Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 5

by Paul Chadwick

  “A reporter!” he snapped. “Good night, sir.”

  Guldi stepped back. The big door slammed in the Agent’s face sending a shivering reverberation through the house. Slow footfalls moved away.

  The Agent turned and strode back to the spot where he’d parked his car. He kept his flash on as he did so, letting its lighted circle dance at his feet. He backed his coupé around, headlights gleaming, coasting down the hill and roared away.

  But a quarter mile distant, before he reached the farmer’s cottage, he slowed and turned into a weed-grown field. At its far end a clump of scrub pines showed darkly. The Agent forced his coupé’s battleship nose among them, switched off all lights and sprang out quickly. In darkness, he broke off two pines and set them against the car’s rear bumper. It was effectually screened from the road, with no shiny metal exposed, if another auto should pass.

  The Agent crossed the field on foot and headed toward Guldi’s house again. The dogs welcomed him once again. They were no impediments to his progress up the slope. “X” held his flash in his hand, two fingers across the lens. Once he let a thin ribbon of light escape to get his bearings. The moaning pines overhead shut out the faint gleam of the stars.

  The window glow he had seen when he first arrived was not there now. He circled the house on stealthy feet and saw a strip of light in a wing that projected far in the rear. This seemed to be more recent. It had obviously been added on. The light came from a narrow, frosted window high from the ground. There were other windows like it where light shone more faintly. They gave the wing a fortresslike appearance. It must be some sort of laboratory, “X” surmised. Guldi was in it now, working late at night.

  “X” CREPT to the front door again. His master keys which could open any lock were in his hand. He tried them cautiously in darkness till he found by sense of touch the one he needed. The lock here was modern, but under the Agent’s deft fingers it yielded easily.

  He entered the house and closed the door behind him. For seconds, he stood in the hallway hardly breathing. Then he risked a flash of his light once more. It was a long hall, barely furnished. Its walls and ceilings were in bad repair. Ghostly strips of paper hung down. Moisture, dripping through a leaky roof had cracked and stained the overhead plaster.

  Guldi had obviously wasted no time or money on the house itself. His energy had been concentrated on the new wing in back. Dust lay in a thick film. Cobwebs formed a grimy network. A bowl of red apples on an ancient hatstand near the door was the only sign of habitation. Withered cores were strewn disgustingly about it.

  The Agent tiptoed along the hall, straight toward that strange rear wing. He passed a dining room which had no furniture whatever. A gray rat with mangy fur whisked out of sight, scraping its snakelike tail.

  The door at the hall’s end wasn’t locked. The Agent passed silently through it. He came to a windowless storage room with boxes and tins piled high. There was a smell of chemicals in the stale air. Oils and acids were all about him. A glimmer of light showed under the crack of the metal-lined door beyond.

  As the Agent neared it, he heard a monotonous hissing. He listened for nearly a minute while the hissing persisted. A faint clink of glassware sounded above it. A loose board creaked. Stealthily, the Agent turned the knob.

  Through the half open crack of the door he saw Guldi’s figure. Light from an acetylene mantel lamp was playing upon it. The room was huge and high with a skylight ceiling. A clutter of strange scientific apparatus covered almost the entire floor. Yet most of it seemed out of date or experimental. A giant Whimhurst’s machine of the vintage of the Eighties reared tin-foiled discs of glass above a tangle of copper rods. Its knobbed electrodes were like the claws of a monstrous crab.

  Retorts of blown glass ranged an entire wall. Cabinets cast ungainly shadows. Near a low bench Professor Guldi was standing. His back was turned to the door. He seemed absorbed in whatever work he was doing. The hissing came from the torch jet of a Bunsen burner under a metal globe. From the top of the globe, glass tubing snaked. Some sort of liquid was pulsing in it, boiling under the Bunsen flame. Expansion chambers bellied the glass every few feet.

  The liquid had the color of blood and was mounting slowly. It climbed toward the ceiling, up and up through the maze of tubing. A horrible, living circulation system seemed to be laid bare. The flame below gave the breath of life. The pulse was a beating heart. The Agent watched with spellbound interest.

