“Martin speaking. Is Hobart there?”
“Wait a moment. He’s in his office. I’ll connect you.” It was the voice of the girl desk clerk answering. There was a click and then another voice sounded.
“Yes, chief, Hobart listening.”
“Have you got men at the dock where the Baronia is to land?”
“Briggs and Chatfield have been there since nine. I sent them right after you called before.”
“Round up your entire staff, Jim. Have them meet the ship posing as friends of people landing. Tell them to carry candy and flowers.”
“What’s up, chief?”
“The vault of the Baronia was looted—everything gone. The purser and a passenger were murdered—turned to skeletons.”
Jim Hobart gave a long-drawn whistle into the phone. He believed Martin was a high-pressure, super-successful newspaper man out for inside stories. He thought he worked for a great syndicate specializing in scoops. He knew that Martin had helped to solve a score of hideous crime cases. But he believed that this was incidental to his real work. The newspaper angle explained Martin’s many strange commands and actions.
“What a story!” he breathed. “What a noise that will make!”
The Agent’s voice was harsh, holding an urgency that Hobart sensed. “A criminal named Doctor Marko was on board. He’s disguised as some one else. Nobody knows who he is. Only the police know he’s on the ship. They can’t find him!”
“Can’t they check up on the passengers?”
“Yes, but you’ve heard of plastic surgery! Marko’s had his face changed, and probably new skin grafted on his fingers. He’s in America to raise all hell. If the cops don’t catch him—we’ll be hearing about him soon enough.”
“Who shall I tell my men to look for, chief?”
“Scatter them over the whole pier. Tell them to watch everybody, listen to every conversation they can. Make notes of everything they hear and see. I’ll call you later.”
“X” hung up. His orders to Jim Hobart had been a thrust in the dark. Nothing at all might come of it. Yet it was worth trying. There was still plenty of time to reach the pier. The Baronia would be held up by the police for a long period—even hours.
“X,” by means of his sensitive short-wave radio, kept in touch with what was going on. Police and federal codes were known to him. He translated all messages that the Baronia flashed out.
No headway had been made in finding the loot. No clues had been found. Commissioner Foster believed that Marko had escaped. He thought that the criminal called Secret Agent “X” had somehow aided him. Passengers were restless to get off the murder ship. The police finally agreed to let them.
IT was close to midnight when puffing, panting tugs nosed the giant Baronia into her dock.
The only fresh development was the captain’s story. He had been discovered, and finally revived. He stated that a man who appeared to be Colonel Borden had knocked him out. That strengthened Foster’s belief that Agent “X” was active.
The Agent, disguised as Martin, was in the curious, jostling throng in the great pier shed when the gangplank was lowered. News of the crime mystery had spread. Hundreds had come to see the boat. Reserves had even been called to hold the crowds back.
There was tumult, shouting, excited calling as the harried passengers streamed off. Magnesium flash bulbs glared. Newsreel men ground cameras. Reporters fired endless questions.
The Agent saw Hobart’s men playing their part. Bouquets of expensive flowers and bulky parcels had convinced the police that they were friends of incoming passengers. They had been allowed on the pier. The Agent’s A.P. card had carried him through. Men of the Bates organization would shadow Relli, de Coba, and Cariati.
The Agent waited till he saw Rodney Breerton’s thick-set, scowling form. All baggage was checked and doubly checked, by customs men and federal operatives, for some trace of the stolen loot. Breerton’s was examined. He was allowed to pass. The false bottom of his bag that “X” had found had escaped detection so cleverly was it constructed.
But as Breerton left the pier, the Agent followed. In the press and jam of screeching motor vehicles and swirling foot passengers, he almost lost sight of the cab that Breerton had taken. Almost, but not quite. His dark coupé took up the trail. He kept the cab in view with grim tenacity.
Breerton checked in at the small, shoddy Venetian Hotel, secret gathering place of international spies. “X” had had the hostelry under observation before. He knew its sinister reputation. He called Bates again, arranged to have a man stay in the lobby at all times, and keep Breerton’s complete activities covered.
