Well within the half hour specified, he presented himself to the switchboard girl in the Hobart Detective Agency and gave his name.
The girl flashed him a smile. “Mr. Hobart is expecting you, Mr. Fearson. He has two clients inside, but he told me to let him know the minute you arrived.”
“X” nodded and seated himself while the girl called inside, and he surveyed the busy office. There were five girls employed here; one was Jim Hobart’s secretary, three were file clerks, and one was the switchboard operator. The office was large, well furnished. Behind the telephone girl was the door of Jim Hobart’s sanctum, while to the left was another door leading to a large room where each operative had a desk of his own where he could study material, make out reports, and plan his work.
In the short time that Jim Hobart had been running this agency, he had achieved phenomenal success. This was partly due to the aid which “X” had given him. In his role of Elisha Pond, he had recommended the agency to banks and insurance companies, had helped to secure large and profitable accounts. The Hobart Detective Agency was well known throughout the country now, and it was consulted more and more by people who had heard the name, or seen it mentioned in the papers. This was exactly what “X” wanted, for in this fashion the agency was enabled to build up large files on criminals, on underworld connections, and to keep its pulse on the trend of criminal events.
Sometimes, through cases that came to it, the Agent was apprised of crimes in the making of which the police did not even have an inkling. He had not been surprised, therefore, to learn that young Larrabie and his friend, Ranny Coulter, were consulting the agency.
IN a few moments the door of the inner office opened, and Jim Hobart came out. He smiled at “X,” and asked, “Mr. Fearson?”
The Agent nodded. He arose and produced one of his cards, which he handed over. Jim Hobart read the name, “Arvold Fearson, Private Investigator.” In the lower left-hand corner there appeared a queer initial, written in ink. Young Hobart said, “That is Mr. Martin’s initial, all right.”
“X” said, “I am working on this case of the murder monster for him and have acquired a good deal of information. That is why Mr. Martin sent me. He was sure you would not resent having me take charge, since I have all the facts at my fingertips.”
Jim Hobart nodded, appraising “X.” He did not pierce the disguise, but he was not yet wholly satisfied. “Did Mr. Martin give you any other message for me?”
“Yes. He said to tell you that there is blood on the moon.”
Jim smiled. “That’s better. Now I’m sure you’re okay. We can’t be too careful, you know. Now, if you will come inside, Larrabie and Coulter can tell you their story at first hand. I’ll introduce you as my chief operative.”
The Agent acquiesced, and followed him inside. Jim closed the door carefully, and introduced “X” to the two young men who were waiting with tense, drawn faces. “Doctor Larrabie and Mr. Coulter—this is Mr. Fearson, my best man. I’m giving him charge of your case. Please tell him what you told me.”
Young Larrabie was high strung, much more nervous than he had appeared last night when he had seen his friend, Harry Pringle, murdered before his eyes. Ranny Coulter was stouter, more phlegmatic, but he, too, appeared to be laboring under a great strain.
It was young Larrabie who assumed the burden of explaining their difficulty. “You know, of course, about what happened to Harry Pringle last night.” At “X’s” nod, he continued. “We thought at first that damn monster gave him the works just as an example to the others present. It was bad enough that way, and Ranny here, and Fred Barton and myself decided to work on the thing, try to get that monster. We were all present at the bazaar last night, and we realized it was a tough job. We didn’t understand how tough it really was until this morning.”
“What happened this morning?” the Agent asked quietly.
Larrabie told him grimly. “Fred Barton’s disappeared!”
Ranny Coulter broke in. “It’s not just his disappearing—we’re sure something’s happened to him. We were supposed to get together this morning at Jack’s house, but Fred didn’t show up. So we phoned, and got no answer. Jack and I drove over to his apartment—he lives alone, you know, away from his family. I have a passkey, and when we got in we found the place had been thoroughly searched, and some of the furniture was upset. An end table had been turned over and smashed—it looked like a struggle had taken place.”
Coulter stopped. There was a moment of silence. Jim Hobart, who had been standing behind “X,” shifted uneasily. Young Larrabie said slowly, “It looks very much as if this murder monster is after the four of us for some reason—first, Harry Pringle, then Fred. The four of us have always stuck together. It may be our turn next—Ranny’s or mine. That’s why we’ve come here.”
“Can you think of any reason,” the Agent asked, “why this monster should be interested in you four?”
They shook their heads. “Unless,” Coulter said, “he figures we’ll try to get back at him for murdering Harry that way last night and is eliminating us before we can interfere.”
“X” shook his head. “If the murder monster is behind your friend Barton’s disappearance, it is not for that reason. The monster has more dangerous enemies whom he would try to eliminate first. Have you notified the police?”
“No,” Larrabie told him. “The police have been so helpless in the whole thing, we thought we’d use your agency.”
“They will have to be notified soon,” said the Agent. “In the meantime I suggest that the first thing to be done is to interview Fred Barton’s father. Suppose we do that first, and then decide on the next step in the light of what we may learn from him.”
The two young men agreed, placing themselves in the agency’s hands. As they were leaving, “X” lagged behind to give Jim Hobart some instructions. “How many operatives have you available in the city now?” he asked.
