Secret Agent X : The Complete Series Volume 3

by Emile C. Tepperman

  “Then it may be too late,” said “X” quietly.

  When Jim Hobart had gone, Agent “X” left the office of Martin and went to a phone booth in a drug store many blocks away. Unknown to Hobart, or anyone else, there was still another detective organization under the Agent’s control. This was a staff built up of seasoned and reliable operatives, interviewed individually by himself under different disguises and recruited from all parts of the country. They were nominally in charge of a man named Bates.

  Bates had secret headquarters, established by Agent “X.” Day and night either Bates or one of his assistants was beside the phone, ready to respond to “X,” the man they knew only as “chief.” The Agent had even equipped Bates’s headquarters with a special, short-wave broadcasting radio. From this he could pick up important messages in code on the radio of his own car.

  He called Bates now, and the man’s voice came to him instantly.

  “Yes, chief, is that you?”

  “Right.”

  There was a pause at Bates’s end of the wire. He was waiting for the chief to speak. “X” did so at once, using the particular tone he always employed when communicating with Bates’s headquarters.

  “I want you to send an experienced operative to the morgue,” he said. “Tell him to look for the unidentified man who was killed at Whitney Blake’s party tonight. He can claim he’s hunting for a friend who is missing. His best lead is to trace down this man’s shoes. They are custom-made and of a certain type. The maker shouldn’t be hard to locate. Hurry on this job. I want you to beat the police.”

  “O.K., chief.”

  “And, Bates, send every man you’ve got on the job if necessary. Look up every place that makes custom-made shoes in the city. Give them the dead man’s description. Find out who he is.”

  “Yes, chief.”

  Agent “X” hung up. He was throwing both of his highly trained organizations into this battle against the drug menace. Working separately; unknown to each other, both had been enlisted in the same cause. Both were responsible to Agent “X.” The expense of his campaign might be great; but “X” stood ready to spend a fortune if he could stamp out the drug blight. The huge account held for him under the name of Elisha Pond in the First National Bank would take care of that.

  SIX hours passed, and the Agent received the first of his reports. It was from Fenwick, the chemist, and its contents were disappointing. Hard as he had tried, Fenwick had been unable to make a complete analysis. The drug in the impregnated tobacco of the cigarettes had become blended with nicotine in such a way that its exact chemical nature eluded him. He promised sure results if “Mr, Martin” could obtain a purer specimen of the drug.

  “X” called up the headquarters of Bates’s and received a message that helped to offset Fenwick’s failure.

  “We’ve traced down those shoes, chief,” Bates said. “They were made by a German over on the west side of town for this chap who was killed. His name’s Alfred Twyning. He used to work in the research department of the Paragon Chemical Company. Looks like he hit the booze, got fired and got to be a bum.”

  “Good work, Bates,” said Agent “X” quietly. What the man had told him checked up with those acid stains he had noticed on Twyning’s shoes. But mystery still shrouded Twyning’s death. Who had shot him, and what for? “X” snapped quick orders into the phone.

  “Get all the information you can on Twyning’s connection with Paragon Chemicals. I’ve heard of the place. It’s out in the suburbs. They make tooth-paste, face creams, and stuff like that. Try to find out where he lived. If he left any belongings, search them, any way you can. Get all possible data.”

  “Yes, chief.”

  “X” spent the day making the rounds of underworld haunts in the disguise of a sportily dressed crook. It was a stock make-up that he had often employed. It aroused no suspicion. He hoped to run across one of Karloff’s men, or hear something that would lead him back to the present hideout of the man who killed with the horrible green death. But if any criminals knew about the dope ring they dared not speak. Terror seemed to have taken the underworld into its icy grip.

  Back in the office of A. J. Martin that evening Agent “X” received a message that sent him into instant action. It was Jim Hobart calling. The courageous redhead whom “X” had placed in charge of an agency was excited.

  “I’m in a cigar store across from Clarendon Field right now, boss,” he said. “I just followed the frog out here in a taxi. This de Ronfort guy has got a plane that he keeps under the name of Pierre LaFarge. Tie that if you can! I heard him talking to some mechanics. They’re getting the plane ready now. I don’t know where he’s going; but he’s traveling alone. What’s next on the program?”

