Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 5

by Paul Chadwick

  “She’s just fainted, poor girl,” declared Foster. “Look at her wrists. She’s been tied. Looks as though the gang had gone in for kidnaping as well as robbery. I am afraid, Miss Vincart, that your leopards are not as good watch dogs as you imagined them to be.”

  “Ah, no, my leopards are as pet kittens. They would hurt no one. But are you sure this girl is not associated with your strange criminal gang?” asked the Leopard Lady.

  “Why, this is Betty Dale, a reporter on one of the local papers,” explained Foster. “Her father was on the police force back in Major Derrick’s day—eh, Derrick?”

  “Of course, of course,” jerked Derrick. “Miss Vincart, if you have a little brandy in the house, I think we can revive this young lady in a moment. She will probably be able to tell us enough about our prisoner to put him behind bars for the rest of his life.”

  “Certainly. A cellarette over there—”

  Major Derrick started for the cellarette the Leopard Lady had indicated. In doing so, he tripped over something which extended out from beneath the edge of the couch on which Betty lay.

  Inspector Burks quickly went over, demanded:

  “What the devil have we here?” He saw that Derrick had tripped over the end of a small black traveling bag that had seen considerable wear.

  “This anything of yours?” asked Derrick of the Leopard Lady.

  Felice Vincart’s lips curved into a slight sneer. “Dear me, no. All of my traveling gear is upstairs waiting for the maid to unpack.”

  Burks, Derrick, and Foster knelt beside the black bag and opened the clasps. The opening of the bag was too much of a surprise for even Commissioner Foster to retain his usual composure. “Good Lord!” he gasped. “It’s filled with jewels!”

  “And—” Derrick said excitedly—“I recognize some of the pieces. There’s the necklace stolen by the corpse-gang from Mr. Nelson’s store. There’s not another like it in the world!”

  Inspector Burks looked over at Agent “X.” He nodded his great head up and down slowly. “We’ve made a catch this time!”

  A commotion arose at the opposite end of the room. A uniformed messenger was allowed to pass the police guarding the door. “Message for Commissioner Foster,” the youth announced, extending a plain white envelope to the commissioner.

  “Where from?” demanded Foster as he tore at the envelope.

  The messenger shrugged. “Don’t know. A man gave it to me at the telegraph office. He said it was for you. I’ve hunted for you for some time; then some one told me at headquarters that I might find you here.”

  THOUGH Foster had asked the question, it is doubtful if he listened to the explanation, so intent was he upon the contents of the envelope. “Listen to this, Derrick,” he said, his voice trembling slightly with excitement: “‘You have a friend in the enemy camp, Commissioner. I am enclosing the fingerprints of Secret Agent ‘X.’ Advise you checking them with any members of the gang you may capture.’ ”

  Foster held up the slip of paper which had been enclosed with the message. Even from where he stood, Agent “X” could make out a complete set of fingerprints recorded on the paper. His heart gave a leap into his throat. The secret he had sworn would die with him—the secret of his identity—was about to be revealed. Even if he should succeed in escaping, the police now had a permanent record which could send him to the electric chair any time they laid their hands on him.

  But when another man might have spent precious moments brooding upon his own doom, Secret Agent “X” went into action. The hand of his upraised left arm balled and drove down like a mallet in a brain-rocking blow to the head of the plain-clothes man in front of him. It was a blow that might have felled an ox. The Secret Agent hurdled the sprawled form, and ran straight at Foster. He knew that no one would dare fire a shot for fear of hitting the commissioner.

  So sudden were his movements that surprise paralyzed everyone for a moment. “X,” with head lowered, drove straight between Foster and Major Derrick. His hand shot out. His fingers ripped the fingerprint record from Foster’s hand. It was a single motion in his mad dash toward the door at the rear of the room.

  Ahead of him, police guards massed before the door.

  “Stop him!” shouted Burks. “Stop Agent ‘X’!”

