Secret Agent X : The Complete Series Volume 3

by Emile C. Tepperman

  His daughter, perhaps regretting that she had called his attention to Harry’s companion, tried to change the subject. She tugged at his sleeve. “Dad! Who’s that terribly attractive man who just came in over there? Isn’t he handsome? And he looks so dignified!”

  Roderick Pringle swung his gaze from his son around to the entrance towards which his daughter was looking. “I don’t know the man, Irma. Never saw him around before.” He bent bushy brows on his daughter. “Now don’t you go getting interested in strange men. I’ve got enough on my hands with Harry!”

  Irma Pringle laughed. “I’m sure he’s somebody important, dad. Look, he seems to be coming in our direction!”

  The tall, dignified gentleman was indeed approaching them, having noted their presence as he entered. When he came up to them, he bowed in courtly fashion, spoke with the modulated accents of good breeding. “I beg your pardon, sir. You are Commissioner Pringle, are you not?”

  Pringle nodded.

  “My name is Vardis. I am a stranger in New York, but my friend, Commissioner Foster, wrote me before leaving for Europe that if I visited the city I was to look you up. I took this opportunity of making myself known to you.”

  Pringle thawed out at mention of Foster’s name, and introduced Mr. Vardis to the ladies. The conversation drifted into various channels, and as they talked they moved around, examining the interestingly equipped booths. Mr. Vardis was an engrossing conversationalist when he wanted to be, and his listeners were entranced by the swift flow of anecdote and comment that came from his lips.

  They stopped before one booth in the line of brilliantly lit stalls along the wall that was not open. The wooden shutters were still in place. It bore the number, thirteen. Pringle nodded toward it. “There’s a generous contributor to the cause of charity. The people who rented that booth contributed five thousand dollars to the bazaar fund.”

  On the closed shutters was a sign reading as follows:

  This booth donated by anonymous benefactor. It will be opened shortly before midnight, and a surprise is promised to all. Be sure to stay for the opening.

  “It’s probably the contribution of some manufacturer or department store,” Pringle said. “It’ll make good advertising for them when it’s opened.”

  Mr. Vardis noted two young men who approached them across the floor. They, like Harry Pringle, bore buttons in their lapels announcing that they were on the bazaar committee.

  Irma Pringle exclaimed, “Here come Jack Larrabie and Fred Barton, dad. I wonder where Ranny Coulter is?”

  The commissioner grunted. “Probably up to some mischief. It’s a wonder Jack and Fred aren’t up to some crazy stunts, too!” He turned to Mr. Vardis, explained quickly as the two young men approached, “These two, together with Ranny Coulter, are chums of my boy. The four of them are generally always together. I wish some one would take them in hand and whip some sense into them. They’ve all graduated from college, mastered professions, but they won’t work. It’s a sickness—too-much-moneyitis! If I lost all my money, it might be a good thing for my boy, Harry; and the same goes for Jack and Fred, here, and Ranny Coulter.”

  THE two young men came up, were introduced to Mr. Vardis. He noted that Irma Pringle monopolized young Jack Larrabie in a possessive manner. Vardis smiled at the commissioner. “Engaged?” he asked.

  “Hell, no,” Pringle returned. “They want to be, but I won’t let them till Jack goes in practice for himself. He’s studied medicine, but he won’t practice—says what’s the use, when his dad is worth a couple of million dollars. His father is Professor Larrabie of Ervinton College, you know. A millionaire in his own right.”

  “I seem to recall the name,” said Mr. Vardis. “Wasn’t it Professor Larrabie who was present at State Prison at the time of the jail break?”

  “The same. My son was also there. Harry actually saw the man who is suspected of having killed the guards and paved the way for the escape. I’m worried about Harry’s safety on that score. But the boy’s stubborn—won’t have a bodyguard; says his three pals are all the protection he needs.”

  The crowd before booth thirteen had grown much larger now, and there was a buzz of excited comment and speculation as to the identity of the donors of the five thousand dollars.