  “Stick close,” said “X” grimly. “If you can, slip de Ronfort’s mechanics some money to stall on the job. Tell them it’s a practical joke and that you want to make him late at a wedding. Something like that. Then charter another plane and stand by. Follow de Ronfort if he takes off before I get there.”

  The Agent clicked up the receiver. He grabbed his hat and coat and ran swiftly from the office. At the curb he jumped into one of his own cars, a smart, fast roadster with a short wave radio concealed under the dash panel. He was in a desperate hurry, impatient to get through the heavy traffic, and twice he drew reprimands from cops. A motor cycle officer stopped him, but his press card saved him from a summons.

  In the suburbs he struck smooth concrete where he could step on the accelerator. He made the roadster surge forward till the engine was roaring as though a giant were imprisoned beneath the hood. Soon he was in a thinly populated section where the road was flanked by rolling meadows. Another mile, and he drove up before a big gate in a high wire fence.

  Parking his car at the curb, he hurried through the gate and onto a broad field where he headed toward a bulky line of great, sprawling buildings. These were airplane hangars. “X’s” sharp eyes recognized a mechanic lolling against a wall and he shouted to him.

  “Get the bus out, quick, Joe! The biplane!”

  THE mechanic flung away his cigarette and snapped into life.

  “Right away, Mr. Martin,” he said. “The open one’s in tiptop shape. I went over her this morning. What’s happening this time, Mr. Martin? You newspaper guys sure lead a wild life.”

  The Agent motioned the talkative mechanic to show some real speed. He ran to the hangar. By the time the plane had been pushed out, with a dolly under the tail, “X” was ready, garbed in a suede jacket, with goggles and helmet adjusted.

  At this field he kept two planes. This small, single-seater biplane he called the Blue Comet. She was a beautiful craft, built with staggered wings, low camber and plenty of sweep-back. Except for her flashy coloring she might have been an Army pursuit job. During the war the Agent had done considerable flying. He had an expert’s knowledge of all types of ships, and he’d selected the Blue Comet for its speed, climb and maneuverability after exhaustive tests of many other planes.

  The Agent climbed into the cockpit as his mechanic wound up the inertia starter. He raised his hand, switched on the ignition, and the engine broke into a smooth-voiced, throaty rumble. For a minute or two “X” leaned back against the crash pad and warmed the motor. Then he signaled the mechanic to pull the chocks. He shoved the throttle forward; the radial broke into a roar and the plane leaped down the macadamized surface of the field, swiftly gathering momentum. It rose into the air as gracefully as a soaring gull, and hurtled up into the night-darkened sky

  A short climb and “X” circled around, taking a northern course. The city spread out under his wings. Streets, parks, car tracks, with rows of twinkling electric lights like miniature strings of diamonds. Soon his trained eyes singled out the brilliant air beacon of Clarendon Field. He pushed the stick forward, kicked left rudder to sideslip and kill speed, and made an unobtrusive landing.

  Jim Hobart was on the look-out for him. Jim knew the Blue Comet. Even before “X” had
taxied to a stop, the operative was running beside the plane. Quick and efficient, schooled to emergencies, Hobart didn’t lose time on unnecessary preliminaries.

  “The guy’s just taking off,” he said hoarsely. “Over to your left, boss! I stalled his men for a while, but the Count complained to the field management about the delay. The operations guy came out, raised hell with the mechanics, and they sure hustled after that.”

  The Agent shot a quick glance to the left. “An amphibian!” he said.

  Two field attendants were running toward the Blue Comet. “X” spoke quickly.

  “Steer those birds away, Jim! I don’t want any one nosing around. Tell them I stopped by to hand over some important papers to you. Quick!”

  De Ronfort’s amphibian was already in the air. Off the ground again, “X” immediately sought altitude until he was several hundred feet above the Frenchman’s plane. The amphibian was traveling due east. To throw off suspicion that he was following, “X” headed south. Presently he banked the Blue Comet and brought the craft up on a parallel course with de Ronfort.

  There were other planes in the air, but the Agent had no difficulty keeping track of the amphibian. The Count was heading out to sea.