  Guldi did not move. There were dials on the bench before him. The man’s face was turned toward these. His bent arms were as still as death.

  The blood-red liquid had reached the highest section of tubing now. An escape vent let out wisps of vapor. Bubbles shot from the liquid up against it. They danced like imprisoned devils seeking freedom.

  With an upward rush, the liquid claimed the entire space, driving out air in a fluttering whistle. Drops boiled over, ran down the tube with a louder hiss than the burner made. They hit the globe of metal and smoke arose.

  The Agent threw an arm up before his face. For a tongue of orange flame licked through the smoke. It zigzagged like lightning, snatched at the vapor with avid greed. The glass tube burst before the Agent’s eyes in shimmering pieces. Abruptly a deafening explosion rocked the room, slamming the door against his head with stunning force. Tins and boxes around him toppled in a battering cascade.

  Chapter XI

  “X”—MASTER DETECTIVE

  THE AGENT went down under their weight. Something struck him on the temple and knocked him senseless for a moment. When he came to, flames were spitting and crackling in the room beyond. Muffled explosions drummed as bottles of acid burst. A reeking chemical vapor was billowing out from around the cracks of the door.

  The Agent scrambled to his feet and staggered back. The heat that came from the laboratory was terrific. It was beginning to make the wood of the boxes in the outside chamber smoke. He had heard no scream from Guldi, no human sound. The explosion of the red liquid in the tube must have killed him instantly. Life could not survive in that roaring inferno.

  Yet there was a chance that the fire might be confined to the extension wing. The main house was of stone. The passage that led to the new part was lined with metal.

  Holding his breath, the Agent set furiously to work pushing back the clutter of stuff in the storage room. He dragged the boxes and cans away from the heat of the door, thrusting them into the dusty coolness of the passage. Fumes of acid made his eyeballs smart. Heat pressed against his face and hands. Five minutes he worked, then stepped back himself.

  There was nothing now which might catch fire by the laboratory door. The floor of the storage room was flat cement. Its walls were corrugated steel. The beams beneath, if they were made of wood, might smolder into flame in time. But the Rock Island fire apparatus would surely respond. The glow of the burning laboratory must be visible for miles around.

  The Agent went out among the pines and saw that the skylight of the new wing had burst. Heat had melted the glass. Bright flames, fed by chemicals inside, were shooting up. A weird streamer of emerald green held his interest and made him catch his breath. Perhaps copper tubing or copper sulphates were causing it. Yet it was the same poisonous hue that had come from the dwarf-men’s guns.

  The Secret Agent’s eyes were bitter, dark with disappointment. The dancing, wavering flames above that gleamed like a host of hell’s own devils had placed a new barrier in his path. They had made a mockery of his efforts in coming here.

  The Agent turned away into the night. The two dogs nuzzled at his hand again. They were terrified now, looking to him for comfort. He spoke a few reassuring words, patted their heads, and swung off down the road. He must not be seen in the neighborhood if any one came. Embarrassing questions might be asked.

  A distant siren sounded when he reached the field where he had left his car. It rose and diminished in volume intermittently as wind bore its wailing through the pine-clad hills. The Agent crouched in the darkness, wai
ted.

  Ten minutes passed and a clanging chemical truck with men clinging to it tore by his hiding place. Several cars filled with curious people followed. The Agent snatched his chance and backed his coupé out, heading it quickly toward the Guldi house again. He would be safe from questioning now. Those at the fire would think he’d followed the red truck like the others.

  He soon saw that the island apparatus was helpless before the laboratory blaze. But their fire extinguishers could save the rest of the house. They were concentrating on this. It might be hours before the burning chemicals went out and made possible a search of the laboratory for Guldi’s corpse. The Agent climbed into his coupé again and headed back to the inn.

  Swope and Tyson had finished with their inquiry when he reached the inn. Reporters were swarming in the lobby again, talking in low-voiced groups, looking about uneasily. The horror that had so lately happened had laid its spell over the place. The bodies of Hines and his son had been removed. From a brief conversation with a man who knew him as Martin, “X” gleaned the fact that Swope had learned little from the inquest. Young Hines’ bones were twisted and hardened like a man’s congenitally deformed.

