Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 5

by Paul Chadwick

  In the gloom, he could not be sure what she was doing, but apparently, she was wiping her hands on something. Then she was gone, but as she moved off into the open, “X” saw her toss a filmy handkerchief back into the bushes.

  “X” required but a moment to find the handkerchief. It was of plain lace bearing no monogram of any sort. But here and there, smeared over the lacy pattern were little streaks of blood. The Agent stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket and boldly stepped from the shrubbery.

  Fifty feet farther from the summerhouse, “X” called out in a raucous voice that rang with the authority of the law. “What’s going on here?”

  Men turned. A gardener with a lantern hurried forward.

  “What’s this about a killing?” demanded Agent “X.” He flashed his bogus police badge in the light of the lantern.

  “You’re from the police, sir?” the gardener inquired respectfully.

  “Right you are!”

  “There’s been a terrible thing happen here,” moaned the gardener. “Such goings on I’ve never heard of! A big animal walking like a man—and then this awful murder!”

  “Some one’s had too much drink, that’s certain,” “X’s” voice was scoffing. “These millionaires and their wild parties! Where is Mr. Marcus, anyway?”

  “We don’t know, sir. Never showed up.”

  “For his own party? That’s likely!” “X” shoved his way through the crowd. “One side there, buddy. Let’s have a look.”

  PAUL NARAMOUR had been dragged nearly through the door of the summerhouse. The odd, horrible angle of his head, bent nearly under his body, assured “X” that the man’s neck was broken. Taking hold of the reporter’s shoulder, he pushed the body slightly to one side. Across the face were thin shallow scratches made by fingernails—pointed, well-cared-for fingernails. He thought of the lace handkerchief in his pocket, the blood-stained one that Donna Magyar had dropped.

  He took it out and held it once again beneath the ray of his flashlight. The long, narrow smears of blood might well have been made by wiping a woman’s pointed nails across the lacy surface. He flashed his light into the summerhouse. On the dusty floor were the marks of sandaled feet.

  Agent “X” stood up. “I’ll have to report this to headquarters,” he muttered to some men who were crowding around him. “Don’t touch anything, any of you, or it will just be too bad!”

  A sardonic laugh sounded behind the crowd around the summerhouse. “Funny, isn’t it, that our gumshoe got here so quick? Damon Preston just discovered that the telephone wires leading to the Marcus estate have been cut. But then, some dicks come by mental telepathy! I never was able to get along that way.”

  “X” knew that voice. It was the voice of Thornton Beem, the shady private detective. He turned in the direction of the private detective. “That’s all right, buddy, this is my precinct. And any time I hear a row while I’m walkin’ along, I look in on it, see?”

  “X” turned his back on Beem and hurried toward the drive in the direction of the gate. The motive behind the killing of Paul Naramour was a fairly obvious one, “X” believed. Some one who had seen “X” in his disguise as Paul Naramour, had also run across the real Naramour quite by accident. That some one had been an associate of the unscrupulous Thoth, or perhaps even the criminal chief himself. This person, then, must have known that “X” was an impostor, or had perhaps even guessed that the fake Paul Naramour was none other than Secret Agent “X.”

  The Neanderthal man who had called himself George Marcus, had been sent by some member of the criminal group to remove Agent “X.” But to the stunted brain of this malformed slave of Thoth, Paul Naramour and the man who looked like Paul Naramour might well have been one and the same thing.

  “X” thought of the expression in the Neanderthal’s eyes. They were eyes that lacked that something which distinguishes man from beast. Brutal killing meant nothing to the creature’s warped mind. Acting on his master’s orders, the creature had seized the unconscious Naramour and with the spine-crushing grip that “X” had experienced, had killed the reporter.

  But it was Donna Magyar who had scratched the face of the dead Naramour. Obviously, she too suspected that somewhere there was an impersonation. Discovering that the dead Naramour wore no make-up, she must have known that the man who had saved her that night was Secret Agent “X.”

