Secret Agent X : The Complete Series Volume 3

by Emile C. Tepperman

  Subsequently, Mr. Pond might be seen around town for as much as a month at a time, or else he might drop out of sight again the very next day. He had long been an enigma to his friends, and they had given up speculating as to what he did with his unaccounted for time.

  Mr. Pond first saw Ainsworth Clegg as he was crossing the street on the way to the club. He was standing listlessly on one of the crosswalks of the subway construction job that had caused the whole street and many others in the vicinity to be ripped up for many months now.

  At first Mr. Pond thought the man was a beggar, from his dejected attitude. But a closer inspection showed that here was something far different from a casual mendicant. The man’s eyes were vacant. He seemed to have no control over his muscles; for his jaw hung open.

  The man’s whole frame seemed to sag and shake, as if he were an automaton without any guiding control. He was resting against the railing of the crosswalk, and seemed on the point of slipping underneath the railing into the deep subway cut below.

  Pond reached out a supporting hand, helped him across the street to the opposite sidewalk. The man did not walk, he shuffled. Apparently he had not enough muscular control of his body to lift his feet. Once across, Mr. Pond said to him, “You should be in a hospital. Do you want to be taken to one?”

  His only answer was a vacant stare from eyes that seemed devoid of human intelligence. Pond himself was a graduate of a recognized medical college, had, in fact, at one time practiced medicine. But he was at a loss to diagnose the cause of this man’s condition. And then, as he gazed more carefully at the man’s countenance, he stiffened, and allowed a little gasp of amazement to escape his lips. For he recognized in this broken hulk of a man devoid of human intelligence, the once brilliant, masterful business executive, Ainsworth Clegg, Chairman of the Board of Paramount Oil.

  IT was, perhaps, three quarters of an hour later that Mr. Elisha Pond sat with a group of six other distinguished gentlemen in a corner of the Bankers’ Club.

  Pond had brought the hulk of Ainsworth Clegg into the staff physician’s room at the club, where he had been carefully examined without discovering what had caused his condition. Commissioner Foster had been at the club, and he had arranged for Clegg to be removed to a hospital without making his return known to the general public.

  Now, the group of men was seriously discussing the problem. Arnold Hilary, the newspaper publisher, shifted uneasily in his seat. “Suppose,” he muttered, “that this Skull, as he calls himself, should take a notion to snatch all of us who are here. What would stop him?”

  Commissioner Foster, who sat next to Pond, clenched a fist and brought it down on his own knee with such vehemence that he winced. “Damn it, nothing would stop him—that’s the rub! I’ve got every available man out, trying to pick up a lead. We place the guards on those men who might be marked as possible victims. And what happens?” He paused, and glared around at the circle of friends. “This Skull snatches them right out from under our noses! And he leaves his damned card, too! But we’ll get—I swear we’ll get him if I have to appoint every citizen of the city a special officer!”

  Pelham Grier, the stockbroker, big, portly, red-faced, chewed a cigar thoughtfully. “Even at that, Foster, you might be appointing the Skull himself a special officer. You admit that you haven’t got the faintest notion who he is. Can’t you even make a guess as to his identity?”

  Pond looked from one to the other. These men, titans of finance and business, were like little children when faced by a situation such as this, indulging in idle threats and guesses when there was serious work to do. Harrison Dennett, the construction man, ventured to say, “Maybe it’s this criminal that’s known as Secret Agent ‘X.’ I understand he’s been able to outsmart the police every time.” He cast a malicious sideglance at Foster.

  The commissioner shook his head. “This Secret Agent ‘X’ may be a criminal. In fact, if I should lay my hands on him he’d be sent away for the rest of his natural life, and then some. But I’ll say this for him—I’ve never known him to kill.”

  Dennett shuddered. “I should never have taken that subway job. It’s been hoodooed from the very beginning. Four men were killed on the job in the first month, and the whole crew went on strike. They said there was a jinx around, and I almost believed them. Those four casualties happened in very peculiar ways. The rest of the men wouldn’t go back to work, so I had to hire help in Philadelphia and pay their fare in. Now, Clegg is found right outside the job. I bet the men get scared again, and quit on me. I’ll lose my shirt on that job!”

