The Agent’s mind was filled with thoughts of Jim Hobart. Jim Hobart was his oldest friend, his staunchest comrade. Yet Jim Hobart had trapped him for the emissaries of the Blue Spark. The Secret Agent felt a great emptiness in his stomach. In his reckless, headlong and lonely life, he had made but few friends. And for the first of those chosen few to turn on him was a staggering blow indeed.
But “X,” however raw and bleak were his thoughts, handled the careening car with masterful timing and precision. Suddenly, he tightened like a drumhead. His feet kicked out brake and clutch. For at the next corner, directly in his path, a group of school children were crossing the street. His screeching tires made them turn terrified faces at the roadster hurtling straight at them.
Just a split-second before “X” touched the brake, the maroon coupé gathered speed. Redheaded Toby Moore lifted the white flower box and pointed one end of it toward the Agent. “X’s” last instant of conscious thought was rent by the screams of children and the squalling of rubber tires on cement.
AGENT “X” was sitting on the runningboard of his roadster. How he got there, he didn’t know. But there was a big crowd standing around him. Several blue-coated policemen loomed over him. Every one was talking at once.
“X” took stock of himself, found that he was uninjured. What had happened, he hadn’t the vaguest idea. But he did know that he had been subjected to the same influence that had blotted out consciousness when he had been transferred from Toby Moore’s apartment to the chamber of the Blue Spark. It had been some sort of an electrical charge, “X” figured, that had wiped conscious thought from his mind.
Toby Moore had tried to kill him in a collision. And it had been “X’s” humane thought of saving the children that had saved his own life. His foot had been on the brake when the electrical charge had struck him. And his foot had frozen on the pedal, stopping the car.
The Agent took notice of an odor of languorous, musky perfume in the air about him. He looked up and saw a trim silk-sheathed girl talking to one of the policemen. He couldn’t see her face, but her voice was low, deep, liquid. She was saying:
“I saw the entire situation, officer. This man in the roadster was being chased by the other car.” “X” saw long, tapering fingers, perfectly gloved, sweep in his direction. “And this man—”
The officer butted in with: “His name is Martin. The things we found on him say he’s with the Associated Press.”
“Yes,” went on the low musical voice, “Mr. Martin’s life was in danger. I saw the man in the other car holding a gun. But Mr. Martin risked his own life to save those children. The other car didn’t even slow up. It was an act of heaven that it didn’t kill some of the children. This man, Mr. Martin, put his own life in danger to save theirs.”
“X” got slowly to his feet. He said: “I must have knocked my head on the wheel when I braked the car. Anyone hurt, officer?”
The officer took out notebook and pen, shook his head. “Nope. But the car chasing you made a clean getaway.” Pen poised, he asked: “Who were they?”
“I don’t know,” said the Agent.
“Oh—no?” grated the cop. He planted huge fists on his hips. “A nice little private war, eh?”
“X” had turned to the girl in black silk. She was facing toward him now. He took off his hat, saying: “Thank you.”
Her dark, fathomless eyes fixed themselves intently on “X’s” face. “It was nothing,” she said in that rich, low voice. “I just happened to see the whole thing.”
“Nice of you to put in an oar for me,” murmured the Agent, studying the beautiful face of the girl. Her hair was the blackest “X” had ever seen, and her lips the reddest. She was tall, lithe, and she moved with a supple grace. His thoughts of her were jarred by a gruff, belligerent voice:
“Say, mister—I’m talking to you!” It was the cop. He tapped the Agent’s chest with his nightstick.
“X” gave him a level stare, spoke quietly. “I’m Martin, Associated Press. I don’t know who chased me. I saw their weapon and stepped on the gas. No one was hurt. What are you going to do about it? And take that club out of my ribs.”
The nightstick dropped from “X’s” chest. By this time, a police sergeant joined the crowd. The patrolman told him what had happened. The sergeant glared at “X,” then turned to look at the dark-haired girl. His manner suddenly changed. He touched his vizor respectfully, said:
“Why, how do you do, Miss Barker?”
Secret Agent “X” tensed at the name. He flashed the girl a searching look. His mind sped back to the society pages of newspapers he had read. Yes, this girl was Miss Barker—Miss Electra Barker, daughter of J. Reynolds Barker, the utilities magnate. “X” listened while she told the sergeant how Mr. Martin had saved the children’s lives.
The sergeant turned to the patrolman. “We can take Miss Barker’s testimony on this.” Then, steel creeping into his voice: “Martin, you’re sure you didn’t recognize the persons in that other car?”
“No,” said “X,” “I didn’t recognize them.”
“Well,” grunted the sergeant, “I guess there’s nothing we can do about it.”
