Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 5

by Paul Chadwick

  ON the rocketlike ride back to town, Mellor kept the siren wide open. This fitted in with “X’s” plans. He covertly opened his grained-leather cigar case and tapped out a message to Harvey Bates.

  “Section Six…. Two hundred yards east of fork…. Have men pick up roadster take it to Garage Ten…. Signing off.”

  The blast of the siren completely muffled the humming of the little telegraph key. “X” put the case back into one of his secret pockets and settled back on the cushions to emit an occasional groan….

  The police car swung into the driveway of Commissioner Foster’s home, slowed down, to let two detectives jump on the running board. They rode up to the wide entrance where two more plainclothes men emerged from shadows.

  “X” saw all this, smiled slowly. His escape plans would take care of these men. Inspector Burks went on ahead to carry the good news to the commissioner. Mellor took a firm grip of “X’s” arm, led him after Burks, saying:

  “You’re lucky, Grebb. Never knew lightning to be so choosey before.” The young detective sergeant looked closely at “X.” “I figured Grebb to be a little heavier.”

  The Agent managed a surly croak. “You’d lose weight if the—”

  “Yep,” agreed Mellor. “Guess I would at that.” But his sharp eyes never left the Agent’s face. He opened a door, led “X” into a large, comfortably furnished den.

  There was a flat-topped mahogany desk at one end. Behind this sat the stiff, unbending patriarch of the police department—Commissioner Foster. He leaned forward on seeing the blue streak on the Agent’s face. Then he turned to one of the two men seated near the desk, asking:

  “Is that the man who demanded money from you, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “X” recognized Warner Sinclair, reputed to be an immensely wealthy sound engineer. It was said that Warner Sinclair cleaned up on sound pictures and retired with a fortune. “X’s” first impression of Warner Sinclair was a series of circles. Sinclair’s face was round. His eyes were large and round. His chin and nose were round. And his lips formed a round, protruding mouth. That mouth opened and closed traplike on one word.

  “Yes.”

  Commissioner Foster’s hands gripped the edge of his desk. He turned to the man seated on the other side of his desk. “And, Mr. Barker, do you recognize this person?”

  The one called Barker slapped his thigh with gusto. “Indeed I do, sir. That is the man. There is no question in my mind, sir.”

  “X” had many times heard of J. Reynolds Barker, and had on several occasions met him at the Banker’s Club. On those occasions, the Secret Agent had assumed the personality of “Elisha Pond”—globe-trotter and man of indeterminable wealth. J. Reynolds Barker was a utilities magnate. His fortune was one of the largest in the country. And the ruthless massing of it was written on his face. His nose was small, sharp. His eyes were small and deep-set under straggly brows. His mouth was thin, loose, turned down at the corners. And his flabby jowls waggled with the emphatic shake of his bald head.

  “There is no question in my mind, sir,” he repeated.

  Commissioner Foster nodded approvingly to Inspector Burks. Then he faced “X,” saying:

  “We have saved your life, Grebb. And we brought you here to further insure your safety. We—”

  “What’s the hitch?” the Agent asked hoarsely.

  Burks stepped forward, thrust “X” roughly into a chair. “That’s no way to talk to the commissioner!” he bellowed. “Any more cracks and I’ll go to work on you.”

  DETECTIVE SERGEANT MELLOR leaned carelessly against a wall, thoughtfully chewing a match-stick. His eyes were riveted on the Agent.

  The flabby-faced Barker came halfway out of his chair, leveling a finger at “X.” “You told me you were an emissary of the Blue Spark…. Who is the Blue Spark?”

  Commissioner Foster spoke in a chiding voice. “We can appreciate your vigor, Mr. Barker. But please let me remind you that this is a police investigation.”

  “Yes, yes,” spluttered Barker. “To be sure. I beg your pardon, sir. Do forgive me.”

  The commissioner turned back to “X.” “Now, Grebb, I can send you to the electric chair on the testimony of these two gentlemen. During the past two weeks four prominent men have been turned into blue corpses. Tell us what you know of this Blue Spark—and I will appeal for executive clemency on your behalf.”