  But even as Burks shouted, “X’s” right arm dropped and rose again. That motion had sent the little glass capsule he had secreted down into the palm of his hand. As he ran, he threw it with all his strength at the group of police massed against the door. At the same instant, he drew a deep breath and dived into the center of the police in the doorway. They fell like cardboard soldiers before his furious onslaught. The glass capsule he had broken in their midst contained sufficient anesthetizing gas to send them all into temporary oblivion.

  “X” TORE away from enfeebled hands, hurdled recumbent bodies that cluttered the floor, broke through the door, closed and locked it behind him. As heavy shoulders battered at the locked door, threatening to burst its hinges, Agent “X” sprang up the flight of broad stairs that extended before him. At the top of the stairs, he turned into the first room he came to. It was a large bathroom. He leaped to the window. But a glance out the window showed him that it offered no avenue of escape. It would have been a twenty foot drop, and already the shadowy forms of the police were moving across the lawn, surrounding the house.

  “X” could hear the sound of feet hurrying up the stairs. Without any arms other than his wits and his fists, he would probably be completely at their mercy. He turned around, opened a small door which he supposed to be a closet of some sort. His heart gave a bound; for the door opened on the dark, narrow shaft of a laundry chute.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he threw a leg over the frame of the small door, arched his back so as to wedge himself in place, and pulled the door shut behind him. Thrusting his elbows against the walls of the chute in order to break the speed of his descent, he began sliding down the chute.

  A second later, he had dropped into a laundry room in the basement. Only a little gray light passed through the basement windows, but after the tomblike darkness of the clothes chute, this light was sufficient for him to see his way about. He went from the laundry into the furnace room in search of a way out.

  In the heels of his shoes were secret compartments where he carried material which had often aided him in getting out of tight spots. He would probably have to employ the tube of make-up material which one of his heels contained in order to affect a disguise that would enable him to get out of the house.

  But his first task was to destroy the record of his fingerprints which he had snatched from Foster. Light from a basement window pointed out a monstrous furnace which heated the house. It was far too late in the spring for him to hope that there would be a fire inside the furnace. But near at hand, he found a small glass containing matches. He opened the glass jar, took out a match, and scuffed it against the floor.

  It was only after he had crushed the charred scrap of paper beneath his heel that his old self-confidence returned to him. Now, with a little good fortune, the great work which he had undertaken, could go on.

  As he turned from the little pile of black paper ash which had once marked him for certain doom, he bumped directly against the muzzle of an automatic pistol. The brilliant beam of a flashlight burned into his eyes, blinding him.

  “Got you this time, Secret Agent ‘X’.”

  Instantly, “X” recognized that voice. It was the voice of one of Burks’ best men. Detective Keegan.

  “And I’m not taking any chances, either!” The detective’s flashlight described a brilliant arc above the Agent’s head and descended in a blow to “X’s” temple. Agent “X” dropped to the basement floor, and lay still.

  A few minutes later, Detective Keegan, hat mashed down over his head, triumphantly entered the presence of Inspector John Burks who was bellowing orders to his men. Betty Dale, in the meantime, had recovered under the apparently kindly ministrations of Felice
Vincart.

  “Find anything in the basement, Keegan?” demanded Burks.

  Keegan coolly nodded as he shook a cigarette from a battered pack. “Secret Agent ‘X’,” he replied between puffs of smoke.

  “Agent ‘X’!” Burks sprang across the room, and clamped both hands down on Keegan’s shoulders. “You found him, and let him slip through your fingers without giving us a signal? By heaven, you’ll lose your badge for this!”

  Keegan spread his right hand, palm down. “Easy, sir. I’ve got your Agent ‘X’ all tied up with sash cord. I brained him with my flash. He’ll keep for weeks.”

  Had Burks been watching Betty Dale, he would have seen her cheeks grow deathly pale.

  Burks’ eyes seemed to pop from their sockets. “Foster!” he cried. “We—we’ve—he’s got Secret Agent ‘X’!” Burks thundered through the room and out into the kitchen. He plunged down the basement steps, closely followed by Foster, Major Derrick, and several men of the force.

  In the furnace room, Burks knelt before a recumbent figure. The man was securely tied with a soot-soiled rope. Burks turned him over. It was indeed the heavy-faced man whom Burks had declared to be Secret Agent “X.”

