“Keep quiet, and raise your mitts, guy!”
At the same instant “X” pressed the muzzle of his gas gun against Harrigan’s neck. The man before him let out one whispering gasp. The document fluttered from shaking fingers. His body became as rigid as though he had been turned into a frozen statue.
A second passed. The Agent spoke again. “Get up, mister. No funny business—or I’ll pull the trigger of this gat.”
“X” turned on his own flash, directing the beam into Harrigan’s face. The man’s skin had turned putty colored with fear. Caught in such a compromising position, surprised when he thought he was all alone, he was trembling with fright. “X” talked slowly, playing the role of a common criminal, to put Harrigan off the track.
“It seems like I’ve seen your mug somewhere before,” the Agent said. “Ain’t you one of the mayor’s pals? Tryin’ to double-cross the big shot, eh?” He gave a harsh chuckle. “Thought you’d make a little dough for yourself by blackmail maybe. It’s a good racket, guy, but you ain’t got the guts for it—you white-livered dude.”
“I’m not—I—Who are you?”
“Never mind. Stand over there by the wall. Keep your mitts up and your mouth shut. I got a little business in that safe myself. I brought my tools, but I see I won’t need ’em.”
Agent “X” turned his own flash on Harrigan, saw that the man was obeying orders, standing still, too frightened to do anything else. He put his burglar kit down with a slight deliberate clink so that Harrigan would notice it. He bent forward so that Harrigan might get a look at his disguised features. He made a pretense of going through a compartment of the safe. His other hand was gathering up the paper he had seen in Harrigan’s fingers. This he slipped in his pocket, eyes gleaming, and searched hastily to see if there were any others.
At that moment a distinct noise sounded somewhere in the house. Boards creaked above his head. Slippered feet scuffed. Some one had waked and was coming downstairs to investigate. With a sweep of his hand Agent “X” scattered the papers over the floor. He turned, snarled at Harrigan.
“You lily-fingered dub! You’ve muffed the job—waked the family. Now I gotta lam before they put the finger on me. Stay there till I get out. Don’t squawk, or I’ll drill you.”
His face screwed into the vicious lines of some underworld night prowler, waving his gun at Harrigan, Agent “X” backed toward the doorway and went out. In a moment he was on the dark lawn.
THERE were lights in the upper part of the house now. Some restless sleeper had been disturbed. But “X” knew that Harrigan had time to make his getaway. He knew the man would take no chances of being found in a position which would ruin his reputation and cause a city-wide scandal. He didn’t wait to see Harrigan come out. He could set one of Hobart’s men or Bates’ to shadow Harrigan if necessary, and see if his purpose in coming to the mayor’s study was the one “X” had figured out.
Harrigan didn’t interest him at the moment. It was the paper out of Ballantine’s safe which made his heart leap. Blocks away from the mayor’s house, in the shadows back of an empty store, Agent “X” drew the paper from his pocket and turned his flash on it.
As he scanned the words carefully, his blood seemed to run cold. Here was the answer to the black mystery he had been investigating for the past thirty-six hours. Here was a criminal document containing a message so terrible that even his own fertile imagination hadn’t conceived of such a thing. It was typewritten on plain bond paper. It said:
To His Honor, the Mayor:
I have in my possession three hundred pounds of an explosive known to science as nitro-picrolene. This is the world’s newest and deadliest detonating agent. A twenty-five-pound bomb of NP is sufficient to raze twenty city blocks.
I have placed a dozen such bombs at strategic points throughout the city. They are concealed beyond possible discovery. Fuse units to be set off by radio impulse are connected with the bombs. From a hidden radio transmitting plant, I can explode these bombs within the space of sixty seconds.
I leave it to your imagination to picture what the results of a dozen such explosions would be. My motives are purely economic. I have selected an underworld executive and a highly trained criminal organization to collect tribute as they see fit. One green and two red lights fired from a signal pistol will identify this group. You will instruct the police not to interfere with their activities. Seventy per cent of all they collect goes to me for the protection I give them. They do not know my identity any more than you.