  The Agent tensed as he saw Betty Dale come through the outer door with a group of newspaper men. They had apparently been ranging the island, gathering rumors, and had just heard of the tragedy of Hines and his father. Betty Dale’s face was strained with excitement. Holly Babette was not with her.

  “X” stood where he was but kept his face toward Betty. In a moment her eyes wandered his way, and he saw her start. Color flooded her cheeks. She said something to her newspaper friends and left them immediately.

  THE AGENT’S disguise of Martin was the only one that Betty had learned to know. He had appeared to her dozens of times in as many disguises, introducing himself by some sign or word. Even she had never glimpsed his real face which was hidden from the whole world. His name and background were mysteries to her as to others.

  Yet a bond existed between them: friendship, loyalty, mutual admiration. The Agent’s perilous work had never given them time for more. The threat of death hung like a shadow always between them. Neither had ever put into words some of the things they felt.

  Yet the glow in Betty’s blue eyes as she approached told that this was the man she admired and respected more than any other in the world. And the Secret Agent’s gaze dwelt on her fondly. Neither betrayed how deep their friendship was. There was always the risk of eyes watching and hostile ears listening.

  “Good evening, Mr. Martin.” Betty’s voice was low and firm.

  “Hello, Miss Dale. Nice to see you again.” “X” nodded toward the door. “How about a little drive? I’d like to compare our stories.”

  Betty smiled agreement. She turned toward the door with “X.” Not until they were seated in his car, gliding through the darkness, did they speak again. Then their manner had changed.

  “I understand now,” said Betty suddenly. “You were Strickland and they almost caught you.” There was a catch in her throat, a quaver of fear that she couldn’t quite conceal. For an instant a slim hand rested on his arm.

  The Agent covered her hand with his for a moment, then he said: “I want to talk to you, Betty—about Holly Babette. I didn’t know she was your friend. You’ve never mentioned her.”

  “There are many things—we’ve never had time to mention.” There was regret in her tone. She changed it at once. “I don’t know her very well. Holly used to sing on the air when I was handling a radio column. She has a job at the inn—a sort of entertainer. When I heard what had happened down here, I thought of her at once. I knew she’d know everyone. I thought she might put me on the track of a story.”

  “And has she, Betty?”

  “No. She acts strange—and frightened.”

  “Keep after her, Betty. Try to find out everything you can about her; her friends, the places she visits here. But be cautious about it. I don’t want you to get into danger.”

  “Danger?”

  “Yes. I’m not sure. I’m working only on hunches. But there is a chance that she may be in with the criminals who kidnaped Lasher’s son tonight.”

  “Oh!” Betty’s voice had become a whisper. “And you—you—I know you are in danger! Can’t I help you—really—somehow?”

  “No, Betty—not this time, except in the way I’ve asked.”

  Betty was thoughtful. Then: “About Holly’s friends. She came with a Captain Crump and Clifton Hines tonight. She must have known young Hines pretty well. And in a letter when she first came here she mentioned meeting a man named Guldi. She said he was interesting, a brilliant sort of crank, and there might be a human interest story in him for me. But I’ve never met him.”

  “Guldi!” “X” uttered the word with a sudden harshness that made the girl beside him tense.

  “You know him then?”

  “His laboratory was destroyed by fire. He was killed—I believe.”

  They drove around in comparative silence for twenty minutes, each grateful of the other’s presence. It was rarely that they had even a few moments like this alone. Crime always seemed to bring them together. And the black shadow of crime was in the offing now.

  “X” left her when they reached the inn. He hurried to Hobart’s room and found the redheaded ex-detective had returned. Hobart had a grin on his face. His eyes were snapping.

  “That was a hot tip you gave me, about the lighthouse, boss. Crooks use it all right. They almost got one there tonight. A man was on the top of the tower when the place caught fire. He made a high-dive into the cove beside it. The G-men saw him and thought he was dead. Instead, he knocked two out. He got away, but they have a good description of him. I can even spill it to you. It’s inside dope. It will be an angle of the crime the rest of the newshawks won’t know.”