  “So that’s the devil!” exclaimed Derrick. “Got him at last. No more police massacres, Foster. This man ought to be lynched!”

  Burks was staring down into the face of the unconscious man. “You got to hand it to him,” he muttered. “You wouldn’t know that face he’s wearing from real flesh and blood! But there’s a way of finding out what’s underneath.”

  The inspector dug his fingernails deep into the plastic material that enabled “X” to adopt any feature he chose. His hands trembled with suppressed excitement. Time after time, this mystery man had defeated Burks. He could scarcely believe that at last he was about to look upon the true features of his old enemy.

  “Keegan shall have a promotion for this!” declared Foster.

  Burks said enthusiastically: “Keegan’s good, but I don’t see—” His sentence wandered off into a whisper. His hands dropped limply to his sides. Foster and Derrick looked at each other and then down at Burks. Words failed the inspector. Unconsciously, he molded bits of plastic make-up material between his fingers, and stared down at the face of the man on the floor. For the man who had been so completely knocked out, the man who had been so securely tied, was none other than Detective Keegan himself.

  Chapter V

  THE DUMMY

  THE actions of Secret Agent “X” from the moment that Keegan had swung his flashlight in an effort to knock him out, were as simple as they were surprising. Keegan was a powerful man, and perfectly fit. But he had acted hastily. In almost complete darkness, it is difficult to strike a man in a vulnerable spot at the first blow. The detective’s flashlight, aimed at the Agent’s temple, had grazed “X’s” ear and landed squarely on his right shoulder.

  “X” had collapsed on the floor to lie perfectly still. The moment that Keegan had pocketed his gun and started to kneel at his captive’s side, “X” had thrown up both legs to lock in a powerful scissors grip around Keegan’s knees. The detective had fallen full length upon “X” and had taken a short, chopping left on the head.

  The struggle had not lasted a minute. Keegan was no match for the fighting skill of Agent “X.” Having tied the detective and appropriated his flashlight, “X” proceeded to remove make-up material from his own face. Then using make-up material which he obtained from one of the secret compartments in his heel, “X” worked over his own face to resemble the contours of Keegan’s face. Master of his art that he was, “X” was able to duplicate Keegan’s features from memory. A change of clothing, and he was ready to face Inspector Burks.

  No sooner had Burks and his followers trooped into the basement, than Agent “X” sauntered out of the house, and regained the car he had borrowed.

  The sky was graying in the east by the time “X” arrived at one of his hideouts miles away from the Leopard Lady’s house. He knew that Betty Dale was in good hands. Burks, who had known the girl since childhood, would not have permitted any harm to come to her. But “X” knew that more than ever before, the police would hamper his efforts in the cause of justice.

  The Agent’s first act on reaching his hideout—a brownstone dwelling in the west end of town—was to enter a closet and open what appeared to be a large wardrobe trunk. Inside, was concealed a small short-wave radio transmitter and receiver. By means of a telegraph key, he tapped out a code message which was transmitted on a clear wave channel. He was anxious to get in touch with Harvey Bates, director of the Agent’s vast secret organization.

  Almost immediately, the reply came through—a series of Morse dots and dashes. Again, the Agent’s key clicked, this time to inform Bates, to use a certain code, known only to Bates and himself. Then he tapped out a question which when decoded read: “Are camera planes ready for immediate use?”

  Bates replied that two of the Agent’s aerial eyes were ready to take off at a moment’s notice.

  “Then,” the Agent tapped out, “put them in the air at once. Patriot city. Watch for Corpse Legion’s mystery car. In case of another police massacre, trace car and deliver record of route taken.”

  Having completed these instructions, “X” leisurely removed his make-up which had aided him in the impersonation of Detective Keegan. Seated before a triple mirror, his skillful fingers worked miracles. Transparent adhesive twisted his lips into an ugly snarl. Plastic material helped him achieve a hideous, flattened nose that was almost apelike. A clever toupee of coarse, black hair, a suit of flagrant checks, and a tie that flamed completed his disguise.