It was after twelve now. The Agent stopped at a telephone booth, and called Betty Dale’s apartment. The receiver instantly clicked up as though she had been waiting, worrying. He hardly knew her voice it was so strained with fear.
“Yes, who is it?” An agony of suspense was in the question.
For answer “X” stepped back a little from the mouthpiece, and puckered up his lips. A strange, melodious note came from them—a whistle that was more like the eerie, uncanny call of some wild bird. The whistle of Secret Agent “X.”
Its effect on the girl at the other end of the wire was electric. A sound like a stifled sob came from the receiver.
“Thank God! You—I was afraid—”
Sometimes in moments of great danger and suspense, the bond of affection between these two came close to the surface. Sometimes Betty Dale, womanlike, could hardly bear the thought of the perils through which this strange man of destiny and mystery must pass.
“Those guns!” she said. “I thought they would never stop! I thought they would get you—when I heard that the captain was suspected, and had escaped.”
The Agent’s only answer was a grim laugh. It carried a weight of meaning. He, too, still seemed to hear those chattering police guns in his ears.
“I did what you said,” went on Betty breathlessly, covering up her show of emotion, knowing that she must never hinder in any way the Agent’s courageous and important work. “I questioned Rodney Breerton and Count Cariati. Breerton was sullen. He wouldn’t talk. He seemed—almost suspicious. But Cariati talked a lot. He says he’s going to have justice from the Blue Star Line. He claims that his family jewels were priceless, and his bonds were worth a hundred thousand. He places the whole loss at half a million. And here’s something I’ve found out! I talked to a newspaper man I know. He’s heard of Cariati. He says the man is a practically penniless fortune hunter. He thinks he’s come to America to find a rich wife.”
“He comes of a most distinguished family, Betty.”
“Who?”
“The Borgias! Count Giffredo Cariati on his father’s side was one of Cesare Borgia’s brothers.”
Betty Dale gasped. She said: “There’s something—slimy about him. I wouldn’t trust him. I think he’s lying about the amount of his loss. He sees a chance to collect from the steamship company.”
“I’m going to watch him, Betty.”
“You’ll take care of yourself, won’t you? You’ll let me knew if I can help?”
“Yes, Betty. Good night.”
Newsboys were screaming shrilly when the Agent reached the street. An extra had been brought out. He bought a paper quickly, and saw the blaring black headlines of the thing he’d figured in.
CRIMINAL ESCAPES AS CAPTAIN FROM “BARONIA”
—
Thief and Murderer—Man Called “X”
Chapter XI
NIGHT ATTACK
THREE days elapsed. Evening came. The Secret Agent paced the floor of A.J. Martin’s office restlessly. He walked to the window, looked out into the street where ghostly gray shadows were beginning to descend, came back to the small desk. He was strangely worried.
Doctor Marko had not been heard from. An odd silence had descended on the criminal underworld. A silence as though some great murderous beast were creeping nearer—getting ready to spring. The silence of a tro
pic jungle when furtive, sinister creatures take to cover and lie low before the coming of a monster feared by all.
The Secret Agent had feelers out. Bates and Hobart’s men were active. He, too, had been active, checking up on every report sent in.
He knew where all his suspects were. Rodney Breerton was still at the Venetian. Count Cariati had engaged a suite at the luxurious Wellington Arms Hotel. Relli and de Coba were lying low in an underworld hideout over on the west side of town. They, too, seemed to be waiting. Alternate operatives of Bates kept them under observation night and day. Sooner or later “X” believed, they would try to make contact with Marko or his syndicate.
But what of the syndicate itself? “X” had received only the faintest, most shadowy rumors. Two underworld aces, a former big-shot policy racketeer, and a stock swindler who had once been a national figure, had disappeared from their usual haunts. A state-wide betting ring, which the police had admitted they could not stop, had suddenly and mysteriously ceased its activities.
