At the other end of the hall, “X” saw a narrow stairway leading down into darkness. He moved toward it on tiptoe; for though he might have escaped from the window, he was placing other matters before his own safety. The black-robed butcher was still at large.
Descending the stairs, “X” came upon a closed door. Peering through the keyhole, he discovered that the next room was empty as far as he could see. He cautiously opened the door, and stepped into a small hall. The sound of a muffled voice coming from behind the door at his right, arrested him. With infinite caution, he worked his way over to the door. Leaning against the frame, he pressed his ear to the panel. He could hear the voice of the shrouded one quite clearly:
“The first thing to attend to,” the shrouded one was saying, “is to check the cars. Refuel the roadster. I believe the guns are fully loaded. Felice Vincart has obtained a plan of the bank building. As you know, the steps leading up to the bank will effectively conceal your approach. It is an ideal set-up for us. Have no fear that the police will reach you. They will be unable to answer their radio call just as on previous occasions.
“From the bank you will go to that place we have decided upon. It does not pay for us to use the same headquarters for more than two days at a stretch. Even though Agent ‘X’ is out of the way, there is no reason to be careless. Remember, tomorrow, we pull the trick that will make us rich beyond our wildest dream. And we will have the police on their knees praying for mercy!”
“I hate the coppers,” growled a man.
The chief laughed. “You haven’t the conception of the word ‘hate’!”
AGENT “X” waited for no more. That another robbery and police slaughter was being planned was enough to goad him into action. To warn the police would be useless. Every man on the force had a duty to perform, even though it meant certain death. They would answer that radio call, announcing another Corpse Legion robbery. And they would be butchered by the guns on the mystery car. Upon the shoulders of Secret Agent “X,” a heavy responsibility rested.
He hurried back into the kitchen of the old house where the killer had taken up temporary headquarters. From a window, he determined the location of the garage. It was attached to the side of the house itself. Opening a door off the kitchen, he descended a short flight of steps, and entered the garage. Inside, was a single car—the great, black, streamlined roadster with its mounted machine guns. This was the speed demon which had spelled destruction for so many brave men.
As he stared over its gleaming length, the agent’s breath caught. For a moment, he stood perfectly rigid. There were two men in the car. And “X” was totally without weapons. In another moment, a slow, understanding smile spread over the Agent’s face. The man behind the wheel stared straight ahead. The other crouched low behind a machine gun. The man behind the gun was “Slash” Carmody who had been executed a few days before in the electric chair. And no miracle of modern science had altered that fact. Carmody, though posed behind the deadly gun, was still a corpse. So was the man behind the wheel.
“X” had not a moment to lose if he was to carry out the daring plan he had conceived. To cripple the car, jam its machine gun, were both impractical ideas. The mystery car, upon which so much depended, would be given a careful inspection before it started on its juggernaut journey.
“X” rounded the car until he was face to face with the embalmed corpse of Carmody. He had already guessed that Carmody’s grave had been robbed by some member of the gang. The fact that the car’s occupants were corpses explained why the police bullets had had no effect upon them. There were no less than three neat, bloodless holes drilled in Carmody’s forehead.
IN a moment, “X” had opened the car door. The hands of the corpse were taped to the stock of the machine gun. It took “X” only a moment to loosen these bonds, and drag the gruesome, stiffened body from the car.
Looking around for a place to hide the body, he discovered a small washroom, just off the garage. With his grisly burden, he entered the washroom. Then be began the most trying disguise of his career.
From the heels of his shoes, “X” took a small tube of plastic make-up material. The plastic volatile substance which he used to change his features was nearly colorless. He would require no pigment for this impersonation. With a speed that did not sacrifice care, he removed the make-up that identified him as Peter Krausman and quickly altered his features to resemble those of the dead man.
The effect achieved by the pale make-up material was nothing short of horrible. In five minutes time, “X” transformed his face from that of a normal, healthy man, into the immobile, death-sharpened features of a corpse.
Then he had to strip the body, and put on the dead man’s suit and hat. He had only time to lock the washroom, pocket the key, and take his place in the black roadster before the garage door opened, and two men entered.
“You got to hand it to the chief,” one of the men was saying. “He sure gets the ideas!”
“I’m breathing again now that Agent ‘X’ is out of the way,” said the other. “The chief says he always knew he’d get him.” The man was unscrewing the gas tank top in order to inspect the fuel supply. His companion rounded the car and approached the side where “X” sat.
“Well damn me if Slash Carmody hasn’t come loose!” he exclaimed. “Somebody removed the tape that held his hands to the gun.”
The Agent’s heart gave a bound. He had, acting solely from memory, assumed the same position as that of the corpse. His hands were on the machine gun, but there had been no way to tape them there.
“Probably,” said the other man callously, “the chief had Carmody out for an airing. Here, Smokey—” he tossed a roll of friction tape to the man near “X.”
Smokey eyed “X” a little fearfully. “X” stared back, dull-eyed, and unblinking. He knew that if the mobster should touch his flesh and discover that it was warm and living, his daring scheme would come to an abrupt termination.