  The Agent considered this. He knew nothing of the Blue Spark—had just learned of his existence. And now he had learned that this Blue-Corpse killer had demanded money from Warner Sinclair and J. Reynolds Barker. That was enough for “X” to start an investigation on. The combined Hobart and Bates organizations would unearth more than the police department.

  Warner Sinclair put a cigarette into his round mouth, touched it off with a lighter. Then he spoke in an unhurried, unruffled manner. “It has been my experience, gentlemen, that every man has his price. This Grebb fellow fears the Blue Spark far more than he fears the police. The Blue Spark learned that you wanted Grebb, and he tried to kill Grebb. Nothing can frighten this man more than what he has been through.”

  “X’s” hand inched toward a secret pocket in his coat. He had learned enough and wanted to be on his way. But “X” had to pause, for Warner Sinclair looked right at him when he asked:

  “What is your price, Grebb?”

  The Agent muttered: “You can’t frame me, I have a state license—and know my rights.” His hand moved again.

  Suddenly a door opened. “X’s” back was to the door. Any movement he made could be readily seen by the newcomer. He twisted his head about, saw a redheaded girl. But the back of the chair prevented her from seeing him. The girl was Broadway from spike-heeled patent-leathers to the frizzy red thatch. Then the sight of her was shut out by the rising figure of J. Reynolds Barker.

  “Do take my chair,” he all but cooed.

  Detective Sergeant Mellor glanced at Barker, shook his head and went back to his matchstick chewing.

  “X” could see the glint of the girl’s shoes twinkling across the rug. And “X” could feel Mellor’s eyes on him. But “X,” playing the part of a surly private detective, didn’t budge from his chair. His eyes flicked to Detective Sergeant Mellor’s face—and stayed there.

  For that youthful, Irish face had hardened. Then “X” saw the girl. She was looking at him. Her face showed surprise. The Secret Agent knew that something was wrong. His hand seemed to toy absently with the white handkerchief in his breast pocket.

  Mellor tossed away his chewed matchstick, pushed himself away from the wall. His eyes were now boring into the Agent’s. He said slowly, significantly:

  “This is Toby Moore—and you sit there like a bump on a log.”

  “X’s” fingers now gripped the handkerchief.

  Warner Sinclair said in that unruffled manner of his: “The girl who betrayed him to the police—”

  Toby Moore ran tense fingers through her red, frizzy hair. “He—can’t be Grebb!”

  Inspector Burks came across the room like a great cat. His right hand dropped to his hip pocket. “I know who he is.” Then his announcement shot through the room like a high-voltage charge. “He is—Secret Agent ‘X’!”

  Chapter II

  DEATH’S DISGUISE

  THE Agent whipped out the handkerchief, snapped it. The harmless-looking white cloth burst into flame, sending off dense, and rapidly spreading clouds of smoke. This handkerchief had been chemically treated from the vials of the Secret Agent’s own laboratory.

  Inspector Burks’ gun roared in the confines of the room. The blast reverberated from the book-lined walls, muffled but deafening. “X” twisted down and slid behind the chair he had been sitting in.

  Toby Moore’s shrill, high-pitched, “He’ll kill me!” drowned Detective Sergeant Mellor’s yell that “X” was behind the chair. The Agent took advantage of this by lifting the chair, and walking straight at Mellor.

  The detective’s eyes were now blinded by the heav
y smoke screen. He grabbed the chair, then stopped in a puzzled way. And in his indecision, “X” called out, perfectly imitating the bellow of Inspector Burks:

  “Watch the window, Mellor!”

  Burks recognized the trick, and his blaring countermand to watch the door made Mellor stumble into Commissioner Foster.

  “Where is he?” came in a piercing shriek from the smoke-filled room.

  That was what “X” had been waiting for. It told him where Toby Moore was. During his stay in the room, “X” had photographed the position of every piece of furniture in his mind. He darted around a table, came up behind the girl and whispered in Commissioner Foster’s well-modulated voice:

  “Are you safe, Miss Moore?”

  “X” felt the girl press against him. His hands worked like lightning, uncapping a tiny bottle and spilling a pungent liquid on another handkerchief he had taken from his pocket. Holding his breath, he pressed the handkerchief tightly against the girl’s nose and mouth. She struggled fiercely in his grasp, then went limp.

  Inspector Burks yelled: “Blow your whistle, Mellor!”

