For the taxi wasn’t empty as it had seemed at first. Two inert, dummylike figures lay twistedly on the floor. A death’s-head face grinned up at “X” from under a toppled hat. An arm, and a set of crumbling fingers, were stretched across the seat. Relli and de Coba had been turned to dusty skeletons.
Chapter XIV
A NUMBERED CLUE
THE Agent yanked open the cab’s door with a trembling, white-knuckled hand. The chemical odor was strong again. It pressed against his nostrils like a poison breath from the mouth of hell itself. He choked, stepped back with a sudden sensation of giddiness.
The feeling passed. The smell grew fainter. He stared at the two dusty dummies grimly. Marko was behind this, too. Marko had wiped them out because they hadn’t implicitly obeyed orders.
The Agent jumped to the front of the cab, stared inside intently. Then his hand reached down, and touched something that looked like a small black snake. It was a rubber tube that passed through the partition behind the driver’s seat. Some sort of nozzle had obviously been plugged into its end. The supposed cabman was an emissary of Marko’s, and had loosed some fearful substance on his passengers through this rubber tube.
The Agent went to the side window next. He poked a hand in, and picked something off the seat. It was a tiny slip of white paper directly under those crumbling bony fingers. “X” turned it over. A telephone number had been scribbled on it. One of the dead men had jotted it down.
He felt through their pockets, found nothing more of interest, moved away from the car of death. With his master keys he let himself into the lodging house again, and went stealthily to the two gunmen’s rooms. Their luggage from the Baronia was here. But a quick examination proved it disappointing. A shabby desk against one wall brought better results.
Stuffed in a drawer was a letter bearing a city postmark, and containing a slip of paper with the same telephone number “X” had found in the cab. It had been mailed the day before.
He slipped from the murdered men’s lodgings as the measured walk of a patrolling cop sounded down the block. He slunk into the shadows, hurried forward till he found an all-night drug store with telephone booths. He called information, and using the police code, traced the number. It was the Wellington Arms Hotel.
A slender link in the chain of mystery and horror that “X” was following. Yet it seemed somehow to connect Relli and de Coba with Count Cariati. Cariati’s number had been mailed to the two men. Later one of them had apparently jotted it down.
The Agent’s eyes were bright as he returned to the black coupé. There must be a thousand or more guests in the Wellington Arms. The number indicated the hotel’s central switchboard. It might not refer to Cariati at all. Yet the inference was too strong to be disregarded. And Cariati was the only passenger from the Baronia who had checked in there.
The Secret Agent sped to his nearest hideout. He put on an expensive suit of clothes, changed his disguise to that of an ultra-respectable elderly man. He stuffed a portable radio set into a worn leather suitcase.
Out in the street, the first gray light of dawn was beginning to show. He took a subway to a big railroad station, walked across it, and climbed into a cab outside in which a sleepy-eyed driver nodded.
“The Wellington Arms Hotel,” he said.
He knew the number of Cariati’s suite, and the floor that it was on. Posing as a man who had just arrived in the city on an incoming train, he engaged a room as close to the count’s as possible, stating that a friend had recommended that particular floor.
“X” was located just across the hall. He was impatient now for action, anxious to follow up his promising lead.
He slipped across the corridor. His master keys were out. In a moment he had the count’s door open, and had moved wraithlike inside.
THE hotel was quiet, but the chill gray light of morning was creeping in. Soon people would be astir. It was a dangerous time for the Agent to work. To be discovered would mean almost certain capture and arrest. Yet perhaps the count had papers or letters that would tell more than any information Bates’ men had been able to get. That was the thought in the Agent’s mind.
The suite was large, four rooms altogether. The Agent gave the bedchamber a wide berth. No use disturbing Cariati now. He found a writing room, and saw a mahogany desk.
His long strong fingers, and eager eyes made quick examination of it. There was a packet of bills inside. The count had opened credit accounts in some of the city’s most exclusive stores, and had already ordered lavishly. The proprietors had hastened to mail bills to him as a reminder that times were hard.