  Fred Barton, who had been left somewhat alone while his chum, Jack Larrabie, was engrossed with Irma Pringle, joined Mr. Vardis and the commissioner, and the talk turned to the news of the day. Mr. Vardis tried to broach the subject of the escaped convicts, but the commissioner was already answering a question of Fred Barton’s about the robot murders.

  “I don’t think, Fred,” the commissioner said with a note of authority “that there is any chance of the robots attacking this bazaar. There are uniformed officers on guard at all the entrances downstairs and at the doors up here. Anybody who looks like a robot wouldn’t stand a chance of getting near this place.”

  “That’s a consolation, anyway,” Fred Barton remarked. “This would be tempting pickings for them. I bet there’s a hundred thousand in cash here tonight.”

  Mr. Vardis was listening closely now. “Do you believe they are robots or mechanical men?” he asked. “I understand they were shot at, but couldn’t be hurt.”

  “That is true,” the commissioner said slowly, “It is a hard thing to imagine, but I am forced to believe that they are robots. In no other way can their peculiar actions be explained.”

  Fred Barton scoffed. “Impossible!” he declared. “As you know, I’ve made a thorough study of chemistry and physics. The creation of mechanical men is as far-fetched, as impossible, as the discovery of the legendary Fountain of Youth. It would be physically impossible to exercise remote control, by radio, or by any other device, of the arm, leg and head movements of a mechanical man. These so-called robots act and fight like human beings. They must be human beings.”

  “And yet,” said Commissioner Pringle, with a troubled look in his eyes, “you know that famous line—‘There are more things in heaven and earth than the mind of man can conceive of!’ Anything is possible in this day and age. How do you feel about it, Mr. Vardis?”

  “Naturally,” Mr. Vardis replied modestly, “I have not sufficient information on which to base an opinion. However, I am inclined to agree with young Mr. Barton, here. Isn’t there a possibility, commissioner, that these robots are, in reality, those twenty-five convicts who escaped from State Prison?”

  Pringle shook his head. “Emphatically no. Those robots were seen to touch various articles with their bare hands. They left prints. And those prints match no classification on file anywhere in the world! The only explanation I can see is that they are robots—that they have all been created exactly alike by some master fiend who has acquired more scientific knowledge and skill than our greatest students!”

  They were interrupted by the approach of a trimly dressed young lady, hardly more than a girl. Mr. Vardis’ eyes grew kindly as they took cognizance of her sparkling blue eyes, of the golden blond hair, showing under the small, chic hat. This was Betty Dale.

  She glanced casually at Mr. Vardis, with no hint of recognition, smiled at Fred Barton, but concentrated on Pringle. “I hope you’ll pardon the intrusion, commissioner. I am Betty Dale, of the Herald. I was wondering if you’d grant me a short interview on the robot murders?”

  Pringle smiled. “I remember you well, Miss Dale. You don’t need to introduce yourself to me. Do you know Fred Barton? And Mr. Vardis?”

  Mr. Vardis bowed. Betty did not know him, did not guess who he was. She asked Pringle a number of questions, making notes on a small pad of paper she produced from her bag. When she had finished, she thanked him.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Dale,” Pringle told her, “that there is little I can add to the news that appeared in the evening papers. We have no idea where these robots will strike again, but I can assure you that the men of the police department are doing everything in their power to protect the residents of the city—from the commissioner down to th
e lowliest patrolman!”

  SEVERAL other people approached the commissioner, and Mr. Vardis found himself alone with Betty for a moment—rather, he maneuvered so that they were alone. “I think, Miss Dale,” he said, “that I know a friend of yours.”

  She looked at him quickly. He could see that she was not interested in him, that her eyes were restlessly roving over the crowd as if she sought some one. She remarked politely, “Really? That is interesting. Who is it?”

  “Someone,” he replied in a voice that had suddenly assumed a peculiar inflection—one that he reserved for her alone—“someone who shall be nameless!”

  Her face paled, her eyes widened. Emotion struggled for utterance, but was repressed. “You—Mr. Vardis!” she exclaimed. Then her eyes clouded with concern as he led her farther away from the group around booth thirteen, toward the center of the floor. “You’re working on these robot murders?”