  Chapter IV

  SLAVE NUMBER FOURTEEN

  THE Secret Agent’s own special car was parked on the boulevard not far from the drive leading through the Marcus estate. On reaching his car, he started the motor and headed back through the city. As he drove, he fastened a radio transmitting microphone around his neck and plugged the cord leading from it into a jack on the dash. For in this car that the Agent employed was one of the best portable, two-way radio telephones in the country. With the receiver and transmitter secreted beneath the dash, he never needed to be out of touch with Harvey Bates who directed one of the Agent’s secret organizations. Speaking directly into the microphone, “X” said:

  “Station ‘X’ calling. Station ‘X’ calling.”

  Thirty seconds had not passed before a voice replied: “Bates speaking.”

  “Have men in group 6 in vicinity of Marcus estate shadow the following persons and report any unusual moves,” “X” ordered. “Stanley Heidt, politician. You are acquainted with his record. Also Thornton Beem, a private detective, present employment unknown. Also watch Count Vencelli, recently arrived from Europe, and Sari Saphari, a woman known formerly under numerous aliases. You will find records of the previous activities of Count Vencelli in file 56. Information concerning the woman calling herself Saphari can be found under the name of Donna Magyar, which name she used when engaged in espionage during the World War. Follow these persons and stand by to report on request. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” came Bates’ reply.

  “Signing off.” And Agent “X” turned off his transmitter.

  Late afternoon of the following day found Agent “X” once again in the familiar disguise of A.J. Martin, correspondent of the Associated Press. In this name, he had leased an office centrally located in downtown New York. “X,” as Martin appeared, was not a person to attract particular attention. He seemed to be slightly above medium height, with commonplace features and sandy complexion. He generally affected modest clothing of neutral colors.

  Having concluded a letter that he had been typing, Agent “X” folded a number of bank notes in with the letter and inserted money and letter into an envelope. Looping a rubber band over the envelope, he addressed it to Mrs. Paul Naramour, and put it to one side of his desk.

  “X” turned to one of the telephones on his desk and called a number that was not listed in the telephone book. In a moment, he was listening to the voice of Harvey Bates. Speaking in the voice by which he was known to Bates, “X” demanded:

  “A detailed report from group 6.”

  A moment in which the Agent listened to the rattle of report sheets, then Bates’ voice came again:

  “Stanley Heidt left the Marcus house a few moments before the arrival of the police. He was accompanied by Thornton Beem. Arrived at his house at about midnight. Thornton Beem thought to be staying with Heidt. At least there was no report of his having left the house either last night or today. Stanley Heidt seen entering Center Street Police Headquarters early this morning. Left shortly for own office. Operator reports Heidt plainly agitated.

  “The woman, Donna Magyar, alias Sari Saphari—operative in charge unable to report. Apparently the woman in question had left Marcus estate before members of our group arrived.

  “Count Vencelli accompanied a newspaper woman by the name of Betty Dale to door of the latter’s apartment directly after the affair at Marcus place. From Miss Dale’s door went to hotel room. No further information on Vencelli. Hold the wire, please.”

  HOLDING the receiver in one hand, Agent “X” spoke into a second telephone, calling the number of the Hobart Detec
tive Agency. In another moment, he had Jim Hobart. “This is Martin speaking. Come to my office as soon as possible.”

  “On my way, Mr. Martin,” came Hobart’s cheerful voice.

  “X” hung up immediately as he heard again the voice of Harvey Bates.

  “Further information, sir,” announced Bates. “Have just received the report of T.S. I quote from his report: ‘Further atrocious crimes and several brutal killings attributed to maniac monsters, called Neanderthals by newspapers, has led Commissioner Foster of Police Department to order all police on duty to shoot Neanderthal men on sight. Reports of thefts and murders in various parts of the city would indicate that a group of these monsters are at work. Foster, anxious to avoid panic, limits amount of publicity given such crimes until more concrete facts can be learned.’”

  “That all?” asked Agent “X.”

  “That concludes the report of T.S. at present.” And Harvey Bates hung up.