“X” tossed these aside. A list with a score of well-known names on it caught his eye. Wendal Carter’s was at the top. There were others “X” knew as bankers and wealthy men. Colonel Borden’s name was among them. Carter’s had been crossed off.
The Agent understood. Count Cariati was still after a loan. All these were men he intended to proposition. Yet the Agent’s pulses tingled. There might be something more sinister behind it.
In a pigeonhole was a sheaf of personal correspondence. A blue envelope with feminine writing on it held the Agent’s interest. It bore the postmark Washington, D.C., and the faint musky perfume that rose from it was familiar.
The Agent opened it quickly and scanned the contents.
Dear Pietro:
The date of the party I mentioned is definitely settled now. It will be on the night of the 26th. Decorators were put to work before we left for Washington.
The colonel is anxious to get back to his old home. And I am anxious—to see you again. Our time on shipboard was very pleasant. It will be a gay party and I will save you the dance I promised.
Au revoir till then,
Carlotta.
P.S. I shall expect you around nine-thirty.
The Agent slipped the note back into the desk. A thin smile curled his lips. Count Cariati was a lucky man. As a guest at Colonel Borden’s family mansion, he might find a chance to touch the wealthy colonel for a loan. But was it pure luck? Or had that been Cariati’s reason all along for cultivating the friendship of the colonel’s beautiful secretary?
The Agent found nothing more of interest. He heard a scrub woman go by with her clattering mop and pail. The count might be waking early for all he knew.
Wraithlike as he had come, he slipped back to his own room across the hall. He had established a base close to Cariati now. He might be able even to rig up a dictograph and station one of Bates’ men on the spot. Cariati’s every movement must be watched.
Morning deepened, and up from the chill streets the cries of newsboys began to rise. The early editions were out. The hideous story of the bank looting, and wholesale murder of the police was being shouted. The city would wake to a shocked realization of Doctor Marko’s power.
The Agent rang for a bellhop and had a paper brought up. He scanned the headlines eagerly.
CENTRAL BANK CLEANED OUT
MILLIONS IN CURRENCY TAKEN
—
Cops Turned to Skeletons. Doctor Marko Blamed for Crimes.
The police had come out into the open now. Commissioner Foster had made a statement to the press admitting that a famous criminal, escaped from an English jail, was believed to have taken refuge in America. The life history of Andreas Morland, alias “Doctor Marko,” was given. Early pictures of him were run, taken from rogues gallery files. The public was warned of his bloody past.
The police assumed he was in some sort of disguise. About this they were vague, though Foster stated that an arrest was expected hourly.
The Agent threw the paper down. He knew the talk of an arrest was only a blind—to cover up the police’s helplessness. He knew that Marko was still master of the situation. Marko had made his first great coup. From now on he would dominate the underworld.
The Agent grew impatient. He opened his suitcase radio, and tapped a message to Bates, instructing that an operative be sent to the room of a certain “Benjamin Taylor
” in the Hotel Wellington Arms. When the man arrived “X” told him to keep Cariati’s comings and goings covered.
HE himself left, stopped at a hide-out, and changed his disguise to that of A.J. Martin. Plans were simmering in his mind. This was the 26th. He must make arrangements to have Cariati shadowed at Colonel Borden’s party. He might possibly go himself, if nothing else developed.
At noon, he dropped in at the Hobart Detective Agency. The lanky, redheaded ex-police dick who had shared so many thrilling adventures with “X” looked worried. He was pacing his cluttered office. Every edition of the morning press was spread on the desk before him.
“Bad business, boss,” he said. “Whoever this guy Marko is, he pulled a fast one when he landed from the ship. We couldn’t spot him. Neither could the police. Where do you figure he’s hanging out?”
“X” shook his head slowly, hiding the deep concern he felt.
“Those police last night!” said Hobart shuddering. “He did for them just the way he did for those guys on the boat. It gives me the creeps, boss. I can’t figure this one out.”