  Dennett looked defiantly from one to the other. “There’s been sabotage on that contract ever since I got the award. It almost seems as if some one is deliberately trying to ruin me so he can take the job away from me. But I tell you all right now—” his chin jutted obstinately “—I don’t give up easy!”

  Jonathan Jewett, the gaunt, hard-headed president of the Northern Continent Insurance Company, who had sat silent through the conversation so far, said to Dennett in a manner strangely kindly for so forbidding an old man, “I understand that you’re strapped for money on account of all these delays. Why don’t you stop in to see me some time at the office? I may be able to work out a program where the Northern Continent could lend you sufficient on a bond issue to pull through.”

  “Yes,” said Dennett bitterly. “And then the Northern Continent would own the job. I’d be out in the cold.” He forced a smile. “I like you personally, Jewett, but you drive a hard bargain. No, thanks. I’ll try to pull through without mortgaging my soul to you!”

  JEWETT shrugged. “As you please, Dennett. But remember, I offered to help.”

  The remaining two members of the group had listened with rapt interest. They were Pierre Laurens, proprietor of the largest jewelry store in the city, and Arnold Hilary, publisher of the Herald.

  Pond, observing all of them, noted that Hilary seemed strangely nervous, while Laurens, a thin dark, lean-jawed man slightly under medium height, was quite at ease. It was Laurens whose jewelry store had been raided by the Servants of the Skull recently, and a fortune in stones taken.

  Mr. Pond leaned forward. “Perhaps you have noted,” he said, “that all the crimes that have been committed by this Skull have the earmarks of perfect workmanship. Take the robbery of your store, for instance, Laurens. It was perfectly timed with the time lock, was it not?”

  Laurens nodded. “Not only that. In addition to the time lock I had an inner door on the safe that was supposed to be proof against dynamite. Well, one of those men knelt before the safe and twirled the dials, listening for the tumblers to drop. I had thought it was impossible to open a modern safe that way, but I saw it with my own eyes. That man opened the inner door inside of ten minutes while those ruffians held everybody at bay with machine guns, and practically took possession of the street outside!”

  Commissioner Foster hitched forward in his seat. “Look here,” he said. “I’ve a damn good idea as to who that man was that opened the safe. Tell you why.” He stopped, took a drink from the long glass at his elbow, while the others waited eagerly. “There are only two men in the country could open a safe like that. One of them is Frank Fannon, who is coming out of jail tomorrow; the other is Ben Tyler.

  “Naturally, it couldn’t have been Fannon, since he won’t be released till tomorrow morning. That leaves Tyler. Now, as to Tyler—he came out of jail three weeks ago. For a while we knew where he was, then he suddenly disappeared. Two days later, Laurens was robbed. I tell you, this Skull is recruiting criminals, experts in their line, from the underworld. He is building up an organization that it will be impossible for us to break up if we let it grow any longer.”

  He looked down his nose at the glass he held in his hand, then added as an afterthought, “I wish I could somehow get in touch with this Secret Agent ‘X’—unofficially, of course. I’d sick him onto the Skull. He’s the only one with brains enough to make it an even battle; and if they destroyed each o
ther, I wouldn’t feel too bad!”

  Elisha Pond had suddenly become very thoughtful. “This Frank Fannon,” he asked. “I am interested in the name. What jail is he coming out of tomorrow?”

  “Folsom. He’s finishing up a federal stretch for robbing a post office.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Pond.

  Chapter IV

  ROAD OF PERIL

  THE man who was known at the Bankers’ Club as Elisha Pond had many unusual resources at his command, and he made brilliant use of them. It is, therefore, not surprising that when he drove up to the gates of Folsom Penitentiary the next morning, he in no wise resembled the clubman of the evening before.