  A grim smile flitted over the lips of Agent “X.” Hobart was telling him of his own adventure; never guessing that the quiet Martin who stood before him was the crook who had leaped from the flaming tower.

  “Good work, Jim,” the Agent said, “but I know that angle. What else did you learn—about the light itself?”

  Jim Hobart’s face had fallen. The pleased sparkle left his eyes. “You know everything, boss! I never seen a fellow like you. But if that dope’s no good, I’m afraid I’ll have to let you down.”

  “Why?”

  “I couldn’t find out who owns the lighthouse. The government sold it five years ago to a man named Smith. He sold it to someone else. It’s gonna take a lot of time to trace it down.”

  “And nobody’s been seen around it?”

  “No crooks, boss. An old bird who lives on the other side of the island—a sort of science bug—climbed up the tower last week to take some shots of the sun. He had a telescope and a camera and got a guy to help him carry them up.”

  “What was this scientist’s name?”

  “Some kind of a bird, boss. Gull—Guldi, that was it.”

  The Agent hid the instant gleam of triumph in his eyes. He drew a cigar from his pocket. “It’s the kind you like, Jim. Have a smoke and call it a night.”

  THE grayness of dawn was creeping over the sea when the flames in the Guldi laboratory subsided. The sun had risen like a gleaming disc of molten copper, shining over the pine-clad hills, before the place was cool enough to enter.

  The man with sandy hair who carried the card of A.J. Martin was among those who edged curiously closer. The Agent had driven out early from the inn. His eyes were bright with interest. Much depended, he believed, on what thing was found in that blackened, flame-gutted building.

  Two of Swope’s detectives had also driven out to check up. Hints of incendiarism and even murder had bean suggested. A farmer living in a cottage not far away had stated that a stranger, whose face he could not quite recall, and who claimed to be a reporter, had asked the way to Guldi’s place just before the fire. With crime rampant on Rock Island, Swope was being thorough.

  With the
nauseous smell of acids still cloyingly strong, they entered the burned rear wing. Fused glass and twisted metal lay all about. Cinders lay thick on the black stones of the flooring. One of the local firemen gave a sudden grunt and pointed.

  A charred form was sprawled in the center of the wreckage. The clothes were burned away, the flesh was blackened; but its shape showed that the unsightly thing had been a man. Gingerly, while the Agent watched, the detectives turned it over. Bones in several spots were exposed. All flesh had been burned away from the face.

  “You wouldn’t know it was Guldi!” said one of the local firefighters. “But I guess it’s him. It’s his size all right.”

  A detective nodded and reached suddenly for a bit of blackened metal. It was the thin back of a platinum watch. The glass face had melted. Even the gold works inside had fused together. But the heat-resisting platinum had remained unchanged. The detective scrubbed it on his sleeve, grunted. The initials “M. G.” showed plainly.

  “That’s identification enough for me,” he stated. “It’s a damn good thing we found it, too. Most stiffs you can identify by their teeth after a fire. Looks like this bird never saw the inside of a dentist’s office. I’d hate to have to trace those teeth down!”

  The Agent was looking. What the detective said about the teeth was true. There would be no record in any dentist’s office of those broken snags. And the watch alone seemed sufficient identification. This must be Guldi’s corpse, and its finding was a blow to a single hope that “X” had cherished. If Guldi was dead, then the thin chain that linked him with Holly Babette, the lighthouse tower and the kidnaping itself was gone.

  “Take him out,” the detective ordered. “Better bring a piece of canvas. Come on, Bill, let’s go back. If he’s got any folks, Swope will let them know.”

  The two detectives left. But the Agent lingered. A hard frown creased his forehead. He hated to give up a hunch that had burned in his mind all night. Somehow he hadn’t expected to find Guldi here—not after what Jim Hobart told him. But the grinning skull of the corpse at his feet seemed to leer up in triumph.