Being a man of sound judgment and common sense, you will understand that you have no alternative. You must instruct the police along the lines I have indicated. If you do not, the blood of millions may be on your hands.
I have spies everywhere. Any undercover attempt to thwart my plans will only bring catastrophe. Obey, and I will remove the bombs from this city after the group under my protection has collected ten million dollars. Disobey—and destruction will follow.
The Terror.
P.S.: As conclusive proof of the truth of my statement, I have placed a five-pound bomb of NP on Baldwin Island. This will be exploded at midnight on December 15. I suggest that you remove the hundred-odd squatters from the island. Give them any excuse you care to. Search for this bomb if you like. You will not find it. But stay away from the island at midnight of the 15th. It will be razed to water level.
The calm, fearful purport of the paper shocked “X”. He had dealt with scores of criminals. He had ferreted out crimes, blocked vicious onslaughts of the underworld on law-abiding citizens. But never had he run across a scheme as cold-bloodedly ruthless as this. The lives of thousands, perhaps millions, of unsuspecting innocents had been put in jeopardy that a human monster might enrich himself.
Like terrible, slumbering germs of Death, those bombs lay somewhere among the labyrinthine streets of the city. Like germs that would at an instant’s notice grow into a blight of red carnage unparalleled in the country’s history.
“X” HAD a vision of great buildings falling down with terrible impact of tons of steel and stone smashing down to break and rend bodies, crush out human lives, kill and maim. Men, women, and little children would be the victims. If what the Terror said was true, no earthquake or giant tornado would leave behind it a more appalling tide of death and desolation.
For a moment emotion choked in the throat of the Agent “X.” For a moment a passion of loathing such as he had seldom felt in his career held him in its grip. He was conscious of trembling; conscious of standing there in the darkness with his clenched fists and staring eyes. He had an impulse to go to the nearest great radio broadcasting station and send out a warning to the city’s population. If they understood their danger, there would be a general exodus of citizens. They would run fear-stricken from their homes, even leaving their possessions behind to get away from the unseen menace.
But, even as the impulse came, he knew that those who heard would not believe. A few might. Others would be uneasy, but too sluggish to run. Still others, the great majority, would laugh, and say this was only the story of some wild-eyed madman. Nothing so fantastically horrible could exist surely, they would think.
Yet, “X” remembered having read a notice of the squatters being removed from Baldwin Island. The press had kicked up a furor about it. It was an example, they said, of municipal callousness. Without a definite reason, without giving them time to make other plans, the city had swept down and forced the squatters from their shacks. Many with families had protested loudly. Charitable souls had come forward to help them. But there were some among the squatters who stated defiantly that they would not be driven from the only homes they knew. They said they would go back.
And tonight was the 15th! What if some of them had sneaked back? They had no inkling of why they had been driven away. What if a few of the pitiful human derelicts, struggling to keep soul and body together, victims of the great depression, had returned secretly to their homemade shacks? The rest of the wor
ld might regard these huts as mere loathsome heaps of old boards, tin cans and stones—eyesores on the landscape. But to those who had built them piecemeal, through long days of toil, they were homes.
Yes, tonight was the 15th, and in a little over an hour the Terror would make good his threat, or fail. If he succeeded, any squatters who had returned to Baldwin Island would be blown into shattered, bloody fragments.
This possibly alone was enough to send Agent “X” out on a mission of mercy. A benefactor as well as an avenger, he could not stand by and see innocent men destroyed.
There was a chance, too, that in a quick energetic survey of the island, with his experience behind him, he might find some clue to those who worked for the Terror. He might even locate the hideous bomb, or find tracks of those who had set it. If there were no squatters remaining, if he could not locate the bomb, then he would be a witness to its detonation—and see if the Terror had been correct in claiming NP as the world’s most terrible explosive.
