PLANCHARD nodded. “For a man of your reputation. I don’t think five thousand would be too much to ask.”
“X” tossed a crumb of toast into his mouth and chewed it. “Okeh, make it five grand. But it’s got to be a swell job.”
“Just step into my operating room,” Planchard suggested, “and we’ll see what can be done. Of course,” he added, as he led toward the door, “I’ll have to have part of my fee in advance.”
“Fair enough,” the Agent said, handing him a thousand dollars. He followed the doctor through a door, down a short hall, and into a small operating room that was complete in every detail. The doctor went over to a white-enameled locker where he traded dressing gown for a short white coat.
“X” removed his hat, and slung one leg over the white operating table. The doctor went over to the wall and switched on a powerful compound lamp suspended above the Agent’s head. He walked to a cabinet, picked up a gleaming scalpel, and approached “X.”
“Let’s see—” Planchard tilted the Agent’s head, and stared long and searchingly into his face. For a moment, “X” wondered if even his clever disguise could withstand such a scrutiny. He eyed the scalpel uneasily.
“Don’t you give an anesthetic or nothin’?” he asked.
Planchard laughed. “Oh, I can’t operate today. I’m merely studying the lines of your face. Your nose is really horrible, if you don’t mind my saying so. I can make an incision here—” the Scalpel tapped the bridge of the Agent’s nose. “Possibly one here.” Suddenly, Planchard brought his scalpel down beneath “X’s” chin. Its gleaming point pressed against “X’s” throat. “Now, blundering spy, tell me why you have come here!” Planchard whipped out. “One of your gang has tricked me already. What did you do with my formula?” His left arm swung around behind “X,” and gripped his shoulders tightly. “Tell me, I say, or I operate right now—on your jugular!”
“Wh-what formuler?” the Agent stuttered. “Don’t getcha.”
“You know well enough! No man of your sort comes here without a letter of introduction from some one whom I can trust. You must be a spy. Tell me what you have done with my formula! Doubtless you have come to get further information about it. If that formula becomes public property, I shall be ruined. Tell me, or by heaven, I will kill you!”
Agent “X’s” right leg kicked around behind Planchard, and stuck him behind the knees. At the same time, he sent a pounding blow to the doctor’s mid-section, and snatched at the hand that held the scalpel against his throat.
Planchard doubled beneath the force of the blow, staggered back, and tripped over the Agent’s right leg. “X” sprang toward the doctor. He yanked his gas-gun from his pocket. Rage blinded the surgeon. He sprang up from the floor, and flung himself upon “X.” His fingers wilted on the Agent’s throat as he received a full charge from the gas gun straight in the face. “X” picked the man up, and stretched him out on his own operating table.
A soft, purring laugh sounded behind “X.” He swung around. A revolver shot cracked out. The Leopard Lady stood in the door of the operating room, a smoking revolver in her hand. Both of the Agent’s hands were clasped tightly over his heart. Thick, red fluid crawled from between his fingers. He staggered toward the Leopard Lady. His knees melted under him. He fell full length on the floor.
A cruel smile spread slowly across the face of the Leopard Lady. Then her green eyes darted at the operating table where Dr. Planchard lay. With quick, graceful steps, she crossed the room, and bent over the doctor. She held his wrist a moment, feeling his pulse. Then her red lips puckered and she uttered a sharp whistle.
From beneath veiled eyelids. Agent “X” watched what went on in the room. He had sustained no more painful injury than if he had been struck a hard blow over the heart with a man’s fist. His bullet proof vest had stopped the Leopard Lady’s shot. However, Secret Agent “X” often had occasion to “play ’possum.” Beneath his clothing, he frequently wore a small bladder containing a quantity of red dye which closely resembled human blood. By pinching this bladder between his hands, he had opened a valve that allowed some of the substance to flow out between his fingers. Coupled with his natural dramatic talents, this trick enabled him to feign death without difficulty.
