“I think there can no longer be any doubt about it. George Marcus has disappeared—and not of his own free will. There have been other similar cases recently. And in every case it is believed that a criminal calling himself by a fanciful name has been behind those disappearances. The police are working every minute—”
“Stop right where you are!” Stanley Heidt’s voice boomed. “That’s exactly where you come in. You know Police Commissioner Foster well enough to play golf with him. You’ve got to get Foster to keep his hands off this disappearance business! I’m damned sure there’s nothing in it for the police. What if Marcus and some others have suddenly left town? That’s no reason to start all this rumpus about another crime wave.”
PRESTON did not reply for a few minutes. Then he said: “I guess I know George Marcus better than you do. You don’t know what these parties meant to Marcus. He planned them months ahead of time just to get something different. He lived for his parties, his garden—”
“And his money.” Heidt broke in bitterly.
“Perhaps,” Preston agreed. “But that doesn’t alter the fact that Marcus has been kidnaped.”
“Screwy!” Heidt broke out suddenly into the street language with which he was well acquainted. “Listen, Preston, I’ve been in nearly every damn racket they’ve got in this city. I’ve never tried to snatch, that’s true, but I know kidnapers. I know their methods! You simply don’t snatch a man who has no relatives to worry about whether he comes back alive or dead. There’s nobody to write to demanding the ransom. There’s no profit in that kind of a snatch.”
“Sounds reasonable,” replied Preston slowly. “But there’s a man in the underworld who calls himself Thoth, I’ve heard.”
“Stop!” Heidt exploded. Then in a quieter voice: “Preston, I’ll see that you get any office in this town that you want! Just one thing you’ve got to do: That’s keep your hands out of this!”
Damon Preston became quietly vehement. “My dear sir, I do not understand you. I fully intend to post a reward for anyone who gives any information concerning the disappearance of my friend George Marcus, and incidentally, anyone who can give any information whatsoever concerning this fantastic criminal who calls himself Thoth.”
Through his pocket amplifier, Agent “X” heard Stanley Heidt draw a long breath. Then Heidt’s voice became low and husky. Men who knew Heidt as Agent “X” knew him, had learned that when “Hands-Off” Heidt, as he was called, became suddenly quiet, trouble was just around the corner.
“I tell you, Preston, that if you do anything like that, I’ll—”
A husky cry of terror boomed through the Agent’s amplifier. Hastily, he pocketed his instrument. His fingers closed upon the door knob. He turned it quickly and stepped into the room.
For once in his life, Agent “X” was too surprised to move. He stood there, staring at the scene before him; staring at the terrified faces of Stanley Heidt and Damon Preston. A door at the opposite side of the room had opened. Standing in the doorway, legs wide spread was a—
There was no name for the creature. Man it must have been, for it walked upright. But man so horribly deformed as to appear bestial. Aside from a rough, black skin looped over one shoulder and dropping nearly to the knee, the creature was naked. Its great, bent shoulders looked as though they had carried the weight of the universe upon them.
But the head and face were the most hideous part of the creature. The nose was flat, though there was no sign that it had been broken. The mouth was wide, the lower lip drooping idiotically. The lower jaw was outthrust and ponderous. The forehead was low and knobby. But it was in the eyes that horror dwelt. There was a flat vacancy of expression that belonged to neither man nor beast. If eyes were the window of the soul, then these were empty windows. The creature dragged by the scruff of the neck, a little bald-headed man who was either dead or unconscious. A thin stream of blood trickled from the victim’s forehead.
The tableau in the doorway was a strange contrast of ages. A Neanderthal man from prehistoric times carrying a modern, civilized man whom he had crushed to earth.
The Neanderthal, for no other name quite described the skin-clad monstrosity, dropped his prey in the doorway and lumbered across the room, his sandaled feet making a strange shuffling sound.
Suddenly, Agent “X” drew his gas-pistol, charged with the same effective anesthetizing vapor that he had discharged at Paul Naramour a half hour before. He sprang straight at the Neanderthal, the gas gun outthrust. But even as his finger constricted upon the trigger, there came a muffled pop. Some screaming missile sang by the Agent’s right ear and at the same instant, the gas gun was knocked from his hand. His fingers ached from the impact of the shot. The effective gas gun was on the other side of the room. And the monster man was between it and the Agent.