“X” did not make a complete change of disguise. He stopped at one of his hideouts, doctored up his face slightly, then spent a few moments setting in operation an electrical mechanism that was housed in a cabinet standing on a table. When he left it, cogs were turning inside, and a thin, musical whirring came from the cabinet. Agent “X” went into the street and walked quickly to a garage where he kept one of several cars.
In this he sped to an old deserted dock on the river’s edge. Its piling was rotting away. It had been declared unsafe for use. Its owner had preferred to close it rather than renovate it.
Agent “X” slipped quietly through a high fence which closed off the end of the dock. He walked out on it, stopped suddenly and lifted a loose board.
A black, cavernous opening appeared. He stepped into this, descended a short ladder, and moved ahead on parallel boarding just above the water level. Walking forward and flashing his light, he came to a spot where a small, swift speed boat was moored.
It rested in a cradle of jute-lined bumpers that prevented it from scraping and squeaking. He stepped into the craft, started the muffled engine, and jockeyed out from under the dock’s forward end.
In a moment, the boat was a dark streak in the water, showing no lights, with only a white, ghostly plume of exhaust smoke at its stern.
Chapter VI
THE DEATH TRAP
SEVERAL times, on his way, Agent “X” avoided police patrol boats. The harbor seemed full of them tonight. Without lights and headed toward Baldwin Island, he knew he would be stopped and questioned if they could catch him. But when one patrol craft came too close, “X” twisted the wheel, stepped on the gas, and went careening across the oily night swells. The throbbing, sixteen-cylinder auto-type engine under the mahogany hood drove the craft along at a swifter pace than even the fast police patrol boats.
Baldwin Island came into sight at last, a low line of blackness against the faintly lighter horizon. There were other police craft here, circling off shore. Evidently they had been told to stay away at midnight. The mayor must have let slip some inkling of what might happen.
Agent “X” throttled his motor and drifted for a minute, until the nearest patrol boat moved away. Then he gave the engine fuel again, sped on a straight course toward the dark unsightly island.
It rose rapidly above his bow. He slowed the engine at last, twisted the wheel, and slid into a small gravelly beach. In a moment he was on shore, pulling the boat halfway up the beach to prevent the ebb tide from taking it.
Scudding clouds slid across the stars. A faint, wintry crescent of moon cast a cold light. Underneath it “X” got a glimpse of the island. It was a place of ash heaps, dumps, and small storage houses. The largest building on it was a city-owned incinerator. It wasn’t a sightly place. Over on the north side were the shacks of the squatter colony.
Agent “X” made toward these, and, when a low ridge had hidden him from the water, he flashed his pencil light. Every few feet he saw evidence that the mayor had made effort to locate the hidden bomb.
Gangs of men had been at work here. Excavations showed in many spots, with fresh earth turned up. Yet obviously the mayor’s workers had failed to find it. No doubt the suspense was largely responsible for the mayor’s seeming fright.
Agent “X” didn’t pause to search for clues now. He’d had dealings enough with criminal minds to know the horrible warped cunning with which they worked. And before he searched there were the squatters to think of.
He came to a slight incline, climbed it, and saw the squatters’ colony ahead. Then he stiffened. Not one light showed, but several faint pin-pricks of illumination in the gloom. Smoke curled up from one cracked and rusty stovepipe above a nearby shack. The more daring of the squatters had made good their boast, and returned.
Agent “X” broke into swift strides. It was eleven-fifteen already. There was no time to lose if he expected to get these poor misguided people away. His face was bleak. His eyes snapped grimly. Horror, dread expectancy, seemed to lurk in the night about him on this desolate, barren island, and there were human beings, huddled in the very shadow of possible destruction.
He reached the first shack, burst open the door. There came a low whine, a growl. Then a furry shape bounded toward him. But a quick word from the Agent, and the dog that was about to attack him, paused and stood uncertainly. Something about the tone of “X’s” voice and the burning, intent light in his eyes always had an effect on animals.
He looked beyond the dog, saw an old man rising from a box seat before a rusty can being used as a stove. Heat came from the bent sides of the can. The old man had been warming his frail hands above it.