No trace of the loot from the Baronia’s vault had been unearthed; no jewels or bonds, though police heads in hundreds of towns and cities had been notified, and pawnshops throughout the land were being watched. The killing of the Baronia’s purser and Robert King was still a blank and hideous mystery.
There was a cigar box on A.J. Martin’s desk. Its cover bore the name of a familiar brand of Havanas. Beneath the cover was a layer of tinfoil-wrapped cigars.
But a sing-song buzzing came from the box abruptly, audible faintly in every part of the room. The Agent tensed and listened, for the box was only a clever screen concealing one of his own sensitive, midget radios. Portable anywhere, with no aerial and no phones needed, a sounding device inside made the code signals plain.
All day messages in a secret dot-dash cipher had been coming in from Bates. Routine reports of the doings of his men. Now another communication was sounding.
“X” listened to the seemingly senseless stream of interrupted pipings. Bates had been a speedy commercial telegrapher, and a navy “sparks” on a man-o-war before the Agent had engaged him.
“Count Cariati meeting president of Central Bank tonight,” the message said. “Made appointment this afternoon. Eight thirty in president’s home. Do you wish him shadowed there?”
The Agent stood in bleak-eyed hesitation. Monotonously, the message began again. Bates was a patient, routine worker. He sent each message out three times, waited ten minutes, then repeated it three times more. The Agent abruptly switched off the cigar box set. He strode into the street, got into his coupé, and sent a return message from that, lolling in his seat like a man apparently resting quietly—with only the tip of his finger tapping on a hidden key.
“No! Have man wait at Wellington Arms for Cariati’s return.”
He stopped sending. He did not explain to Bates that he would shadow Cariati himself. That was strictly the Agent’s own affair.
But at eight a quiet-faced, elderly looking man dressed in the height of fashion, sauntered along the block on which the Wellington Arms fronted. Once he passed under the giant hotel’s elaborately lighted marquee. He sniffed a boutonniere, slapped idly against his leg with a pair of yellow kid gloves.
AT eight fifteen, Count Cariati emerged, stiff and formal in evening dress. He was freshly groomed, pomaded, scented; obviously tricked out to the best of his ability to present a prosperous and striking figure. A checkered taxi whirled him away.
The elderly man followed in another. He told the driver not to get too close. He gave a number which was near the home of Wendal Carter, president of the Central Bank. Behind the quiet, wrinkled face were the intent eyes of Secret Agent “X.”
He wanted to learn what Count Cariati had to say, what mission took him to see the head of a great bank. The count passed through the gate of Carter’s house. Agent “X” was down the block.
He climbed from his cab, reconnoitered once. Fortune favored him. There was a velvety lawn around the Carter house. A high, wrought iron fence barred it from the street. A servant opened a gate for the count and locked it behind him, escorting the count into the big house.
“X,” in the role of the elderly man, underwent a sudden transformation. He turned his collar up, drew his hat-brim down, pulled his kid gloves inside out, exposing jet-black linings. He put them on and approached the fence, black as the darkness itself, except for the pale gleam of his face.
He placed his black-gloved hands on the wrought iron top, lifted himself with muscles so powerful they would have done credit to a professional acrobat. He swung his body across the fence, and dropped soundlessly as a shadow to the smooth grass beyond. He traversed the lush lawn on rubber-soled feet. A huge police dog came running around the side of the house, sniffing, getting ready to bark.
The Agent stood perfectly still, held out his hand, and gave a faint whispering note of his peculiar whistle. His eyes stayed intently on the dog. Slowly the animal came up to him. In a moment, the Agent had made friends, demonstrating an almost uncanny power over animals that had helped him often before.
The watchdog did not growl or interfere when “X” moved up to a big bay window. He looked on with wagging tail, as though it were nothing extraordinary, when “X” placed the black disc of his pocket amplifier against the glass. The Agent became absorbed in the conversation that was going on inside. Carter had led his visitor into some sort of study.