“I could dig up about fifteen,” Jim told him. “There are a few unimportant cases that I could pull them off.”
“All right. Round up as many as you can, keep them ready for instant duty. I’ll call you back.”
As “X” and the two young men drove downtown to the financial district in Ranny Coulter’s car, the Agent was careful to look behind frequently. But they were not followed.
Chapter XV
SATAN RECRUITS
RANNY COULTER drove silently, while Jack Larrabie explained to the Agent, “We ought to catch Fred’s father in his office about this time. You’ve heard of him, of course—Giles Barton, head of the Eastern Steel Institute. That’s the clearing house for the eastern branches of all the big steel manufacturing companies.” Young Larrabie smiled ruefully. “I hate to break the news to him about Fred; the old man’s a terror when he’s aroused. I could almost wish we wouldn’t find him in.”
They did find him in, however, and had no trouble in getting in to see him, for Coulter’s and Larrabie’s families were quite friendly with the Bartons.
When they were ushered into the old man’s luxuriously furnished, richly carpeted office, they found him pacing up and down, his face purple with rage, yet with a hint of apprehension in his eyes.
He was about to burst into a torrent of words at the two young men, but noticed “X,” and looked questioningly at them.
“This is Arvold Fearson, Mr. Barton,” young Larrabie introduced. “He’s all right. We’ve hired his agency to do some work for us. What’s the trouble?”
Barton spluttered. “Trouble! Have you seen Fred today?”
Ranny Coulter lowered his eyes, then glanced at Jack Larrabie. “You tell him.”
Young Larrabie said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Barton, but I think—something’s happened to Fred.”
“You think!” the old man barked. “I damn well know it! You young cubs go chasing around, wasting your lives, and all you can get into is trouble! Here—take a look at this!”
He snatched up a sheet of paper from his desk, thrust i
t at them. Larrabie took it, read it in silence, and in silence passed it over to the Agent, saying softly, “I’m—sorry, Mr. Barton. You can depend on us to do all we can.”
“X” read the note quickly, while young Coulter looked over his shoulder. Then he reread it more carefully. It was worth a second perusal:
Dear Mr. Barton:
Your son, Fred, is in my hands. You need not be alarmed—this is not a kidnaping. I have taken your son because be is a brilliant student of chemistry and physics, and I need his services.
If your son performs the work I shall order him to do, he will be allowed to live. The purpose of this letter is to request you, as you value your son’s life, not to do anything that might endanger it—do not attempt to trace him, or to communicate with the police!
Yours,
The Master of the Monster.
Old man Barton was fuming. “The insolence of him! To dare to write me anything like this! I’ll have every policeman in the city on the trail of this mountebank within an hour! Nobody can do this to me and get away with it!”
Jack Larrabie said drily, “If you’d been at the bazaar last night, Mr. Barton, you’d think differently. This monster is no mountebank—he’s a deadly murderer. The police can’t do any good—he kills them like flies!”
Barton strode up and down biting his upper lip. “What are we to do then?” he cried in desperation.
“We’ve hired the Hobart Agency,” Larrabie told him. “Just sit tight, Mr. Barton. The monster says in the letter that Fred isn’t going to be killed. I only hope,” he added fervently, “that Fred has the sense to play along with him. He’s so damn hot-headed, he’s liable to tell this murder monster to go to hell!”
“If he’s any son of mine,” the steel magnate barked, “that’s just what he’ll do!”
“X” had remained silent, studying the three of them, at the same time trying to analyze the contents of the letter Barton had received, trying to arrive at a mental picture of the man who had written it.
He nodded shortly to Barton when they left, following the two young men in silence, his mind still concentrating on the problem.
OUTSIDE, in front of Barton’s building, he seemed to return to realities again with a snap. He said firmly to the two young men, “I am convinced that there is a deeper motive behind your friend’s disappearance than merely a desire to use his scientific knowledge. Though he may be brilliant, there are still many men who are far more advanced in the intricacies of chemistry and physics than he is—men in the great industrial laboratories of the country, for instance. I feel that perhaps that letter was only written for the purpose of lulling your suspicions. It may be that there is some sort of plan to wipe out you four young men; perhaps you offended this murder master in some way—you may have, for you don’t know who he is in private life.”
“What do you think we ought to do?” asked Ranny Coulter, nervously.
“I think you each ought to have a bodyguard. I will arrange it with Mr. Hobart right now.” He made for a phone booth across the street, disregarding their protests.
“Damn it,” Larrabie growled, “we came to Hobart because we wanted him to work with us offensively. We didn’t come because we were afraid and wanted protection!”
“Nevertheless, you shall have protection. You have given us this case, and we are going to work it our way!”
The Agent’s dynamic personality, the assurance with which he overrode their objections, left them no alternative but to agree.
When he was through phoning, he turned to them. “Wait here. Hobart is sending down a man for each of you. There will be some one with you day and night. It is quite possible that an attempt will be made against one or both of you, and I advise you to keep to your homes. Let the agency work on it from now on.”