“Hyer—wadda yer want?” he cried. “What’s the idea, bustin’ in on a fella like this?”
Agent “X” stared at the man silently for a moment. Then he spoke in a calm, friendly voice. “Just dropped in, mister, to see whether you’d cleared out, and to warn you if you hadn’t to hurry up.”
The old man’s face distorted bitterly. “A detective, eh? Get outta hyer, dang you! Sic ’em, Bill!”
The dog, hearing its master’s order, growled and bristled, but refused to attack Agent “X.” The old man cried shrilly at the animal, but Agent “X” stepped closer, smiling. He reached out and petted the dog, whose hackles instantly went down.
The animal wagged its absurd stump of a tail. It was a mongrel, with a dozen strains fighting in its puny, courageous body. The old man stared in wonder, gulped.
“I never seen Bill take to a stranger like that before,” he muttered. “He must have a lotta police dog in him and like dicks.”
“I’m no dick,” said “X,” “I didn’t come here because the law sent me. I came as a friend to warn you. Do you know why you’ve got to leave this island?”
“Can’t say as I do. Some damned red tape, I guess.”
“No—I wouldn’t call it that. The island’s going to be blown up—that’s why. There’s a bomb hidden out here somewhere.”
“A bomb—say!” Suspicion came into the old man’s eyes. “I wasn’t born yesterday, fella. You can’t pull a yarn like that on me!”
“X” spoke softly, tensely. “I wouldn’t lie to you, friend. You’d better believe me. It’s true. Even the cops are afraid to come out near this place. Quick—get away before it’s too late!”
THE Agent’s hands went to his pockets suddenly. He drew out a wallet, took from it a packet of bills.
“Here,” he said quickly. “Take these, friend. They’ll keep you and Bill for awhile. Then go to this address—and there’ll be a job waiting.”
He handed the old man a slip of paper with the name and address of Jim Hobart on it. He would make arrangements to have the old squatter put on his payroll.
“X” left the shack abruptly, saw the form of the old man and his dog hurrying away. “X” himself went on to three other shacks.
In each he found a human being, the stubborn rear guard of the squatter colony. Briefly, tensely, he told t
hem what he had told the old man, gave them money, urged them to hurry. Seeing he was not a cop, impressed by the cash he handed out, they obeyed at once. Kindness had accomplished what threats and force could not.
One more light at the outer edge of the squatter colony attracted him. He walked toward it, came to within twenty feet of it. Then he paused suddenly. For the door was opening and two figures were coming out—a man and a girl.
It was the girl who held “X” transfixed. He stared as though doubting his own senses—stared, and his whole body tensed. For the girl was well-dressed, not like the tattered squatters he had visited, or like the young man at her side who seemed also to be a squatter. She wore a wool suit with a fur collar, a little cloche hat, and under its brim a twist of blonde hair showed.
Agent “X” would have known her figure and her walk anywhere. It was Betty Dale of the Herald; the blonde and lovely ally who was one of the few persons in all the world who knew about his daring work.
An icy chill seemed to clutch at the Agent’s heart. What was Betty doing on this island at this time of night? What was she doing in the very shadow of hideous death?
The Agent stepped back. He puckered up his lips, sent a whistle into the night. It was birdlike, musical, yet with an eerie, ventriloquistic note that made it difficult to locate its source. It was the whistle of Secret Agent “X,” his odd, inimitable trade-mark.
Betty Dale stopped immediately. She gave a little gasp of surprise and clutched the leather brief case she was carrying.
“Betty!” said the Agent. “Betty—over here!”
She turned then, said something to her tattered companion, moved away from him and came toward “X.” Her eyes were bright. There was a smile on her lips as she approached. In spite of his disguise, one she had never seen before, she came directly to him. He didn’t need to introduce himself. She had heard that whistle too many times ever to mistake it
Secret Agent X : The Complete Series Volume 3 Page 50