Hobart was silent a moment, then struck the desk. “I almost forgot! A girl from the Herald who won’t give her name is trying to get you. She called five minutes ago.” A faint softness showed in the Secret Agent’s eyes. That would be Betty Dale. She was worrying about him, of course, knowing he was after Marko. Fear for his sake was gnawing at her mind, now that she’d heard of the terrible killings.
“Thanks, Jim, I think I know who she is. I’ll look her up.”
“Any orders, boss?”
“Stick around. I’ll let you know.”
“X” left to slip into a telephone booth across the street. Betty was worried indeed if she’d tried to get him at Hobart’s. He’d cautioned her never to look him up in his alias of Martin unless it was really urgent.
He rang her number, listened for her voice, and gave his strange, inimitable whistle. Her breathless answer sounded over the wire.
“Oh—I’ve been waiting! I was afraid—terribly afraid that something might have happened!”
“You mustn’t worry about me, Betty—ever.”
“I know—but—that wasn’t all. I have something to tell you—something I thought you’d want to know.” Her voice grew more steady. She hurried on. “Colonel Borden is back from Washington, and has seen the news about Doctor Marko. It excited him terribly, because of something he had stolen on the Baronia. I don’t know what. But he once came in contact with Marko in Europe. He’s made a statement to the Associated Press, giving Marko’s description as he remembers him. He wants Marko located because of this important thing that was stolen—and he thinks his description may help the police and public find Marko if it is spread broadcast. Now the Herald wants me to interview him, and get his personal story.”
The Agent’s answer was low, tense. “Betty, there was a man on the Baronia who could describe Marko, too. His name was King and he was found—murdered!”
“Then—then Colonel Borden is risking his life in doing this?”
“Yes—exactly—and you’re risking yours in going there.”
“But I must! The paper’s asked me to!”
“I know—but wait until this evening, Betty. Tell the colonel you’re bringing a friend, another reporter. That will ring me in. There’s to be a party—and I’d like to attend. Here’s our chance to crash it together.”
Chapter XV
AGENT “X” BETRAYED
THERE was a blaze of lights in the old Stanley Borden Mansion. There was gayety, laughter, music—a swirl of color. There were men and women present who belonged to the city’s highest social stratum. But underneath, for those who knew and could feel it, was an undercurrent of nervous tension.
The Secret Agent sensed it as he entered with Betty Dale. He saw men who were not guests mingling with the others. Men whose alert eyes and uneasy faces told him they were detectives. He knew that Commissioner Foster, following Borden’s statement, had remembered what had happened to Robert King. It was he who had insisted that the law be represented.
He took a firmer grip on Betty’s arm, steered her toward their distinguished host. The Agent’s own disguise was that of a plain-featured young man. He was inconspicuous in black-and-white evening clothes. But Betty Dale, in a blue dress, complementing her gold-blond hair, was as lovely and striking as any debutante present. Men turned to stare at her admiringly as she swished by. She paused before the colonel smiling.
“I’m Betty Dale—the girl who phoned from the Herald for an interview. And this is Bob Sullivan, another reporter who wants to hear your story. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve brought him along.” She indicated the Agent, giving the alias he had assumed, and Colonel Borden shook hands graciously.
“A little later,” he said, “we can get together, after the guests have all arrived. Meanwhile—just make yourselves at home. I want this to be—a happy occasion.”
They thanked him, and moved away together. But “X,” glancing back, saw the colonel’s features suddenly stiffen. He followed the direction of Borden’s eyes and abruptly tensed himself, so much so that Betty Dale said quickly:
“What’s the matter?”
“X” didn’t answer. He was staring at the hall door through which a new arrival had just come. A broad-shouldered man with a heavy, sun-burned face. Rodney Breerton.
“Wait!” The Agent squeezed Betty’s shapely arm. He drew her a little away, watched with lynx-eyed interest. Breerton seemed ill at ease, a stranger in this gathering. He blinked at the lights, fingered his starched cuffs, and shifted uneasily.