  Hardly had “X” concluded his conversation with Bates than a knock at the door announced the arrival of Jim Hobart. Tall, raw-boned, and with brilliant red hair and a pleasant face, the director of the Hobart Detective Agency entered the room.

  “X” nodded pleasantly. “Hello, Hobart. How are you making out?”

  Hobart grinned. “Okeh, Mr. Martin. What’s the job?”

  Agent “X” picked up the envelope he had addressed to Mrs. Naramour. He handed it to Hobart. “Deliver this, please.”

  “Anything else I can do besides delivering this letter, Mr. Martin?” asked Hobart.

  The Agent nodded. He drew from his desk a long list of names—among them the name of George Marcus. The Agent pushed a black pencil through the name of Marcus and handed the paper to Hobart. “This is a list of all wealthy men living entirely to themselves. That is, men without relatives or persons to whom a kidnaper could make a demand for ransom. Have you been able to watch any of them?”

  Hobart took the list. “They are a little hard to keep track of. Some of them aren’t in the city, as far as I can tell. But here’s one.” He pointed a forefinger at one of the names—one Samuel Titus. “He’s worth over a million, it’s rumored. He’s not been out of his apartment in three weeks, our men report.”

  “What else about Titus?” asked “X.”

  Hobart went on. “Jeffries, the man who has been keeping an eye on Titus, called once at his apartment, but could get no reply.”

  A frown passed across the brow of Agent “X.” “That’s all, Hobart. Keep up the work. And you can tell Jeffries that after nine tonight, he can report back to your office.”

  Jim Hobart’s keen eyes were fixed on the Agent’s face. “You think, don’t you, that Titus may have disappeared like the others? Suppose it’s murder? A snatch, maybe!”

  Still frowning, “X” leaned across the desk. “It is a snatch,” he said quietly. “A soul snatch.”

  “A—a what?” Hobart’s brow crimped with amazement.

  “The most hideous racket I’ve ever run across,” replied “X.” “All I want you to do now is deliver that letter.”

  As soon as Hobart had left, “X” went to the door and locked it. Returning to his desk, he pressed secret catches beneath the flat top of the desk, lifting the walnut bed to reveal a compartment beneath. In this compartment make-up material and other special equipment which he employed was stocked.

  Opening a triple folding mirror, he studied the features that identified him as A.J. Martin. Then his long fingers began working, altering nose and chin, adding plastic volatile material to attain a look of puffiness beneath the eyes. Dark pigments deepened wrinkles about the mouth, so that when he closed the secret compartment of his desk he seemed to have added ten years to his life in as many minutes. He quickly changed to a dark suit that showed considerable wear. Then picking up a well stuffed brief-case from the floor of a closet, he left the office.

  HALF an hour later, Agent “X” in his new disguise, stopped a small coupé in front of the apartment where Betty Dale lived. It was nearly eight-thirty and he could expect to find Betty at home. Climbing the steps to her rooms, he knocked at the door.

  “Miss Dale?” he inquired pleasantly when Betty opened the door.

  The girl nodded. “I am Miss Dale,” she replied reservedly. The face of the elderly man who addressed her was totally unfamiliar.

  “I have something in my brief-case that I think will interest you.” The Agent brought his brief-case around in front of him and pretended to fumble with the clasp. Certain that Betty was watching his fingers, he drew the letter “X” on the cowhide cover.

  The girl looked apprehensively up and down the hall, opened the door wide and asked her visitor to enter. When the door had closed, she turned smiling eyes upon him. “I’m getting older and not the least bit wiser! I never would have known you if you had stood there all night!”

  The Agent laughed. “I’m John Rodrick—a perfectly obnoxious bill collector.” The Secret Agent’s eyes grew suddenly grave. “How do you like bogus foreign nobility by now?” he asked.

  “Ugh!” Betty made a little gesture of disgust. “I loathe Count Vencelli and his sickening attentions! But I did stick it out all evening, even to letting him bring me home.”

  “And what did you learn?”