  The Agent, imitating Mellor’s slight brogue, answered: “Why don’t you blow your own?”

  “That’s him!” roared Burks in baffled rage. “Close in on that voice!”

  “X” lifted the unconscious girl in his arms, angled back to the wall, and slid quickly to the right toward the door. About five feet from the door, he paused. His free hand found a light chair. From this position he knew that the big bay window was directly opposite him. He flung the chair straight across the room, high enough to clear anyone’s head.

  Shattering glass was like an explosion. “X” heard a gasp, and knew that it belonged to J. Reynolds Barker. Warner Sinclair and Commissioner Foster had not made a sound—were either using clever tactics or afraid of drawing a shot. And Sergeant Mellor had made no sound. “X” figured that Mellor had glued himself to the door and was not revealing his position.

  Burks’ voice rang out before the shattered glass had stopped falling. “It’s a trick! Guard the door, Mellor!”

  “X” gathered the girl tightly in his arms, ran lightly and swiftly across the room, stepped through the broken pane and dropped seven feet to the lawn outside. He landed on his toes, went forward to his knees. Like a fish turning in water, “X” swiveled around on his knees, pressed close to the wall. This was not the first time the Agent had visited the home of Commissioner Foster, and he had familiarized himself with every part of it.

  He knew that there was a small cellar window just below the big bay window on the west side. He slid a steel jimmy from his pocket, and snapped the cellar window lock. A police whistle shrilled across the lawn. Heavy footsteps thudded toward him. “X” twisted, lifted the redheaded girl into the window and gently dropped her to the cellar floor. He ducked in after her, and closed the window back into place.

  A cavalry regiment seemed to be going through its paces in the den overhead. “X” carried the girl up the cellar steps into the kitchen, moved swiftly through the corridor to the front hall. Two detectives rushed into the hall from outside.

  The Agent lowered the girl to the floor, bent over her. Without looking at the men, he said: “Get Inspector Burks out here. The girl’s fainted.”

  One of the men nodded as he hurried down the corridor. The second detective stopped, threw a suspicious glance at the Agent. “X” quickly lifted the girl and walked out the front door with her. The second detective took a firmer grip on his gun and followed “X.”

  Inspector Burks’ special police flyer was in the driveway, the one which had brought “X” in from Long Island. The Agent opened the tonneau door, placed the girl on the floor. It was then that he felt the steel gun muzzle prod his back. A harsh, triumphant voice said:

  “Freeze stiff, Mr. Secret Agent ‘X’!”

  THE Agent was seized roughly and whirled around till the gun jammed into his stomach.

  “Now,” said the detective, “we’ll wait for the inspector. Maybe you’re wearing a bulletproof vest. But the force of this slug will knock you down. So none of your fancy tricks.”

  At that moment, a bullish roar sounded from the front hall of the commissioner’s house. “He told you to bring me out, did he? Well—where the devil is he?”

  The detective in front of the Agent smiled tightly. “It won’t be long now, Mr. ‘X.’ And that hot seat sure gets hot.”

  Inspector Burks surged out onto the veranda. “Do you mean to tell me that he walked right out the front door?”

  A detective followed him, hands spread in bewildered helplessness.

  Before the detective in front of him could call, “X” slitted his lips in a strange manner known only to master ventriloquists. But no sound came from them. Instead, a voice seemed to come out of the air behind the detective.

  “Don’t move, copper.”

  But the copper did move. He jerked his head about in angry frustration—saw nothing. Then “X” hit him. The blow was short, curving up in a swishing arc. The detective dropped his gun, settled back on his heels. His legs melted under him, and he went down.

  Inspector Burks saw the play. His gun leveled. The blast rocked the night. Lead burned a groove across the Agent’s neck. Burks opened his mouth to bellow an order. “X’s” hand flicked out to the police dashboard, latched open the siren. It filled the night with its weird, piercing screech.

  “X” swung into the car. He had seen that the key was in the ignition before he had cut in the siren. He turned the switch, got in gear, and sent the car hurtling down the driveway. The caterwauling siren effectively swallowed any warning that Burks might have voiced. But the shot had roused the suspicions of the detectives at the gate. They started to swing the massive iron portals together.