  Below twinkled the lights of the shoreline. In the channel a ship was ocean-bound, leaving a banner of heavy smoke trailing from the stack. In shore were the dark hulks of vessels resting at anchor. About five miles out at sea, “X” saw a blinker flashing on the bridge of a small steamer. Only a few lights gleamed from the portholes. The vessel obviously wasn’t a passenger ship. “X” wasn’t close enough to make out the boat clearly, but through the binoculars it appeared to be a tramp steamer.

  Suddenly de Ronfort’s plane swooped down, glided along the water and stopped very close to the ship’s side. The night was clear. Cutting off his motor and gliding lower, “X” saw dots that were men at the ship’s rail. Something attached to a line was thrown overboard. Peering through powerful night glasses, “X” watched de Ronfort haul an oblong shape aboard the amphibian.

  “X’s” eyes gleamed. This must surely be contraband of some sort. Probably it was dope. The Agent headed south once more. He banked again, and took a northwesterly course toward Clarendon Field, ahead of the Count. His mouth was grim. He meant to find out without delay, what Remy de Ronfort was smuggling into the United States.

  Chapter IX

  THE SEALED SUITCASE

  CONFIDENT that the Count was returning to Clarendon Field, “X” shoved the throttle forward and sent the Blue Comet ahead at full speed. He landed, turned his plane over to a mechanic and walked toward the black shadow of a hangar.

  Five minutes later the Frenchman’s amphibian was taxiing to a stop. De Ronfort stepped out of the plane, tugging a heavy suitcase.

  He looked around sharply. While he removed his flying garb, he kept the suitcase between his legs. It was plain that de Ronfort was worried. He snapped at attendants and seemed impatient to be off. As soon as he was free to go, he half ran to the street.

  Once more he stopped and swiveled his eyes in all directions. “X” had remained in the shadows. He saw de Ronfort light a cigarette, take a few nervous puffs, and throw it down, only to light another. A taxi driver hailed him, but the Count waved him on.

  “X” realized the reason when the Frenchman hired the next cab. This one belonged to a company that had twelve thousand machines, and the drivers were not likely to be federal men or rival mobsters, whereas the first car had been a tumble-down machine with a hard-faced man at the wheel.

  As soon as the Count’s taxi started, “X” ran to another, an independent cab, and flashed a fifty-dollar bill before the man’s eyes, along with his press card.

  “Climb in the back seat, old-timer,” he said. “Let me take the wheel. Duck down so you won’t be seen—and give me your cap.”

  The cabman sat up with a jerk. “Say, what’s the gag? You’re flashing stuff that talks big in my language, but I ain’t anxious to spend ten years in Sing Sing for takin’ it. How do I know it ain’t bogus? Was it printed in a cellar over in Jersey?”

  The Agent quickly returned the large bill to his wallet. The driver’s face clouded with disappointment. But “X” drew out five worn and wrinkled tens.

  “Here,” he said, thrusting the currency in the cabman’s hand. “These bills smell with age. I’m on the track of something big and you’re going to ruin a scoop if you don’t come to life.”

  That did the trick. The driver got in back and crouched down on the floor. Wearing the red-and-black cap, the Agent slid into the front seat and started the taxi. A deft manipulation of plastic material gave him a twisted, dented nose. Over his perfect upper teeth he fitted a false set that protruded, bulged his lip, and changed the entire appearance of his face. The other machine was a quarter mile away by now, but the road was a through thoroughfare, and soon “X” was close behind.

  He saw de Ronfort staring back anxiously. The Count’s expression changed to one of relief when he saw that the taxi seemed to be occupied only by a dumb-looking driver. When they got to the heavy traffic, “X” stayed about a half block behind, though he was careful that the Count’s car was on the other side of the cross street when the lights turned red.

  The Count’s car drove to the heart of the city, and rolled up a side street on the fringe of the theatrical district. The taxi stopped in front of the Perseus Arms, a swanky hotel that catered to celebrities and people of wealth.

  The Agent stopped the taxi, hastily remodeled his nose, removed the false teeth, and tossed the cab driver his cap.

  “You’ve earned your money,” he said. “But keep mum.”

  The Agent went across the street and into the Perseus Arms. There was no danger of detection, for the man that de Ronfort had seen driving the taxi had none of the smooth, genteel appearance of A. J. Martin.