  Staring for a moment at his reflection in the mirror, he believed that his new face was the result of genuine inspiration. He looked the sort of a man a policeman would arrest on sight. He could think of no face which appeared to need the aid of a plastic surgeon any more than the one reflected in the mirror.

  It was his intention to visit the home and office of Jules Planchard. Previous investigation had led “X” to believe that the greedy doctor was not above using his skill to change the features of fugitives from justice. So far, Planchard had slipped beneath the fingers of the law; but “X’s” great group of secret investigators had ferreted out Planchard’s true character. Then the incident of the jade bracelet—first purchased by Planchard and next seen on the wrist of Felice Vincart—made “X” doubly suspicious.

  “X” BELIEVED that there were but two possible explanations for the existence of the Corpse Legion. Either some scientist had discovered a means of reviving the dead, or there was trickery somewhere—trickery of a sort that “X” knew better than any other man. Such trickery—the alteration of the real features of a man’s face—could be greatly simplified if the skilled Jules Planchard served the unknown leader of the gang.

  It was nine o’clock in the morning when “X,” beneath his masterly disguise, pressed the doorbell of Jules Planchard’s great square, brick house. His ring was answered by a servant whose eyes were still puffy with sleep. Dr. Planchard, the servant informed “X,” was still at breakfast.

  “Don’t let that bother you, buddy,” the Agent growled. He wedged the toe of his left shoe in between door and sill. “The doc’s expectin’ me. I’m a customer, get it?” He winked knowingly.

  The servant would have hesitated to admit “X” had not the latter suddenly thrown his full weight against the door. The servant fell backwards. “X” strode into the hall, slamming and locking the door behind him.

  The servant cowered against the wall, staring at the leather-covered blackjack that “X” swung suggestively.

  “You lead me to the doc, old wooden face, ’fore I bash your brains out!” Agent “X” snarled.

  “He—he didn’t want to see anybody. He’s—”

  “Ah, Parkins, what seems to be the trouble?” a nasal voice inquired.

  “X” turned. Dr. Jules Planchard, swathed in a quilted silk dressing gown, stood in the
door at the end of the hall. His long goatee dangled beneath his pendulous lower lip. He examined “X” with keen, black-bean eyes. His breakfast napkin was in his right hand.

  “This bird thought he was keepin’ me out, doc,” replied “X” familiarly. He thrust thumbs into the arm holes of his checkered vest, tilted his hat on the back of his head, and glowered at the doctor. “My name’s Vance. ‘Dummy’ Vance. Maybe me name hasn’t got this far east, but out in ’Frisco I’m called ‘Dummy’—’cause that’s the one thing I’m not. You look like a smart man yourself, doc.”

  Planchard bowed slightly in acknowledgment of what was intended to be a compliment.

  “Smart enough,” the Agent continued, “not to kick up too much fuss when a guy wants his map dredged a bit. This beezer, now—” the Agent fingered his flattened nose—“without that, the bulls wouldn’t know me from a wooden Indian. You gettin’ the idea?”

  Planchard motioned to the door through which he had just passed. “Come in here, Mr. Vance. We can talk in privacy.”

  “X” followed Planchard through the door into a small study. Planchard motioned to a chair across from a small coffee table laden with the doctor’s breakfast. “X” dropped into a chair, picked up a couple of slices of toast, and munched thoughtfully for a moment. His eyes narrowed.

  “That gun you’re hidin’ under your napkin, doc—I spotted it first time I lamped you. Kind of spoils my digestion to have to eat starin’ at a gun.”

  Planchard coughed nervously, dropped his napkin, and put a small automatic into his pocket. “One never knows,” he mumbled.

  “Sure. And that’s why you got to fix me up so I look like a Sunday-school teacher. I worked myself over from the west coast, if you get what I mean. Maybe I left a record here and there, and maybe I didn’t. How’d you like to earn a grand fixin’ my pan?”

  Planchard smiled slightly, “Really, Mr. Vance, you and I don’t speak the same language!”

  “X” scowled. “You mean you come higher than that?”