NO sooner had the Leopard Lady uttered her whistle than two men stepped into the room. Again, “X” met faces out of the past. One of the men had the face of Willy Hymes; and “X” had last seen Willy Hymes on a slab in the morgue. He had been killed in a gun brawl. Yet here, to all appearances, was Hymes in the flesh. More than ever, “X” was convinced that Planchard had played some part in this hideous hoax. Planchard had lost a formula. “X” had a notion as to the use that formula had been put to, and also a vague idea as to the identity of the criminal genius behind the gang.
“We will take Dr. Planchard to the chief,” declared the Leopard Lady. “He is becoming annoying, and I believe he has begun to suspect me. Carry him to the car at once.”
Without reply, rat-faced Willy Hymes and his equally despicable-looking companion lifted the doctor, and carried him from the room. The Leopard Lady saw them out, then crossed to where “X” lay. She gave him a sharp kick between the shoulders with her tiny, high-heeled slipper. Though that kick had struck a particularly sensitive nerve center, “X” did not move. The Leopard Lady laughed softly, and left the room.
“X” lay still, scarcely breathing until he heard the tap of her shoes far down the hall. Then he shot up, crossed to the door. The Leopard Lady and her companions had left the house by means of the back door. “X” entered Planchard’s office. On the floor was the surgeon’s servant. There was a red lump at the back of the man’s ear. Evidently, this was the work of the Leopard Lady’s two bodyguards.
Having made sure that the servant would be unconscious for some time, “X” picked up the doctor’s telephone and called a number which had never appeared in any telephone directory. Speaking into the transmitter, the harsh voice which had identified him as “Dummy” Vance slipped down into a smooth, deep pitch. It was the one voice by which Harvey Bates recognized his chief.
“Bates,” ordered the Agent, “have the house of Felice Vincart watched. Try to shadow anyone who enters or leaves.”
“Right, Chief,” replied Bates. “Have two men in that district now. They can reach the Vincart house in a few minutes. Just a moment, please. Have further information.”
The Agent waited until he again heard Bates’ voice. He could hear the rustle of his henchman’s report sheets.
“ ‘Sleepy’ Meguire,” Bates announced, “former public enemy who was incarcerated in the state penitentiary, has been granted special parole. This information has not been made public. Our agents inform us that Meguire has been out of prison nearly a week. He convinced authorities that, given a month of freedom, he could lay hands on the man responsible for the police massacres. Meguire’s brother is being held in prison as hostage.
“Half an hour ago, another robbery and police killing took place—the former at the Graystone National Bank and the latter three blocks west. Our own agents positively identified a man seen loitering near the bank a few minutes before the robbery as Meguire. He is living in the Armedale Apartments under the name of Randolph Schnell.”
“Good!” the Agent rapped. “Anything more? Any information regarding Peter Krausman, the jeweler?”
“Krausman was seen to enter his own apartment early this morning,” replied Bates. “All of our efforts to locate gang’s mystery car from the air were failures. Pilots report visibility poor.”
“Keep trying,” urged “X” cheerfully. He hung up the receiver.
Chapter VI
KRAUSMAN’S SECRET
HAD Mr. Randolph Schnell’s neighbors in the Armedale Apartments known anything about Mr. Schnell beside the fact that he drove a Lincoln and paid four hundred dollars a month rent, they would have probably packed their belongings and vacated immediately. “Sleepy” Meguire, otherwise known as Randol
ph Schnell, did not look like an ex-convict. With his suits, shoes, ties, and socks all of the softest shades of brown, Mr. Schnell looked the gentleman—or at least a gentleman’s gentleman.
He was in the act of distractedly accepting an invitation to bridge when the door of his apartment opened, and he was confronted with a surly-faced, tow-headed youth whose clothes were shiny and who obviously didn’t care. Half an hour before, another make-up miracle had gone on before the triple mirror of Secret Agent “X.” And when “X” had left his hideout he had stepped directly into the character of “Butch” Bently, former torpedo in Meguire’s group of criminals.
Mr. Meguire registered alarm. The sudden appearance of this man placed Meguire in a precarious spot: for it was well known that Bently was scheduled to walk through Sing Sing’s little green door, and be carried back.
Meguire dropped his French type telephone, sprang to his feet, and got behind his chair. “Get out of here!” he snarled.