“X” glanced once into the eyes of the Neanderthal man. He started toward the creature, but was suddenly brought to a dead stop.
For the monster spoke. Laboriously, the words were formed, but they were intelligible. “Do not try to stop me, man!” Forced words came slowly. From beneath its skin garment, it brought out an egg-shaped globe of metal, fitted at the top with a metal ring. “If you try to stop me, I pull out ring on bomb. We blow up, you understand? The whole house and everyone in it.”
THE Neanderthal fingered the bomb carelessly, still staring vacantly at Agent “X.”
There was something about the Neanderthal man’s mindless eyes that told the Agent that it would not hesitate to do exactly as it had threatened. Those strange eyes were the eyes of a man desperately in quest of something he had lost—some intangible something that meant more than life to him.
Secret Agent “X” retreated slowly before the malformed creature. He was thinking, not of himself, but of Betty Dale and others throughout the house. For if the bomb contained trinitrotoluene or some other deadly explosive, and were set off, not a wall of the Marcus house would remain standing.
With the same lumbering gait, the creature crossed the room, straight toward a small wall safe in the other side of George Marcus’ study.
The creature knew the combination of the safe, and though its movements were clumsy, it was no time before the door was open. His long left arm explored the safe while his right hand toyed with the egg-shaped bomb.
The Neanderthal removed a large stack of currency that was bound together with a rubber band. This he stuffed inside his furry garment.
Agent “X” took a step nearer the creature. It raised the egg-shaped bomb above its head. “Beware,” it sang out in a dull, sepulchral tone.
“Do you know what you are doing?” “X” asked in a quiet, patient voice. “You are stealing.”
The Neanderthal regarded “X” gravely for a moment, as if it took some time for the words to penetrate its brain. Then slowly it shook its great misshapen head. “Not stealing,” it said laboriously. “Everything belongs to Thoth.” It moved its arm in a compassing gesture that included the entire room, or perhaps the whole earth, “Everything,” it repeated. “Everything.”
Again the monster’s clumsy fingers groped inside the fur garment. It drew forth something that gleamed like gold in the light. It thrust forth a broad tongue and moistened the shining object. Then it conveyed the bit of gold to the door of the safe and fixed it in place. Clumsily, the Neanderthal turned and started toward the door of the room.
“Wait!” The sheer power of the Agent’s compelling voice caused the creature to turn its head. Again, the lack-luster eyes were fixed upon Agent “X.” “Who are you?” asked “X.”
The creature replied in a sing-song voice, “I am the slave of Thoth. What I have belongs to Thoth. Everything belongs to Thoth.”
“But,” Agent “X” persisted, “who were you before you were a slave of Thoth?”
A moment’s silence, in which the monster seemed grappling with a tremendous problem. Then slowly, pitifully, its lips formed the words. “I was George Marcus.” And the door closed behind him.
Chapter III
SEAL OF THOTH
NO SOONER had the Neanderthal man left the room than Damon Preston went over to the little bald man that the creature had dropped. A glance assured Agent “X” that the man was not seriously injured. Joining Preston beside the unconscious man, he took a harmless stimulant from his pocket medical kit.
“You are a doctor?” asked Preston.
“He’s nothing of the sort,” growled Stanley Heidt. “That’s Paul Naramour, reporter on the Tribune. What the devil kind of a masquerade was that, Naramour?”
Agent “X” shook his head as he busied himself over the unconscious man. “That was no masquerade, Heidt,” he replied. “That poor devil has been through the tortures of the damned. He was deadly in earnest.”
Damon Preston’s face was pale as he looked into the Agent’s eyes. “You don’t think that—that thing could have been George Marcus? You don’t suppose that some terrible torture could do that to a man?” He ran trembling fingers through his blond hair.
Agent “X” nodded. “Perhaps.” He turned his attention to the little man on the floor. “This man a friend of yours, Preston?” he asked.