But Smokey was not a man to fondle a corpse. Gingerly, he pressed the friction tape to the gun and wrapped it securely around “X’s” wrists without touching his flesh. When he had completed the job, “X” was securely tied to a machine gun that was fully loaded for its murderous work.
Suddenly, the door from the kitchen opened. On the top of the little flight of steps stood the great shapeless shadow of the gang leader himself.
“Agent ‘X’ has escaped!” he shouted.
“Escaped? You said he was dead!”
“One of his damned tricks!” the shrouded figure growled. “The duel must begin all over again. But—” he added after a moment’s consideration—“that need not stop us. Nothing can stop us. You two join the others in the alley. Drive around in front, and be prepared to leave at once.”
The man called Smokey shook his head. “It’s a lot of risk to take. Agent ‘X’ may have warned the police.”
The black clad butcher laughed harshly. “What good would that do? The police believe that ‘X’ is responsible for the police killings.”
“Right, chief! We’ll start as soon as I put a little air in this rear tire.”
The black robed one left the garage to his lieutenants. “X” heard the rush of air as the roadster’s tires were filled. He dared not move a muscle; for the man called Smokey watched him closely. Was there a glimmer of suspicion in the cold eyes of the killer?
Had “X” been given a moment alone, he could have managed to break away from the bonds that held him to the death car. But no sooner had Smokey and his companion left the garage than “X” felt the car in which he was seated tremble slightly. He darted a look at the corpse at the wheel. Had he been mistaken? Was this stiff, wooden-faced thing alive after all? But the corpse beside him remained motionless.
By an unseen hand, the black roadster started. Garage doors folded back by some concealed mechanism. The destroying black car rolled smoothly from the garage, down a steep drive, and into the street directly in front of a blue sedan. Out of
the corner of his eye, “X” saw that the blue sedan was filled with men—men whose faces were the faces of the dead. Once again, the Corpse Legion had been mobilized for another attack against all that stood for law and order.
“X” FULLY realized the peril of his position. The roadster was closely followed by the sedan, and the occupants of the latter never moved their eyes from the car in front of them. “X” hadn’t a chance in the world of freeing himself from the machine gun as long as those criminals were watching him. They would have shot him down at the first movement. No, he had impersonated a corpse. He knew that unless the odds should suddenly shift in his favor he would be a corpse inside of a few minutes. He was caught between two fires. The police would unhesitatingly shoot him on sight; the gangmen following the roadster would shoot him if he made a move.
The mystery car moved smoothly ahead. The steering wheel in the hands of the corpse remained motionless, though the car negotiated turns easily enough.
The roadster gained speed. It was heading toward a part of the city where many factory workers dwelt. No doubt the objective was some bank where hard working men and women stored the savings of a lifetime.
Staring straight ahead over the long hood of the car, “X” saw the rear end of a special police cruiser. Suddenly, the siren of the police car began to whine. It wheeled to the center of the street, and fairly leaped ahead. “X” ventured a look behind. The blue sedan no longer followed. Evidently, it had speeded ahead to the bank that was to be robbed. The ever alert police had heard the alarm and were rushing to the scene of the crime.
But if the police car seemed to leap, the black roadster seemed to have suddenly begot wings. Its powerful motor abruptly opened up. The acceleration was so great that “X” felt as though his head would be snapped from his shoulders. The distance between the black destroyer and its prey shortened alarmingly.
But Agent “X” was not idle. He knew the hidden hand that guided the car would open up the machine gun as soon as the roadster overhauled the police car. He knew, also, that police guns would send a hail of lead that “X,” in his position in the roadster could not possibly avoid. The powerful muscles of the Agent’s arms swelled until it seemed that his skin must burst. There was a sound of ripping fabric as he broke through the friction tape which held him to the gun.
As his hand pulled free, a great shout arose from the police car. They had sighted the roadster that was overtaking them. One of the police leaned far out and sent a shot whining above the Agent’s head. There were few people on the street, and the police would have no reason to hold their fire; they would shoot to kill.
The Agent’s hands worked like lighting, tugging at the clasp that held the ammunition drum of the machine gun in place. The clasp yielded. He fastened both hands on the drum, and yanked it free. He hurled it into the street. At the same time, police automatics barked. A slug thudded against “X’s” bullet-proof vest. He could not hope to be that fortunate always; one of those hungry pellets must find his head.
Staring down, he saw the pavement, a speeding ribbon beneath him. To leap meant—But where was the choice? Without a moment’s hesitation, “X” swung one leg over the door of the roadster. A bullet sliced across the calf of his leg and spanged against the armor plate body of the roadster. The Agent’s body rocked. He was thrown completely off balance. His arms shot out in a mighty heave that threw him off into space. He had a sickening sensation, as though he were being hurled off of a spinning planet. He was running before he touched the pavement, but it would have been impossible for him to time his pace with that of the roaring, speeding roadster.
His legs doubled under him. He rolled like a ball. A slug imbedded itself in the asphalt not more than an inch from his head. His left shoulder encountered the curb with such force that his entire left arm went suddenly dead.