The Secret Agent faced Electra Barker. “Many thanks again, Miss Barker. May I give you a lift?”
“I’d like it,” said that deep, musical voice. “Thanks. I don’t feel like driving after all the excitement. I can have my car picked up.”
“X” handed her into his roadster, waded through the gaping crowd to the driver’s seat and climbed behind the wheel. With much trouble and horn-blowing, he got clear of the crowd.
DRIVING up Park Avenue, “X’s” mind was in a whirl. His best friend had betrayed him. Toby Moore had deliberately tried to kill him. And now, Electra Barker, daughter of a man threatened by the Blue Spark, popped up just in time to help him out of a jam with the police.
“X’s” light conversation with the heiress gave no hint to the somber, sinister things that flooded his mind. Finally, the Agent pulled into the curb before a towering hotel apartment house.
Electra Barker alighted from the car on the Agent’s arm. Her dark eyes were unreadable. Her red lips parted in a slight smile. “You’ve been very kind, Mr. Martin. If I can help again, please let me know.”
Before “X” could answer, a police squad car swerved into the curb behind his roadster. The lone occupant of the car was Detective Sergeant Mellor. He swung out to the sidewalk, touched his hat and said:
“Hello, Electra.”
The Agent stared hard at the lowly police detective who called a multi-millionaire’s daughter by her first name. And he stared harder when Electra Barker replied in a low, natural voice:
“Why, hello, Robert.” She half turned to “X.” “This is Mr. Martin. Detective Sergeant Mellor.”
Mellor stuck out his hand; his sharp eyes scrutinizing “X.” The Agent gripped the detective’s hand. Both said they were glad to meet the other. “X” smiled inwardly at how glad Detective Sergeant Mellor would be to know that the man who had tricked him at Commissioner Foster’s home was shaking hands with him.
The Agent took his leave in several minutes. He drove off, his mind seeking to unravel this latest twist to the sinister skein being woven by the Blue Spark.
Blocks away, he cut in his telegraph key and signaled Jim Hobart. He tried repeatedly—but could not raise Hobart. “X” put away his transmission set. There was just one answer. The Blue Spark had picked up Jim Hobart, electrically shocked his mind and set him to trap Agent “X.”
The Blue Spark knew that he had had the Secret Agent in his grasp and had let him go….
“X” made his way to one of his hideouts to make a careful change to the personality of Elisha Pond, so that he could meet J. Reynolds Barker, Warner Sinclair and Police Commissioner Foster on another social plane.
But as “X” prepared his tubes, vials, and laid out a tailored lounge suit, one thought kept swirling through his head—
An heiress and a ho
micide dick….
Chapter V
THE BLACK HEARSE
THE doors of the exclusive Bankers’ Club opened to admit a distinguished-looking, gray-haired gentleman. The club knew him as Elisha Pond, eccentric millionaire and globe-trotter. His face had the ruddy glow of a man who was enjoying life, unhampered by business cares. His clothes were the cut of London’s most fashionable tailor. And his warm smile, tempered by a dignity and reserve of almost royal mien, was for all, from bellboy to club president. Elisha Pond was liked, respected and admired by this little world of money giants.
In the lounge he saw J. Reynolds Barker, the utility magnate and Commissioner Foster. Close by were Warner Sinclair and two strangers to “X.” Their conversation was low, whispered, with occasional glances over their shoulders to see if anyone were in earshot.
“X” sensed an intangible pall hovering over the club. The bluff good nature usually present when executives gathered was now conspicuously missing. Several were sipping cocktails. But they may as well have been drinking water—for the spirits in the drinks failed to warm the chill thoughts that clung to their minds.
Commissioner Foster was saying: “And now Secret Agent ‘X’ is heading these blue-corpse killers. There is no doubt that he is the Blue Spark. With this clever criminal genius at work, the streets are not safe to walk in—our homes are not safe to live in.” Then Commissioner Foster saw the man he knew to be Elisha Pond. A genuinely warm smile swept the frown from his brow. “Pond!” he exclaimed. “My dear Pond—I am glad to see you.” He rushed over, welcoming hand outstretched.
The Secret Agent took his hand, pumped it in the manner of old friends. “How are you, Foster?” he asked genially.
Foster took “X” by the arm, led him over to the group, saying: “Gentlemen, here is a man who many times in the past has dropped a helpful suggestion into my ear. Perhaps he can aid us now.” The commissioner nodded to J. Reynolds Barker. “You know Pond, Barker.”