The tow-headed young man with the mauler’s face closed the door behind him, and walked over to replace the phone that Meguire had carelessly dropped.
“A dame pulled that on me once,” explained Bently in a voice that was hardly more than a squeak. “All she and me had to say got out over the telephone wire. Wasn’t long before I had to leave town and rest up.”
“How—how’d you get out of stir?” asked Meguire huskily.
“Walked out,” explained Agent “X” in the voice of “Butch” Bently. “Them screws is all dumb. And ’memberin’ how you and me used to be pals, I thought I’d come here.”
“What do you want? Money?” Eagerly, the magnificent Meguire reached for his check book.
“Nope,” the Agent declined. “Just some info. I know you didn’t get paroled just to go to bridge parties. And havin’ measured your streak of yellow, I know you’re not out to get this guy called ‘X’ who’s supposed to be runnin’ this gang that’s tearin’ the town apart. You’d light out if you thought you might accidently bump into him.”
Meguire’s heavy eyelids drooped. He licked fat lips that had suddenly gone dry. “Well, to tell you the truth, I had a little business I had to take care of. It was a little awkward in stir trying to transact business.”
“X” nodded. “Now, let’s have all the truth. What kind of hot stuff are you tryin’ to handle now?”
“Just a few jewels, and a carload of silk we picked up before Christmas,” explained Meguire. “I’m willing to give you your split. Remember—” as “X” came a step nearer—“I offered to split before you asked me.”
“X” shook his head in mute negation. His eyes never left Meguire’s perpetually tired face. Suddenly, Meguire’s hand struck at his coat pocket. He drew an automatic. “You get out of here!” he growled.
“X” smiled. “Still packin’ them—eh? Well, I’d as soon be plugged by you as be fried in the chair. I’d know you’d follow me straight to hell when they found out you did it. Besides, even with a slug in me, I could choke you just like this!” “X” sprang like a cat. His long fingers were wide spread. Panic gripped Meguire. The gun fell from his nerveless fingers. “X” kicked it to one side. His arms dropped. The ugly mouth that he had adopted, sneered. “Still yellow. Now you speak up before I tear you apart!”
MEGUIRE raked his perspiring face with a trembling hand. “You ask me anything. I’ll tell you anything I know. But you gotta get out.”
“Okeh.” The Agent scuffed a match on his thumb nail, and lighted a cigarette. “Who fences that stuff for you?”
“Peter Krausman,” whispered Meguire, “but if you let on I told you, I’m done for!”
“I’d feel tough about that! So Krausman, the big-shot jeweler, is also a number one fence? And you wouldn’t mind confirming the fact that Krausman is also working with this gang of cop butchers?”
Meguire turned the color of dough. “I—I didn’t say that!” He seized “X’s” coat lapels and hung there, his eyes pleading for the Agent’s silence.
“When are you goin’ to see Krausman?” the Agent persisted.
“In about fifteen minutes. He’s coming here. I tried to meet him by appointment in front of a bank a while ago, but he didn’t show up. But he’s coming here now, and you’ve got to get out!”
“X” pulled on his cigarette and held it almost beneath Meguire’s nose. In another moment, there was a faint pop. The cigarette in the Agent’s fingers disintegrated. A cloud of gray vapor swirled about Meguire’s head. “X,” holding his breath, received none of the small charge of anesthetizing gas which the cigarette contained. Meguire sagged forward. His eyes were no longer sleepy. They were wide with fright.
“Who—who are you?” he stuttered.
“X” chuckled. “If you knew, you’d die of fright.”
But it was doubtful if Meguire heard “X’s” scoffing remark. The anesthetizing gas was already dragging him down. “X” supported the man, carried him across the room, and dumped him into a closet. He closed the door, and entered Meguire’s bed room.
One of Secret Agent “X’s” most remarkable traits is his memory. Once he has mastered a disguise, he requires no photographs to recreate it. Seated before a mirror, “X” unfolded his compact make-up kit. He spread pigment and plastic make-up material before him. Then he took out a black toupee. A few minutes of careful work, and he was once again Peter Krausman, wealthy jeweler and receiver of stolen goods.