  His car bore on the radiator the insignia of the United States Army. His driver was a red-haired young man in military uniform, who was known in his usual haunts as Jim Hobart. At this time, Jim Hobart was arrayed in chauffeur’s habiliments, and played the part to perfection.

  Mr. Pond himself was dressed in the snappy whipcord of a lieutenant colonel of the United States Intelligence Service, a uniform to which, by the way, he was entitled.

  As he swaggered up the steps of the administration building, and then into the warden’s office, he looked for all the world like a grumpy old martinet of sixty who had been soured by a lifetime of military service.

  In the warden’s office he deposited his cap and swagger stick on the desk, and introduced himself. “Lieutenant Colonel Delevan, U. S. Intelligence Service, sir. I am here in connection with a prisoner by the name of Frank Fannon who is being released this morning.”

  The warden shook hands with him respectfully, asked in a puzzled manner, “Fannon? What can the Intelligence Service have to do with him? Of course,” he added hastily, “I shall be glad to assist you—”

  “Naturally, sir.” The colonel produced a folded document which he neglected to open, merely holding it up in the air. “I have here a warrant of arrest for Fannon, sir. It has come to our attention that Fannon was connected with an international spy ring, and it becomes my duty to take him to Washington for questioning. Will you be good enough to see that he is turned over to me upon his discharge?”

  The warden was surprised, but far from suspicious. “Of course, colonel. Fannon is almost ready now. I will go myself and bring him here. If you don’t mind waiting—”

  “Not at all, sir. And thank you for your cooperation.”

  When the colonel was left alone, he stepped to the window which overlooked the driveway outside. Jim Hobart stood beside the sedan in which they had come. He saw the colonel, nodded imperceptibly, and jerked his head toward the gate. The colonel glanced in that direction, and tensed.

  Just outside the gate was a long, black, closed car. It had every appearance of hidden power, and seemed to be waiting for some one. The colonel inspected it for a long time, trying to pierce the gloom of its interior through the closed windows with his keen eyes. Satisfied finally, he turned away from the window without looking again at Jim Hobart.

  IN another moment the door opened and the warden entered with the prisoner, Frank Fannon. Fannon was tall, thin, his hair graying at the temples. Prison life had embittered him, as indicated by the grim twist of his lips.

  The warden said, “Here he is, colonel.”

  Colonel Delevan said pompously, “Fannon, I hereby place you under military arrest. You will come with me.” At the same time he drew his heavy service revolver from the holster at his side, and covered the prisoner.

  Fannon was surprised and angry. “Military arrest!” he exclaimed. “What for? I’ve been out of the army for fifteen years!”

  “You will be duly informed of the charges against you after you have been questioned, and before the court-martial. Now, about face and march!”

  “You’re crazy!” Fannon snarled. “I won’t go. It’s a frame of some kind!”

  The warden was about to say something when Colonel Delevan raised a hand. “If you will leave me alone for a moment with this prisoner, sir, I believe I can show him the folly of resisting an officer of the United States Army.”

  “Of course, of course,” the warden mumbled, and went out of the room looking very puzzled.

  As soon as they were alone, the colonel stepped close to Fannon, spoke very low. “You fool! Do you want to queer the whole business? Play up to me!”

  Suddenly Fannon’s defiant expression gave way to one of understanding. He exclaimed, “I get you. You’re from the Skull! I didn’t know you’d go to such lengths—”

  “Never mind what you didn’t know. You are going to learn a lot that you never knew before. Now, let’s go.”

  “Sure, sure,” Fannon said. “I’m sorry I didn’t understand. I thought the arrangement was that the Skull was going to have a private car waiting for me at the gate.”

  As they left the room, the colonel’s eyes lighted with triumph. His suspicions about that black car were being verified. He showed nothing of his elation, however, merely said, “Plans often have to be changed.”

  They met the warden in the hall. The colonel said to him, “Fannon realizes now that it is futile to offer resistance. Thank you again, sir, for your cooperation.”