  The Count stood at the main desk, writing. “X” dropped into an easy chair and watched. A few minutes later a Western Union messenger entered the lobby and went to the desk. The clerk spoke to de Ronfort, and the Frenchman handed the boy a note and a bill. “X” sauntered from the lobby. When the messenger reached the sidewalk, the Agent followed him.

  Around a corner, he stopped the lad and flashed a detective badge.

  “I’ll take charge of that slip, son,” he said in a kindly voice. “Just move along and keep quiet. If your boss calls you down tell him that a federal man gave you orders to say nothing. Understand?”

  The boy nodded, but his eyes grew big and he looked scared. “X” handed him a dollar bill, then a slip of paper with the address of the Hobart Agency on it.

  “Nothing to be frightened about,” he said. “If you should lose your job because of this go to the address on that paper and the man there will give you a better one.”

  When the messenger had saluted and dodged into the crowd “X” looked at the note. It was addressed to one Felix Landru, a man “X” had heard stories of, a sly, slippery underworld character, formerly a Paris Apache, and as sleek and suave as de Ronfort himself. “X” read the note.

  “The Peacock has a big supply of rabbit food to dispose of at a commission,” it said. “The Fox is asked to get in touch with him at the Perseus Arms as soon as possible.”

  There was nothing incriminating in that note. The “Peacock” undoubtedly was de Ronfort, while the “Fox” likely was the wily Landru. And was the “rabbit food” the contraband that the Count had smuggled into the country in that suitcase? Dope?

  The address on the note was the St. Etienne Inn, a cheap hotel on Bordeaux Street in the French section of the city.

  THE Agent immediately took a taxi to the St. Etienne. He obtained Landru’s room number from the clerk, and rode the squeaky, slow-moving elevator to the fourth floor. A radio was playing in the crook’s room, but it was turned off the instant “X” knocked.

  There was almost a minute of silence. The Agent grew tense with uncertainty. He knocked again. This time he spoke Landru’
s name softly.

  The door opened a crack. The room was dark. But the shaft of dim light from the corridor glinted on an automatic in Landru’s hand. The crook peered furtively through the narrow opening.

  “Landru, quick, let me in!” In a hoarse whisper, “X” addressed the man in perfectly accented French. “The Peacock sent me. He’s got a new consignment of rabbit food, but the federals are hounding him. We’ve got to work fast!”

  “Mon Dieu, you should not have come here then!” exclaimed Landru, letting the Agent into his room. “Why did he not send the note? Has the man lost all caution, now that he is annexing himself to wealth and influence? Or are you—”

  Landru did not finish the sentence. Suspicion leaped into his eyes as he stared at the Agent.

  Slam! A slugging fist smashed Landru on the point of the jaw. “X” had thrown all his strength and weight into the terrific, jolting impact. The crook dropped to the floor as though his legs had been cut out from under him.

  The Agent switched on the lights. He had wanted to sound Landru out, to get information if he could. But the man was obviously suspicious, and “X” had suddenly thought of a better scheme, one more suited to get to the bottom of Remy de Ronfort’s activities.

  For a while he studied Landru’s sharp-featured face. The crook was a dandy, sallow and dissipated, but well groomed. He wore a Vandyke, and the ends of his mustache were waxed and carefully rolled until they were like spikes.

  “X” ripped off the disguise of A. J. Martin. With his vials and tubes on the dresser, he went to work shaping features that were identical to Landru’s.

  In a few minutes he looked like a smooth, dissolute Frenchman out for a night of absinthe and carousal. He put on Landru’s clothes, but wore his own shoes with their secret compartments in the soles and heels that held some of his compact, ingenious equipment.

  He entered a telephone booth in the lobby and called up de Ronfort at the Perseus Arms.

  “The Fox speaking,” said “X.” “I have your note, but if you wish to do business with me, you must act quickly. Bring the merchandise to Eddie’s place on Nyack Street—you should know where it is—and come prepared to quote a low price. This town is like a powder keg with sparks flying around it. If I should be caught distributing rabbit food, you know that I will be getting my mail at a bastille for years to come. Unless you are reasonable this time, we will not do business.”