“All right,” Larrabie agreed. “We’ll stand for the bodyguards, but I’ll be damned if we stay home quietly while you have all the fun. Take it or leave it!”
The Agent sighed. “Well, I guess that’s the best I can do with you. But if you must expose yourselves, please be careful. If you don’t care about your own hides, remember that our operatives are valuable to us—don’t place them in unnecessary danger. Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have work to do.”
He left them before they could ask him where he was going, just as a car deposited two of Jim Hobart’s operatives on the sidewalk. As he walked up the street, he noted with satisfaction that Hobart had obeyed his instructions to the letter. For another car had pulled up behind the first; and from this second car there stepped two more operatives. These two were poorly dressed, and carried sandwich-board signs, back and front, advertising the virtues of some cafeteria.
The two sandwich men proceeded down the street behind the first two operatives, strolling along with an air of casual indifference which concealed their alertness. They were covering the first two men assigned to guarding Larrabie and Coulter. If the murder monster should attack the young physician and his friend, the monster would be due for a surprise. For those sandwich signs were constructed of bullet-proof, fire-proof steel; and underneath each, conveniently placed on a hook so that it could be brought into action at a moment’s notice, was a Thompson sub-machine gun!
The Agent was planning an interesting reception for the murder monster!
Chapter XVI
“THE CHARGE IS MURDER!”
THE next twenty-four hours produced no new crimes, no new wave of terror. It was almost as if some evil prescience had warned the murder monster that traps were being laid, preparations being made for the reception of its cohorts of crime.
Secret Agent “X” kept unceasing vigil. He knew that this was only a lull before the storm. He spent the time in perfecting his arrangements, keeping in constant touch with Bates and Hobart. Under his orders their operatives flocked into the city from every part of the country and were immediately assigned to stations where it was likely that the monster would strike next. They were instructed not to offer resistance in the event of an attack, for that would have been suicide, but to call either Bates or Hobart at once.
Banks, jewelry establishments, even the subtreasury, had these unobtrusive watchers stationed nearby, on the alert every minute of the day.
Young Doctor Larrabie and Ranny Coulter remained together all day at “X’s” suggestion in order to make it easier for their bodyguards. And wherever those bodyguards were, there, not far off, could be seen the two sandwich men, shambling along with their innocuous looking signs hanging from their shoulders.
Larrabie and Coulter even slept together that night at the home of Ranny Coulter’s family. The two bodyguards prowled in and out of the house all night, while across the street the two sandwich men kept constant vigil from the shelter of a small private park.
In the morning, Secret Agent “X” paid a visit to the tailoring establishment of Corlear & Son, where he had stopped in the day before. Mr. Corlear himself conducted him into the fitting room, and locked the door, arousing a good deal of speculation among the clerks as to the identity of the mysterious customer.
It was twenty minutes before the Agent left Corlear’s. He was wearing a gray sack suit that to all outward appearance differed in no way from the hundreds of other suits Corlear’s made and sold. The clerks in the store would have been immeasurably more curious had they known that the mysterious customer had paid two hundred and ten dollars for that ordinary appearing suit!
The Agent stopped in at one of his apartments and changed from the disguise of Mr. Vardis to that of Arvold Fearson, but continued to wear the gray suit. Upon leaving the apartment, he drove downtown, stopping on the way to phone Bates for a report.
Bates had been awaiting his call anxiously. “We’ve finally got something on Runkle!” he announced. “I put two men on him as you ordered. They picked him up a while ago and followed him to a house in Brooklyn. It’s a private house—Number Twenty-two Belvidere Road. Fowler and Grace, the two men who are shadowing him, just p
honed in again. There’s an empty house next door to Number Twenty-two, and they got into it somehow. They can look into the room where Runkle is sitting. He’s there with another man, a gangster named Brinz. They seem to be waiting for someone.”
“Who is Brinz?” asked the Agent. “What have you got on him?”
“I figured you’d want to know that, sir, so I’ve got the file handy. Brinz served a term in the Federal Detention House here in the city for transporting and selling liquor. That was before repeal. He got out eight months ago and hasn’t been up to much since. During prohibition he worked for ‘Duke’ Marcy, but there doesn’t seem to be any record of his present connections.” Bates added a short description of Brinz, so that the Agent could know him if he saw the man.
“All right,” said “X,” “I’m going out to Belvidere Road. If Runkle or Brinz should leave the house in the meantime, I want to know about it. But I won’t be able to stop and phone you. You’ll have to use the broadcast.”
“Right, sir. If there’s anything new, I’ll shoot it out to you.”
“Use code A.”
“Code A, sir,” Bates repeated.
“X” left the phone booth and got into his car. The broadcast equipment was one that he employed very infrequently, in cases of emergency, or where it was impossible to phone for reports. It was a powerful sending set located in Bates’s headquarters, sending on the same wave-length as the New York police calls, and for that reason the Agent did not make frequent use of it. But more than once in the past it had been the means of bringing him to the scene of action in time to thwart well-laid criminal plans.
Secret Agent X : The Complete Series Volume 3 Page 27