  “Not at all, colonel. I’m always glad to be of assistance.” The warden accompanied them to the main door, watched them get into the sedan, the colonel still holding his revolver in plain sight. To anyone watching the scene from that black car at the gate, it was evident that Fannon was being arrested and taken away.

  Jim Hobart got behind the wheel, and without a word of instruction, turned the sedan around, drove through the gate. As they passed the black car, Fannon noted it and said, “Look, there’s the car that was supposed to pick me up. I was told it would have a letter ‘S’ monogrammed on the door.”

  The colonel did not answer him, but sat silently while Jim Hobart increased their speed until they were doing seventy-five. After another minute or two, Jim glanced in the rear vision mirror, said over his shoulder, “They’re following us, sir.”

  The colonel smiled in satisfaction. “That’s fine.” He holstered his revolver and took from a hip pocket a peculiarly shaped gun.

  Fannon’s eyes widened in sudden apprehension as the colonel raised the gun and fired it full in his face. He had no time to utter the frantic protest that rose to his lips, for the gas took immediate effect, and he slumped in the seat, unconscious.

  The colonel immediately opened the windows to allow the fumes to escape.

  “Now,” he said crisply to Jim, “raise your rear vision mirror so you can’t look in back here. And don’t turn around!”

  Jim did as directed. “I won’t look, sir,” he said. “Those are the orders that Mr. Martin gave me when he sent me on this job.” He drove at the same swift pace as before, with his eyes straight ahead.

  And then the colonel began to work with a smooth efficiency that would have astonished any one who beheld him. At frequent intervals he glanced through the rear window at the pursuing car. The speed with which they were traveling made it impossible for the black car to close up the distance between them.

  In no time at all the colonel had removed his own uniform and donned the clothing of the unconscious Fannon. Then he opened a box that had lain in the bottom of the sedan, and set up on the seat a collapsible mirror. The box contained pigments, paints, plastic material, mouth and nose plates; in fact everything that was needed for a consummate artist to create a perfect disguise.

  THE colonel removed his own wig of gray hair and substituted for it one which he had previously prepared and which exactly matched Fannon’s hair. Then he removed the make-up from his own face, revealing for an instant the firm, masterful, though almost boyish, features that no one in the world could boast of having seen—the features of that man of mystery, that man of a thousand faces, Secret Agent “X.”

  Then his fingers went to work, building up ridges, contours of cheek bones, changing the shape and length of teeth by means of caps, not passing over the slightest detail of Fannon�
��s physiognomy.

  If Jim Hobart had disobeyed orders and cast his eyes behind him for one second as he drove, he would have been amazed at the miraculous transformation that was taking place in the back of the sedan.

  Within twelve minutes of the time he had begun, Secret Agent “X” sat up in the rear seat beside the body of Fannon, after putting away the make-up box and mirror.

  He tested his throat muscles for a moment, then said, “All right, Jim, you can lower the rear vision mirror.”

  Jim Hobart started perceptibly, and gasped. For the voice that had just uttered those words had been the voice of the ex-convict, Frank Fannon. Every inflection, every modulation of tone, had been faithfully duplicated.

  Quickly, Jim lowered the mirror, looked into it. And he clawed for the emergency brake even as his other hand deserted the wheel to reach his gun. For he was startled to see Frank Fannon sitting there behind him, smiling.

  But “X” quieted him by speaking once more in Colonel Delevan’s old voice. “It’s all right, Hobart. Fannon is right here—still unconscious.”

  Jim breathed a sigh of relief that was mingled with wonder.

  “I—I didn’t know a thing like that could be done,” he stammered. “I—I’ve heard of such impersonations, but I never believed them.”

  “Never mind about that now,” the Secret Agent said crisply. “Listen carefully to what you must do now.” He glanced back at the black car ploughing on behind them. “In a couple of minutes you will slow up to give our friends a chance to come closer to us. When you are down to about fifteen miles, I will open the door and leap out to the side of the road, taking my revolver. You will then stop, and fire at me—but be sure to miss.” He chuckled. “You think you can shoot well enough to miss me?”