  “Positively nothing save that he considers himself quite a Don Juan. I had to listen to him brag about the beauties of his villa in Valencia until I think I shall never want to see a Spanish sunset. His ardor cooled down a little when he discovered that I was only a newspaper reporter. If you were to ask my opinion, I should say that the count is comparatively harmless. Though of course,” she added modestly, “I have none of your ability of perception.”

  “X” lighted a cigarette. “A wolf in sheep’s clothing, I’m afraid, Betty. But I’ve a little task for you that will be less annoying. Hasn’t Stanley Heidt a daughter?”

  Betty nodded. “I’ve heard that she is very pretty. And she has been kept in the dark in regard to her father’s somewhat dubious past.”

  “Could you make it a point to become acquainted with her?” “X” asked.

  “You’re suspicious of Heidt?” asked Betty. “You think he is some way associated with this creature called Thoth?”

  “X” inhaled smoke reflectively. “His actions are certainly strange.” He looked at his watch; stood up. “Do what you can for me, Betty.”

  Betty accompanied the Agent to the door. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?” she cautioned.

  “X” smiled reassuringly, pressed her hand quickly, and left the apartment.

  It was nine o’clock when Agent “X” stopped his coupé where Stockman House reared its proud stone front among its more humble neighbors. Aside from the fact that it was the most venerable building in the block, there was nothing about it that would indicate that Samuel Titus, who was worth a million, lived in one of its little furnished apartments on the third floor. No one with whom he had ever had any credit dealings had any complimentary remarks to make about Sam Titus.

  This was the chief reason why “X” had chosen the disguise of a bill collector in order to investigate the old miser; for in this disguise, he felt that he would arouse no suspicions when prowling about the building.

  The Agent’s knock at the door of Samuel Titus’ apartment brought no reply from Titus himself. But just as “X” had decided to enter the apartment by means hardly within the law, the door opposite opened and a woman with hennaed hair thrust out her head.

  “If you’re lookin’ for Mr. Titus, you’ll not find him there,” the woman volunteered in a loud voice that the Agent definitely disliked.

  “Then Mr. Titus has left town?” asked “X” quietly.

  THE woman shrugged. “I’m sure I’m not the sort that keeps track of my neighbors. He could be dead and buried for all of me.”

  The Agent could scarcely repress a smile. “What gave you the impression that Mr. Titus was not at home?”

  “I didn’t say that, did I? I said you
wouldn’t find him there. The good Lord knows what you might find. He hasn’t put his foot outside that door in a week or more. For three days, the milkman left his usual pint at Mr. Titus’ door and he never come to get them. Then the milkman—knowin’ how Mr. Titus is about bills—wouldn’t come any more. There’s been collectors every day—look like one yourself—but they don’t get any answer if they knock to January. My, but it’s hot, ain’t it?”

  Secret Agent “X” agreed that it was hot, thanked the woman for her information, and apparently left the building.

  Actually, he simply went down the front stairs to return by the back ones. Then, risking a second surprise appearance of the redheaded woman, he thrust one of his master keys into the lock of the door and quietly entered.

  The living room was a litter of books, magazines, unkempt pipes, and trays of tobacco ash. In the bedroom, chairs were laden with soiled clothes, but the bed had been made. In the kitchen were bottles containing the dregs of milk long soured. Thus a rapid survey of the apartment under the searching gleam of his flashlight was enough to tell the Agent that if Samuel Titus had left, he had not intended that his absence should be a long one.

  Secret Agent “X” was on the point of leaving the apartment, believing that once more he had drawn blank, when he heard a sound coming from the kitchen. It was the merest creaking at first. Then a milk bottle crashed over against the sink. “X” turned out his flashlight and waited, his back against the door. Through the door, opening between kitchen and living room he saw a dark shape. He had seen a similar shape on the night before—stooped, simian, moving with bestial, shuffling steps.

  Breath locked, “X” took a step toward the monster. He could hear the creature’s breath coming in short gasps. Suddenly, the light was turned on, and Agent “X” found himself facing a hideously ugly Neanderthal man. In its malformation, it closely resembled the monster he had met on the night before except that the one he faced now had long, unkempt hair.