idea?” Agent “X” asked as he swung out of the car.
“Chief’s orders,” whispered the other. “I’m taking the place of a detective who is suffering from lead poisoning at the moment. You and two others are the only ones to be admitted through this back door.”
“X” nodded. “Show me the way.”
The man who was disguised as Malvern led the way to a door opening in the foundation of the building. He thrust a key into the lock, and opened the door. Ahead was a darkened stairway. “X’s” hand went to his pocket, closed over the butt of his gas pistol.
“Look here, you,” he said, when the man had opened the door.
The man turned around, startled by the change of tone in the Agent’s voice. “X’s” gun nosed over the edge of his pocket. He pulled the trigger. Gas hissed into the man’s face. His evil eyes flickered. He would have cried out, but at such short range he had received a considerable quantity of the anesthetizing vapor.
He staggered backward against the wall, then slid down to the pavement. For a moment, the Agent crouched over him. His fingers felt the man’s cheeks. They had the resilience of rubber. The man’s face was completely covered with a thin, flexible mask duplicating the features of Malvern to perfection.
The flexible material peeled away easily enough, and for a moment “X” stared down into a countenance fundamentally weak. It was not the face of a habitual criminal. “X” recognized the man as Terry Rankin, a young man-about-town who had recently suffered heavy financial losses.
“X” lifted the unconscious man and returned him to the shadowy corner where he had been hiding. Then, the Agent entered the basement door, and proceeded down the dark flight of steps. He had decided that it was prudent to get the guard out of the way in case it became necessary for him to beat a hasty retreat.
Flashlight beaming ahead, “X” saw that the first room of the basement was evidently used only to store folding chairs which were sometimes set up in the hall when it was used for banquets and entertainments. Though his information was incomplete, “X” knew that if the poison gas was to be distributed throughout the building from the basement this could only be accomplished through the heating and ventilating system. Accordingly, he hurried down the concrete-lined corridor to a door at the end marked Furnace.
In a chair that was tilted back against the wall, “X” saw an overall-clad form. A blue cap was tilted over the man’s eyes, and he was apparently napping. As “X” approached on tiptoe, the man slowly raised his head.
“X” stopped. For beneath the shadow of the cap, was the broad, red face of Jim Hobart.
The private detective grinned, stood up, and touched the bill of his cap. “Mr. Pyke? I’m Jim Hobart. Mr. Martin was telling me I was to meet you here.”
“How the devil did you get past the guard at the door?” Agent “X” asked, retaining the vice of Steve Pyke.
The private detective chuckled. “I walked in the front door, using my detective pass. Then I worked my way down to the basement where the custodian gave me a little trouble. I had to rap him over the head with one of his own pipe wrenches before he would listen to reason. I thought it might be better if I switched clothes with him.”
“Good work!” the Agent “X” commended. “You’ve been in the furnace room? See anything that looks like it might have the making of carbon monoxide?”
“Monoxide!” Hobart exclaimed. “I did see some odd looking cylinders in there. They’re all connected with tubing. I thought it was a part of the regular air conditioning system.”
“It’ll condition the air, right enough!” declared “X” grimly. “It’ll fill that hall above with corpses! This is a corpse-gang stunt, Hobart. It’s up to you and me to save those people upstairs. That hall will be crammed with a thousand or more guests and police. The leader of the gang had the nerve to warn the police. He’s out to run up another big record as the world’s greatest butcher. Let’s go, Jim!”
“X” pushed open the door, and led the way into the furnace room. The room was dimly lighted. Three great furnaces, hundreds of crossing pipes, large tanks, and electrically driven stoker cast weird shadows on the dull gray walls, and rendered a vast room seemingly small.
“Wait!” Secret Agent “X” held up a cautioning hand. He felt Hobart’s fingers close upon his arm. “Footsteps, Hobart, scuffing on the other side of that door. Get behind one of those tanks. Wait till I call you.”
“Right!” The blue-overall-clad figure moved like a shadow across the room. “X” stood perfectly still, his hand on the butt of his gas pistol. The door knob turned; the door swung slowly on its hinges. Outside, the hall was dark, but a darker shadow moved through the gloom. Only a pair of eyes were visible, gleaming through a shroud of black. The leader of the corpse-criminals seemed to float into the room.
“Everything is ready,” came a husky whisper from behind the shroud. “The room above is crowded with guests and police. Turn on the gas, Pyke. You will find the valve just ahead of the manifold of the air conditioner.”
Without a word, Agent “X” sprang toward the somber figure. His gas gun leaped from his pocket. “One move and you’re dead! Here, Hobart!”
Jim Hobart sprang from his hiding place, an automatic in his hand.
“Cover this man, Jim,” Agent “X” ordered.
Hobart needed no urging. The eye of his automatic was fastened on the black-robed figure. Still holding his gas gun, “X” strode to the shrouded one. With a quick, snatching motion, he untied the cord that held the shroud, and yanked the garment aside.
For the first time in his career, surprise rendered the Secret Agent unable to move. For beneath the shroud, contrary to all conclusions that “X” had drawn, was the beautiful Felice Vincart. Her
green eyes were as cold as the sea. On her scarlet lips was a smile that was like poisoned honey.
Not for a single moment had “X” suspected that the wealthy, thrill-seeking Leopard Lady possessed the necessary intellect to guide the gang along its corpse-strewn road of crime. Spy; lovely pawn in the hands of the master she might be; but that she directed the malign forces of the corpse-gang was unthinkable.
“Drop that gun, Secret Agent ‘X’!”
Warm breath forcibly exhaled fanned “X’s” ear. He half turned his head to encounter the cold snout of an automatic pressed to his temple. He caught a glimpse of a red, grinning face—the face of Jim Hobart!
The Leopard Lady sprang toward “X.” A blow from her small fist knocked the gas pistol from his fingers. For just a moment, Agent “X” had been dazed. He should have known! The master criminal who fought “X” with his own weapons had somehow managed to impersonate Jim Hobart.
“You’re not Jim Hobart!” “X” said through clenched teeth.
The man with the gun still grinned. “And you’ll not be Agent ‘X’ if you make the slightest move. You’ll just be a thing.”
“X” felt the Leopard Lady’s slender hand pass through each pocket, stripping him of his equipment.
“You poor fool!” the man who looked like Hobart whispered. “At the robbery of the Krausman Store, you were singled out and so was Hobart. Evidently, he was an associate of yours. Since early morning, I have been in Hobart’s office, impersonating him just as you might have done. I was waiting for a call from you. In this manner, I could learn your plans. See how simple it all is? Since that day when I found my son on a slab in the morgue, killed by police bullet, I have planned how I might have my revenge.
“He was killed by what men call an error. In my organization, there is no chance for error. Years I have practiced voice control until now I can imitate any male voice to perfection. Then I sought for a suitable disguise. I found it. I created my own army—faces of the past worn by living men. Hidden behind the masks I have made, you would find not men of the criminal class, but men who have become discontented with the lot fate gave them—thrill-seekers, financial failures, men of brain and brawn. That is my army. And the police believed them corpses! The city was terrified!”