Five minutes passed, during which suave pleasantries were exchanged, then the count got around to the real purpose of his visit. This was to use his recognized social standing as a means of inducing Wendal Carter to grant him a loan.
“My credit abroad is of the very highest,” Cariati said grandly. “I’ve a letter here from my country’s consul. I have contacts in America which are beyond reproach. I might also add that a number of wealthy friends of mine are depositors in your bank.”
There was a moment’s silence before the reply of Wendal Carter came. “X” couldn’t see either man. The shade was drawn. But the banker had a resonant voice which had in it a slight undertone of uneasiness.
“I’m very, very sorry, sir—but we’ve discontinued unsecured loans entirely. The hard times, you know. We are obliged to make no advances these days without adequate collateral.”
The count’s answer was raspingly impatient. “I’ve already explained to you that my bonds and jewels were stolen on the ship. I have no collateral at the moment; but I’ve started litigation, and am certain to make recovery from the shipping firm in full—a half million dollars. I need at least fifty thousand now to tide me over. A man of my position cannot lower his standard of living beyond a certain point. You will make an exception in my case, surely.”
“We cannot make exceptions, count, for any one.”
“Absurd! Your bank is liquid. You have millions in cash on hand. Your own printed statements reveal that. You know as well as I that you cannot do business without making loans. I’ll pay the customary interest. But, more important still, is the prestige that I will bring you!”
COUNT CARIATI’S voice had risen. The man was conceited, ruthless—and determined to get hold of enough money to maintain his luxurious living standards. But Wendal Carter was a stubborn, conservative banker.
“I’m very sorry, count. We keep liquid during these trying times as a matter of course. All banks do more or less. And today we received a shipment of currency through Federal Reserve channels, which some of the newspapers inadvertently mentioned, and which you may have seen about. But it’s being distributed among a score of our branch banks tomorrow. And I must repeat—we cannot run the risk of an unsecured loan, even to one of your high social position.”
The count gave a sudden harshly sneering answer. “You won’t run the risk of doing a gentleman a favor—but you’re willing to run a much greater risk by letting money pile up in a city where you know a dangerous criminal has recently arrived.”
His sinister words were followed by an abrupt, uneasy paus
e. Then Wendal Carter spoke coldly.
“I’m not trusting to chance, count! I’ve taken every precaution humanly possible. Special armed guards are at the bank now. Police reserves are stationed in readiness at the precinct house around the corner.”
Count Cariati sniggered unpleasantly. “Maybe if my valuables had been guarded properly—But we must not weep over spilled milk. And since you’ve so fully explained your position, there’s nothing for me to do but say good night—and hope for better luck elsewhere.”
The Agent quickly put away his amplifier. Like a shadow, as he had come, he crossed the lawn and climbed the fence. He followed Cariati back to the Wellington Arms, and left him there to be watched by Bates’ man. There might or might not be a veiled threat behind Cariati’s visit to Wendal Carter. But the banker’s words had disturbed the Agent.
Millions in cash in the Central Bank. Millions in one spot, with a criminal like Doctor Marko loose. Carter had admitted his uneasiness, admitted that he had taken precautions. But what if the bank was protected with steel doors? Marko had opened the Baronia’s vault easily, without a sound. What if there were armed guards—Marko had slain the purser swiftly and horribly. Here, surely was a bait that might tempt Marko.
Once again, the Agent stopped at a hidden hideout. There was one disguise alone that would not attract attention late at night. One that he had assumed on rare occasions before. He took a blue regulation cop’s uniform from a closet. The brass buttons, the shield with the city insignia was on it. It had been made in the regular police contract tailoring shop. Before putting it on, he slipped a bullet-proof vest around his body; one of the most portable, light-weight pieces of body armor in existence. An outer shell of duralumin. An inner casing of thinnest, hardest manganese steel. Finest quality raw silk between. He put a plain black suit over this, then donned the uniform.
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 5 Page 7