But a girl in a clinging red gown of shimmering satin detached herself from a group and went quickly to him. Stately, beautiful and poised as she had been on the boat, Carlotta Rand was on the job now. And she it was who had apparently invited Breerton.
For he smiled, and took her hand. “X” couldn’t hear what was being said. But he saw Breerton’s eyes devour her; saw her smile back.
There was a blazing diamond pendant at her throat which set off her dark beauty. Her red dress was cut daringly low on her shapely shoulders. Carlotta Rand was exerting herself to play the role of hostess. But why had she invited Rodney Breerton? Would she be smiling so brightly if she knew what “X” did about the man—that Breerton was a spy by profession, and the person who had tried to kill her on the boat?
The colonel looked displeased and disconcerted. He stood frigidly when Carlotta Rand brought her guest up, and introduced him. He barely acknowledged Breerton’s bow, and immediately turned away. It appeared to “X” that Carlotta had not told her employer of her intention to invite Breerton. “X” was interested in the girl now. Had she invited the count without consulting Borden?
It seemed so, for when Cariati arrived a little after nine, the colonel looked frigidly displeased again. Carlotta shrugged, and led the count among the guests who eagerly surrounded him, anxious to rub shoulders with nobility. Borden beckoned to her, then. She went to his side. The colonel steered her toward a secluded alcove.
The Agent left Betty Dale, and followed quietly. He took a stance before a painting which he pretended to admire. There was a potted palm between him and the door of the room where the two were talking. He could hear them plainly.
THE colonel was taking no trouble to modulate his voice. He spoke loudly, raspingly.
“Why do you invite guests, Miss Rand, without consulting me?”
“Shush! They’re just a couple of friends I made coming over on the boat. We needed some extra men. I thought you would be glad.”
“We’ve spoken of these two before. I told you I didn’t like them. Breerton you know nothing about. He looks like an adventurer to me. The count, I warned you of. He comes of an evil family. How do we know that one or both aren’t criminals?”
“You are absurd, dear colonel! Don’t let your imagination run away with you! Please be reasonable!”
“Reasonable! You are forgetting yourself! I�
��m your employer—and this happens to be my house!”
“But surely I can have a few friends of my own!”
“Not—not men like these, Miss Rand—whom I’ve already told you I disapprove of!”
The colonel’s voice had risen. In it there sounded the jealous regard of a man who feels proprietorship. A moment’s silence followed. The colonel continued more harshly.
“After tonight I must forbid you to see any more of these men—especially Count Cariati. If you do—”
“What?”
“I shall have to ask you to look elsewhere for employment, Miss Rand, and that would be unfortunate for both of us!”
An exclamation of anger came from the girl’s lips. Her reply was coldly cutting. “On the contrary, colonel—I think I could manage to survive. You may consider my resignation tendered at once. I’ve stood enough of this sort of thing! I must live my own life sometimes.”
The colonel made no answer. A triumphant laugh came from Carlotta’s lips. She was sure of her youth and beauty, scornful of this man who wanted to run her life. The Agent moved quickly away, and in a moment the girl appeared, flushed of face, her eyes sparkling.
Breerton saw her, and approached her smiling. But his gaze dropped from her sparkling eyes to the sparkling jewel at her throat. It seemed somehow to hold him fascinated.
A hidden orchestra struck up. Soft music throbbed through the scented air, and Breerton led the red-clothed girl away to a room where many couples were dancing.
The Agent looked about for Betty Dale, and could not see her. She, too, had evidently been led away.
Count Cariati was conversing with a small group near the bar, and “X” wandered toward them, studying as he did so the count’s sinister, handsome face. But in the center of the room, he paused and froze into immobility.
As though a curtain had been dropped, the count’s features disappeared. Every light in the house had been extinguished.
Through the darkness that had fallen like a smothering, black mantle, a woman’s shrill scream sounded and bedlam reigned. Other women began to cry out. Men shouted hoarsely, and a table was overturned. Then a window broke somewhere with a rending crash.
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 5 Page 9