Damon Preston nodded. “A very devoted friend. He is Dr. Yan, superintendent of the United Charities Hospital.”
“He’s coming around all right now,” said Agent “X.” “I’ll just leave him to your care. Always carry a little first aid kit along with me. A reporter never knows what he’s going to run into.”
And while Stanley Heidt lighted a cigar and puffed on it furiously, and Damon Preston watched anxiously over the little Dr. Yan, Agent “X” took the opportunity to look around the room. He knew that it was futile to pursue the Neanderthal. The man who seemed to have been hurled back from the past and who claimed to have been George Marcus, was not responsible for his actions. In mentality, he had advanced but little beyond the stage of the beast. Only the fact that the hair on his head had been trimmed as neatly as though a barber had done the job, and that he spoke English, would indicate that what he had said about being George Marcus was the truth.
The irony of it! Outside, the many guests were enjoying themselves with the lavish entertainment provided by their host. And their host, little more than a beast in appearance, totally enslaved by a ruthless fiend, mentally debased, was wandering among them clad in skins, seeking the friendly shadows, stealing his own money to enrich the coffers of Thoth.
For a glance at the safe assured “X” that the master criminal behind the looting of George Marcus’ safe was none other than Thoth. A little gummed gold seal had been affixed to the safe door. It bore the symbol of the ibis-headed Thoth, wearing the customary Egyptian headdress.
Further search of the room and “X” picked up a small piece of lead which had flattened against the wall. Though its shape was considerably distorted by the impact, nevertheless, Agent X knew it had originally been a spool-shaped slug such as is used in the famous German Haenel air pistols. It was the slug that had shot the Agent’s gas gun from his fingers.
He turned toward the window. It was slightly open. Evidently the shot had come through the opening. Agent “X” smiled grimly. He had had previous experience with such air pistols. He knew one man who preferred a Haenel to any other weapon, and could use it with deadly accuracy.
Dr. Yan, the bald little man who had been victimized by the Neanderthal, was now capable of sitting in a chair. Agent “X” joined Heidt and Preston who were anxiously questioning the little doctor.
Yan spoke with a slight Slavic accent. “Ah, gentlemen,” he gasped, “a most terrible experience for me—and I am used to horrible things. I was about to join you, Mr. Preston, and you, Mr. Heidt, when I looked over my shoulder to see that—that thing.” Dr. Yan shuddered slightly. “What it was? Do not ask me that. It was like something that should have died thousands of years ago. Its eyes—” Dr. Yan passed a trembling hand over his eyes as if to shut out the vision of the monster.
“Don’t go into that,” Heidt growled imperatively. “We’ve seen it. The damned thing walked in here, dragging you along behind it. And it claimed to be George Marcus!”
Dr. Yan’s mouth opened and closed.
“What were you going to say, doctor?” asked “X.” He had brought out Paul Naramour’s notebook and was preparing to take notes on the learned doctor’s opinion of the strange being from the past.
“I’d rather not offer my medical opinion at the present.” Dr. Yan squinted up at Agent “X.” “There are in medicine, many things that we cannot explain. Sometimes men revert to type, you understand—basic types. That is not superstition. In my country, years ago, they spoke of were-wolves. We do not believe such tales. Yet, once I saw man become beast.” Dr. Yan shuddered. “I—I—”
“Mr. Naramour,” Damon Preston explained to the doctor, “is a reporter. If you would rather not make a statement for publication, I am sure that Mr. Naramour will excuse for the time being.”
SMALL, bald head on one side, Dr. Yan squinted up at the Agent. “At present I would not wish to be called a fool. I will say no more.”
Suddenly, the door of the room was thrown open. A man stepped inside. He wore somewhat rumpled evening clothes and an out-of-place brown felt hat was battered down on the back of his head. His thin lips twisted as he punished chewing-gum with his large square teeth. His eyes were cold gray and thoroughly unscrupulous. He spoke with a nasal twang.