He was in the act of putting the finishing touches on his makeup, when the front door buzzer sounded. Going out into the hall, “X” spoke into the speaking-tube, imitating the voice of “Sleepy” Meguire to perfection. The real Krausman announced himself, and “X” told him to come up at once.
When Krausman knocked at the door of the apartment. “X” opened quickly, swinging with the panel so that Krausman was inside the room before he had time to see the Agent.
The dusky skin of Peter Krausman paled. For a moment, he could do nothing but stare at this exact counterpart of himself. With a movement that seemed no more than a gesture, “X” drew his gas pistol.
Slowly, the color returned to Krausman’s face. “So,” he said, “it is true what they say of you—that you can assume any features you choose and impersonate anybody. You are Secret Agent ‘X’.”
“X” bowed. “I am the reason for your suddenly leaving town yesterday morning.”
Krausman frowned. “I do not understand. I was forced to fly to Chicago—”
“To make room for me in your jewelry store,” the Agent interrupted. “The game’s up, Krausman. When the man who looked like Scar Fassler chose such a convenient means of getting out of your store when he was cornered, I knew that Fassler had been there frequently. Why? Because you associate with Fassler and the rest of the murdering gang that has terrorized the city. You were forced to fly to Chicago, because your chief ordered it. He knew that, since I had been tipped off to the robbery, I would be there. He was hoping that I would choose to appear as Peter Krausman. Your leaving town when you did, made the adoption of your character very easy for me. In that manner, I was marked by your chief.”
“My chief! A most fantastic story!” declared Krausman. “You can’t prove a word of it.”
“That won’t be necessary,” replied “X.” “I intend to search you carefully—”
KRAUSMAN’S right hand shot toward his coat pocket. “X’s” gas gun hissed. For a moment, Krausman’s gypsy-like face was clouded with vapor. His dark eyes flickered. He would have fallen to the floor had not the Agent caught him and let him down easily. The threat to search Krausman had brought terror to the jeweler. Evidently, he had something of vital importance concealed on his person. “X’s” heart beat high with hope as he knelt beside Krausman. At last he could hope for some key to the identity of the hidden creature who directed the corpse gang.
In another moment, “X” had emptied the jeweler’s pockets. Keys, handkerchief, change wallet, and watch—all of these “X” transferred to his own pockets. It
was only after searching Krausman’s vest that he came upon something that he thought might be important. It was a neatly folded piece of ivory-finished note paper. A delicate feminine hand had penned this little memo:
“Be at my tailor’s at 10 P.M.”
The words, “my tailor’s” implied that the writer of the note was a man—supposedly Krausman. Yet there could be no doubt but what a woman had written it. That, coupled with the fact that the appointment was at such a strange hour, made “X” suspicious. Then too, the paper was not the sort a man would pick up in order to make some brief notation. And it had been exactly folded to fit a small envelope. “X” was certain that here was a message when correctly interpreted would reveal the information which Krausman would have risked his life to guard. Perhaps the note had been a summons to a gang meeting. Perhaps it had been written by the green-eyed Leopard Lady.
Because he had long since learned that the correct answer to the most complete riddle was often the simplest one, “X” turned back Krausman’s coat. The suit had been tailor made, but there was no identifying mark on the lining.
Agent “X” sighed. There was nothing to do but make a trip to Krausman’s office. There, he hoped to find the information he was seeking.
He removed his leather covered medical kit, took out a hypodermic needle, and deftly filled it with a drug of his own concoction. He injected sufficient amounts in both Krausman and Meguire to keep them both unconscious for several hours. After putting the men in separate rooms, he left the apartment. He nodded at the doorman.
“My car,” he muttered. “I’m becoming dreadfully absent-minded. I can’t remember whether I took a taxi or—”
The doorman smiled. “Your car is at the curb, sir. When you went upstairs a moment ago, you said you would only be a moment.”
“To be sure,” the Agent pressed a dollar bill into the doorman’s hand, and walked slowly toward a green sedan which the doorman had indicated. A moment of experimentation revealed the key which unlocked Krausman’s car. Then “X” was heading downtown in the direction of Krausman’s store.
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 5 Page 19