  He nodded. “That—and more. I haven’t much time now, Betty. Let’s find Mabel Boling so I can have a little talk with her. Right at this time I am interested in her ex-friend, ‘Duke’ Marcy—and, also, in young Pringle.”

  Betty’s eyes lowered. She uttered a warning sound. “There she is—with Harry Pringle. It’ll be easy; she’s coming up to talk to me.”

  Mabel Boling greeted Betty Dale effusively. She still recalled the debt she owed to the pretty, blond newspaper girl. Betty knew Harry Pringle by sight, too; and she performed the introductions.

  “X” led them across the floor to a booth where cocktails were being served in the name of charity at one dollar each. He bought drinks for everybody, while he covertly sized up Mabel Boling. She was unquestionably beautiful. In addition she was vivacious, and an actress of parts. “X” could understand how she would be the perfect companion, for a man like “Duke” Marcy. But she lacked culture, poise. “X” wondered what attraction she possessed that could hold a young man of education and refinement like Harry Pringle.

  Betty Dale adroitly managed to engross young Pringle in conversation, leaving the Agent more or less tête-à-tête with the actress. “X” skillfully turned the conversation to “Duke” Marcy. Mabel Boling’s face went blank. “I haven’t seen him for months,” she declared emphatically. “He was the great mistake of my life.” She glanced fondly at Harry Pringle. “I don’t even like to think of those days any more.”

  Though she was a good actress, “X” felt that underlying her words there was a queer note of insincerity. He sensed that she was on guard more or less; that there was something on her mind. Keen judge of human nature, he felt that she could be drawn out at the proper time and place. So, after a little further conversation, he intrigued her into accepting his invitation to have lunch with him the next day. He was a little surprised at the alacrity with which she accepted the invitation, while she cast a wary eye on Harry Pringle to make sure that he hadn’t overheard.

  Was it possible that she was as anxious to talk to him as he was to talk to her? There was the chance that “Duke” Marcy had spoken to her of his encounter with Mr. Vardis at the Diamond Club.

  The Agent betrayed nothing of his thoughts. His face showed only pleasure at the prospect of lunching with an attractive woman. “Suppose I phone you tomorrow?”

  She nodded, and whispered her number. And shortly after, she drifted away on Harry Pringle’s arm.

  THE bazaar was in full swing now; women shone resplendent in their gorgeous evening gowns and glittering jewels. Men were spending money freely, placing dollar and five dollar bills on the wheels, paying a dollar apiece for drinks. The Agent agreed with Fred Barton’s estimate that over a hundred thousand dollars was being spent in the booths that evening.

  He turned back to Betty Dale to find her conversing with a short, wiry, hawk-nosed man whose bald head glittered under the sharp electric lights. Though “X” knew this man, he betrayed no sign of recognition as Betty Dale introduced them.

  “Mr. Vardis, this is Mr. Runkle.” Her eyes flickered slightly as she looked at the Agent in an endeavor to convey some message.

  Runkle shook hands enthusiastically, his full red lips expanding in an unctuous smile. “I saw you talking with the commissioner a while ago,” he said. “I suppose it was about the subject that is on everybody’s tongue these days?”

  “If you mean the robot murders,” the Agent replied, “you are correct. One couldn’t help discussing them.”

  Runkle’s ferret-like eyes probed into the Agent, almost as if he were aware that this was a disguise. “You don’t happen to be a police officer, do you?”

  “I have no connection with the police whatsoever,” “X” told him. “What gave you that impression?”

  Runkle shrugged. “One sometimes gets a feeling.”

  Ed Runkle was a criminal lawyer, probably the shrewdest and most successful in the profession. It was he who had once defended “Duke” Marcy on a charge of income tax evasion and got him an acquittal. Runkle had also handled the cases of many of Marcy’s old gang including some of those who had escaped from State Prison in the recent jail break. Runkle was saying, “Look at all these people, enjoying themselves here, while murder and robbery goes on in the city. Just as I came in they were crying an extra about another robot murder.” He demanded suddenly, “Are you interested in crime, Mr. Vardis?”