But he was on his feet, dizzy with the speed of his fall, and momentarily sick with pain. He ran as he had never run before. It was something more than the thought of what might happen to him if he were caught that gave him strength. He was urged on by that exhilaration that comes to a man after he has attempted the impossible and succeeded. For the first time, the terror car was crippled. This time, the killer could not kill.
Swinging in an alley toward a haven of refuge that he knew of, the depressing thought returned to “X”—while he had saved a carload of police and possibly thousands of dollars, the master criminal remained at large. The thought that this monster knew the Agent’s true face hung like a sword of Damocles above his head.
What would be the shrouded monster’s next move?
He asked the question, dreading the answer.
Chapter VIII
NIGHT ATTACK
THE following afternoon, the newspapers made gratifying reading for the thousands who lived in fear of the corpse gang. Crippled by the loss of its machine-gun ammunition, the mystery car had had to beat a speedy retreat. The corpse gang, in the act of looting the bank, heard the whine of the police car siren coming nearer and nearer. When it was not interrupted by the rattle of machine-gun fire, the entire crowd took to its heels, narrowly escaping with a few dollars loot.
The police were at last making definite progress, the papers said. But Commissioner Foster silently shook his head. As far as he knew, the failure of the black roadster to wreck the police car was due to carelessness on the part of some one in the criminal group. He felt none of the sense of security returning to him. The Corpse Legion would strike again and again. He knew of the dogged determination of Secret Agent “X,” whom he still believed backed the Corpse Legion.
It was nine o’clock that evening that Commissioner Foster entered the apartment of Major Derrick, his friend and advisor. Little did Foster know that one minute later, a shadow slipped across the front of the apartment building to enter a telephone booth in a neighboring drug store. Calling a number that was listed in no telephone book, the man who had shadowed the commissioner spoke briefly:
“Foster entered Derrick apartment.”
In a small, poorly furnished little room in an old brick-faced dwelling several miles away, a grave-faced man listened to that announcement over the phone. “Good!” he whispered. “And where is Burks?”
“Last report stated Inspector Burks in headquarters office looking over reports.”
The grave-faced man quietly hung up. Here, in this poor tenement, Secret Agent “X” had established one of his many hideouts. It had been a busy day for him. Through him, a tip had reached police headquarters as to the location of the building where “X” had been forced to face a firing squad. In the disguise of a policeman, “X” had taken part in a raid that had netted the police nothing. The wily creature whose identity was always hidden beneath a shroud had moved his headquarters immediately after the frustration of his bank-robbing scheme by Agent “X.”
“X” had then repaired to this tenement hideout where he had been in close touch with Bates and his agents. Various suspects had been carefully watched, but aside from “Sleepy” Meguire’s visit to a one-time speakeasy, there was nothing to arouse suspicion.
As soon as he had hung up the phone, Agent “X” went about creating another of his masterful disguises. This time, under his magic fingers, the grave, gray face which he had affected all afternoon gave place to the plump, rosy face of Inspector John Burks. It was one of his most daring simulations, yet one which had gained him valuable information many times before.
“X” left the tenement and went to a garage where a car was waiting for him. It was a roadster with the letters “P.D.” lacquered on both doors.
A quarter of an hour later, “X” pulled up in front of the apartment where Major Derrick lived. In a moment, imitating the voice of John Burks to perfection, he announced himself through the speaking-tube which led to Derrick’s rooms. He was told to come up at once.
“What’s on your mind, inspector?” Foster demanded, when “X” put in his appearance.
“Plenty!” retorted the
Agent. “I’ve got a straight tip, commissioner. Dope on this corpse gang. If the tip’s okeh, it’ll knock you over!”
“If it’s okeh,” remarked Foster, skeptically.
Major Derrick spread his nostrils, and sniffed sharply. “There’s been so many false leads lately, inspector, I’m beginning to get discouraged.”
“You know Stinehope, the banker?” asked “X.”
Both men nodded.
“Then come along. We’re going to pick up Stinehope, and go out to his bank.”
“The bank’s been closed for a long time,” declared Foster.
“You don’t know that Stinehope’s connected with this crew, do you?” Derrick demanded.
“X” shrugged. “Stinehope’s bank has failed. But—well, do you see what I mean?”
Derrick nodded gravely. “He doesn’t seem to be hurt financially, does he? With you in a moment. The sky looks threatening.” Derrick hurried into the next room to reappear a little later carrying a raincoat. “Right, gentlemen. On our way.”
TEN minutes later, the Agent’s fake police car carrying the commissioner and his friend, pulled up in front of the Stinehope mansion. Derrick climbed into the rumble seat with Foster. “X” went up to the Stinehope house to get the banker.
“I am afraid I don’t quite understand, inspector,” said the small, thoughtful-faced Mr. Stinehope when “X” informed him that he must come with him.
“I believe you will when we reach the bank,” said “X” gruffly.
“The bank? Why, no banks are open at this time of the night!”
“This one’s open twenty-four hours a day!” The Agent waited for Stinehope to get his hat; then taking him by the arm, led him out to the car.
As the banker began to realize the direction the car was taking, he was seized with a violent fit of trembling. From his position at the wheel, “X” watched him surreptitiously. “Matter, Stinehope?” he asked.
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 5 Page 21