  The Agent gripped the bucking wheel, pressed the accelerator to the floorboard. It was a test of nerve—raw nerve. Any slackening of the speed of the car would have signaled weakness to the detectives at the gate. “X” saw them hesitate. He gauged the position of the gates. He knew he’d lose both front fenders. But if a wheel struck those iron portals, the car would spin with terrific velocity into the concrete wall across the street.

  “X” rolled the wheel to the left. His foot flicked the brake pedal. The careening car skidded to the right, sending up a shower of gravel. The iron gates loomed right at the windshield. “X” saw the chance of saving the fenders. He skidded more to the right, twisted the front wheels into the skid to come out of it. Then he straightened out, kicking the accelerator down to its rubber base.

  Shots peppered the car. “X” cut the siren, turned the corner and left the commissioner’s home far in the distance….

  A half hour later, he carried the still unconscious Toby Moore into one of his many hideouts scattered throughout the city. He placed her in a chair, then crossed the room to a large cigar humidor. He pressed a hidden catch and lifted out a tray of cigars. Beneath was a larger telegraphic transmission and receiving set than the one he carried in his pocket. He signaled Harvey Bates, got him, and said:

  “Put all available men to locating black hearse seen in Section Six around midnight. Signing off.”

  “X” turned to a telephone and called Jim Hobart of the Hobart Agency.

  Hobart was not at his office, and the call had to be relayed to his hotel. Finally, “X” said:

  “This is Martin, Hobart. I want to know everything possible about a redheaded girl called Toby Moore. She looks like a Broadway chorine, about twenty-five, five-feet-four. Trace her association with Private Detective Grebb. Hold the wire,” “X” rummaged through the girl’s handbag, then went on: “She lives at the Alessandro. Camp there till you see me. That’s all, Hobart.”

  “X” HUNG up. He took a restorative and held it under the girl’s nose. She tossed fitfully, caught her breath, blinked up into the face she had known as Grebb’s. A scream choked in her throat. The Agent said quietly:

  “You are going to tell me why you betrayed
Grebb to the police.”

  Toby Moore sat up in her chair. “So you got away from the commissioner,” was all she said.

  The Agent’s hands pinned her wrists to the arms of the chair. He leaned down close to her. His dark eyes drilled into hers. He repeated as quietly as before:

  “You are going to tell me why you betrayed Grebb to the police.”

  Lights smouldered and flickered to the surface of his eyes. His face was bare inches from the girl’s. She looked at him steadily, calmly; her blue eyes never wavering from his dark piercing stare. Their eyes locked and held in a terrific mental battle.

  Many times in the past, Agent “X” had bent people to his amazing will. He spoke in a slow, murmuring chant.

  “You are going to tell me why you betrayed Grebb to the police.”

  Toby Moore’s eyes never blinked. Her stare was not bold or brazen—but it held an intangible calm that “X” could not fathom. The Agent was puzzled. Here was a girl—a chorine whose singing and dancing was her meal ticket, certainly not her brains. Yet she was totally unaffected by one of the most powerful wills of the age.

  “X” pivoted on his heel, went into an adjoining room and closed the door behind him.

  THIS was a strange room indeed. At one end was a tri-mirrored table with a powerful electric light suspended overhead. Flanking both sides of this table were racks lined with tubes of the Agent’s specially prepared volatile plastic paste, and tubes of pigments. Above these were tier upon tier of toupes, ranging from kinky black hair to glossy blond. One entire wall looked like a costume outfitter’s shop. There were suits of every description from the flashy check of the racetrack tout to the flawless formal dress of a Park Avenue clubman. And there was a resplendent array of military uniforms.

  But this was merely a substation of Secret Agent “X.” His headquarters in an old deserted mansion on the other side of town had a wardrobe containing the field and formal dress uniform of every regiment in the world. And a collection of armor that rivaled the prize sets of the famous Armor and Arms Club.

  The Agent moved quickly to a picture on the wall. It was a dull lithograph of a rural scene. He touched a switch on the back of the frame. The lithograph faded out to give place to a television picture of the room he had just left. He saw Toby Moore take up her pocketbook and stealthily cross the room to the street door. She couldn’t budge it. Slowly, she went back to the chair and slumped into it.