  “X” shrugged. “Who wouldn’t be—when it is so close to us?” The Agent perceived that, for some reason, Runkle was making an attempt to draw him out. “X” would have enjoyed allowing himself to be drawn out, perhaps even to glean some profitable information for himself in the process. But he consulted his watch and noted that it was eleven-thirty. He must leave if he wanted to keep his appointment with Linky Teagle.

  He excused himself, and Betty Dale walked as far as the door with him. She wore a troubled expression. “I don’t know what it is,” she said, “but I feel a strange kind of nervousness—as if something terrible were brewing. It must be recent events. That awful jail break, and now these robot murders.” She shuddered. “It’s almost as if some evil super-mind were enfolding the city in a fog of terror. People don’t feel safe any more. If things like the robot murders can take place day after day here, and the police be powerless to stop them, unable to find a single clue, people will take to barricading themselves in their homes.”

  Secret Agent “X” nodded somberly. “It’s all you say it is, Betty. And there is no tangible lead by which they can be run down. However,” he murmured as he bowed over her hand, “with a little luck, I may run into something tonight.”

  As Betty Dale watched the Agent cross the corridor to the elevator, she felt a sudden premonition of danger, felt almost as if she had seen for the last time the strange man who was Secret Agent “X.” Something seemed to tug at her heart, shouting a warning. But she turned back to the busy bazaar, smothering that feeling in a sudden access of energy. She had work to do; she had to cover the event for her paper.

  She stepped inside the doorway, and stopped stock still, frozen at sight of the thing that was happening in the glitteringly lit room.

  Chapter V

  Frankenstein

  BOOTH thirteen—the mystery booth rented by the anonymous donor of five thousand dollars—had been opened! The crowd of hilarious men and women had stopped their laughter, remained rooted where they stood, gaping aghast at the terrifying figures that swarmed out of the interior of the booth. They were like men, yes. And they were clad like men, all in gray suits and gray slouch hats. But they moved with the quick, jerky strides of automatons.

  No word was uttered by them, no sound, except for an occasional unintelligible grunt that might have been expressive of pain or of sadistic pleasure. They seemed to be obscene beings endowed with the shapes of men. Each was armed with a snub-nosed automatic equipped with a silencer, and each walked stiffly to a particular spot in the room. Within a minute every exit was covered. The pleasure-seeking crowd of the bazaar was trapped by these manlike beasts.

  And then there ste
pped to the front of the booth, a hideous, awe-inspiring monster. It walked like a man, but stiffly, as did the others. Yet it differed from the others; for it wore a peculiar contraption like a gas mask. The rest of its body was encased, from the gas mask to the feet in a grayish, rough sort of material that might have been asbestos. Its torso was round, stocky, the shape and size of a large barrel. From its gloved right hand protruded a peculiar sort of tube, ending in a tapering point, not unlike a large hypodermic syringe.

  This hideous figure stood for a long minute surveying the crowd, silently, grotesquely, like a frankensteinian monster.

  Many of the people in the crowd had not yet noticed this monster, for their eyes were glued in horror to the white, expressionless countenances of the mechanical-appearing men who had swarmed out first; and a slow murmur spread through the throng, tinged with sudden fear.

  “The robot murderers!” The word went from one to the other in the amazed throng. These were the beings who had committed the robot murders, emblazoned on the front-page of every newspaper in the city for the past week. No wonder the description was alike in every case. These beings were as alike as peas in a pod—clothes, features, bearing—everything!

  The whispered word went around, “automatons!”

  Betty Dale felt herself brushed aside by one of these creatures who completely disregarded her as he made for the door, turned and stood on guard, automatic pointed at the crowd.

  But she paid him no attention. For her eyes were now focused on that awful figure in the booth—that awkward, ungainly monster that stood silently surveying the room.

  The first to regain his wits was a patrolman, one of the twelve assigned to duty in the bazaar. He pushed through the crowd toward the booth, shouting to the other uniformed men, “Let’s take ’em, boys! It’s the robots!”