“Hello, Heidt. ’Lo, Preston and doc.” His eyes moved languidly from one to another, to finally pause on Agent “X.” His eyes narrowed slightly. He cracked his gum. “Aren’t you Paul Naramour?” he asked. The alert mind of Agent “X” was immediately on the defensive. He knew the man with the cold killer’s eyes. This was the man who habitually carried a Haenel gun; the man who shot “X’s” gas pistol from his hand. He was Thornton Beem, a shady detective, whose retainer fees were incidental to the money he made by blackmail. There was something in the way he had asked that question of the Agent, that made “X” feel that something had happened—something that definitely jeopardized his safety.
Agent “X” slowly nodded his head.
“Funny,” said Deem between gum smacking. “The drinks at this blowout aren’t so damned heavy. But I could have sworn I saw Paul Naramour a few minutes ago out there in the yard.”
“You’re drunk, Beem,” Heidt growled. “Naramour’s been in this room with us for the past fifteen minutes.”
Thornton Beem nodded. “Well I’m glad of it, because last time I saw Paul Naramour was about five minutes ago. He was a sight, too, take it from me! His back was broken, he was dead as beef, and some one had clawed his face to pieces—” Beem’s gray eyes seemed to drill the Agent’s face—“just as if that someone had wanted to see what his face was made of!”
The door of the room was pushed open so suddenly that Thornton Beem was nearly swept off his feet. An excited group of men and women headed by Count Vencelli, crowded into the room. The count’s hands were flying above his head in eloquent gestures. His small eyes rolled from side to side. “This is too horrible! Too horrible!” His words were then lost in the excited clamor of the crowd behind him.
“X” distinguished the word, “murder” and the name, “Paul Naramour.” Then he heard a quiet hiss behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. The door through which he had entered the room was slightly open. He could see Betty Dale’s lovely head through the opening. Her eyes were filled with terror. She beckoned with her finger.
Agent “X” slipped behind Stanley Heidt’s square-shouldered figure and through the door to where Betty was standing. The girl closed the door and quietly locked it.
From the room he had just left, “X” heard the cry of “Impostor!”
“Quick!” Betty urged. “You must get away from here immediately. Paul Naramour’s been murdered!”
AGENT “X” pressed her hand in silent thanks and started down the hall.
“No—no,” Betty cautioned. “Not that way. Th
e dance hall is jammed with people, all talking about the murder. You’d be certain to get caught! Upstairs. That is the way!” Betty pointed to a closed door.
“X” started for it. “I’ll call you at your apartment as soon as possible,” he whispered. “Watch yourself!”
Betty forced a quick, nervous smile, as “X” opened a door and started up a long, narrow, and fully enclosed staircase.
Bedlam seemed to have broken loose behind him. There were calls of “Get the police!” and, “Murder,” and, “Find the impostor!”
“X” turned at the top of the steps into a dimly lighted hall. From this hall, dressing rooms opened. “X” passed them all and coming to the end of the hall, found French windows opening onto a little balcony. Over the balcony rail, he saw that he could drop to the garage roof. From there, it was only a short distance to the ground.
Landing in the driveway, “X” sprang across the lawn. He required but a moment to get his bearings, then struck out across the grass in the direction of the summerhouse where he had left Paul Naramour. As he ran, his fingers worked miracles with the plastic make-up material on his face.
Near the summerhouse, the Agent paused. There was quite a group of people standing around the place and he could hear the murmur of excited voices. “X” ducked behind a clump of shrubbery in order to put the finishing touches upon his make-up. He had altered the shape of his nose, had made his chin more blunt. He discarded the black toupee he had adopted for the Naramour disguise, and substituted the light blond wig he had worn in the character of George Marcus’ watchman. From a pocket in his make-up kit, he extracted a small, shiny counterfeit of a police detective badge. This he fastened to his vest.
No sooner had he concluded this act than he became aware that some one was moving close to the shrubbery. He heard the rustle of the branches and caught a glimpse of a lithe figure moving among the shadows.
Agent “X” waited, scarcely breathing. A warm summer breeze wafted a faint, pleasant odor to the Agent’s nostrils. He recognized it immediately—the perfume of Donna Magyar. He watched the form of the beautiful spy moving surreptitiously in his direction. When she was directly opposite his hiding place, she stopped.
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 5 Page 39