Barker tweaked his small, sharp nose, got up on his short legs. “Indeed I do, commissioner…. Delighted to see you again, Pond. Delighted indeed, sir.” He shook with a pink, pudgy hand. “Where are you in from, sir? The Malays? Tibet? Rio? You are a sight for sore eyes, sir. I confess I am at wit’s end.”
Commissioner turned to Warner Sinclair. “Mr. Sinclair, let me present an old friend—Mr. Pond.”
Sinclair’s round face beamed pleasantly. His big, round eyes opened a trifle wider. His round, protruding lips pursed before they dropped the greeting: “Nice to know you, Mr. Pond.”
The commissioner nodded to a tall, thin hatchet-faced man who was immaculate in cutaway, winged collar and Ascot. “Mr. Langton, Mr. Pond.”
“X” recognized Langton from his pictures. August Langton was president of the Metropolis Bank & Trust Company. “X” knew him to be a hard, driving man, utterly devoid of human emotion in his banking transactions. The Agent nodded, murmured a fitting word of greeting, and turned to the last man of the group.
Commissioner Foster said: “The Baron von Huhn. Your Excellency, allow me to present an old friend—Mr. Pond.”
The Secret Agent keenly studied the baron. He was totally unlike the others. Medium-sized, stocky, he was as ugly as a gentleman of birth could be. His stove-pipe neck ran in a straight line from collar to shaven head. His ears stuck out like flaps. Dark, dissipation-circled eyes were set deep under a flat brow. His upper lip was thin, cruel; his lower one was loose, viciously self indulgent.
“X” bowed. The baron clicked his heels with the smart precision of the military class. His bullet-shaped head bobbed stiffly. He put a mechanical smile on his face; wiped it off. Then he tapped ashes from his cigarette with a long forefinger.
Commissioner Foster said: “The baron is associated with a great German research laboratory. He is Mr. Langton’s guest.”
A BELLBOY approached August Langton with a package of cigarettes on a tray. Langton waved an irritated hand, said sharply: “Wait, boy. Do not break my train of thought.”
The boy flushed, stood in confused silence while the banker cupped his chin in his hand and stared into space.
“X” caught the boy’s eye and winked at him in the genial, bluff manner of Elisha Pond. The boy’s freckled face beamed. At that moment, August Langton looked up, saw the boy smile back at Agent “X.” The banker gave the boy an angry push.
“Don’t stand there like a grinning jackass!” he growled.
The boy lost his balance, lurched into Secret Agent “X’s” side—the side of his old war wound. “X” caught his breath, bowed his head to hide the pain that came into his eyes. And while his head was bowed, “X” heard a man gasp. “X” snapped his head up, scanned the faces around him. He saw only deep concern on their faces—nothing else. The man who had gasped had checked himself and changed expression with the consummate art of a finished actor.
Yet “X” knew that one of the men facing him had involuntarily gasped when he had clutched his side. One of the men had recognised that sore spot on his body. The realization staggered “X.” For it meant that one of the men here had witnessed his actions in the chamber of the Blue Spark. One of these men before him was the Blue Spark—or one of his rubber-clad minions. “X’s” piercing eyes stabbed into the faces surrounding him. An icy hand seemed to grasp him by the nape of his neck.
Some one in this room knew that Elisha Pond was Secret Agent “X.”
It was a staggering blow to the Agent. For the character of Elisha Pond was the backbone of his very existence. Elisha Pond gave him the priceless gift of Police Commissioner Foster’s confidence; it gave him entrée to the highest social strata of the country. If Elisha Pond were crushed—Secret Agent “X” would be crushed. Yet—
One of the men before him knew that he was Secret Agent “X.”
Commissioner Foster was the first to speak. “Are you all right, Pond?” he asked anxiously.
August Langton said: “Sorry, Pond. It was that clumsy boy—”
“It was your extremely bad temper,” butted in Warner Sinclair. “The boy couldn’t help himself.”
Banker Langton flashed to his feet. “Sinclair—I’ll trouble you to mind your own damn business!”
The Baron Otto von Huhn stood stiff as a ramrod. The only thing about him that moved was his long forefinger, tapping ashes from his cigarette.
“X” knew Von Huhn’s Prussian breed. The baron would align himself with August Langton, subtly insult Warner Sinclair, and suggest that they measure their differences—by the length of their swords. This would interfere with the Agent’s work. He raised his hand quickly, spoke in his pleasant, easy manner.
“Now, my friends, it is not necessary to quarrel over me. I am quite all right. The wind was merely knocked from my lungs. Let us forget it.”
Von Huhn looked long and searchingly at the Agent, but said nothing.
It was J. Reynolds Barker who stepped into the breach. “Indeed, gentlemen, let us forget it. A capital idea! Let us resume our discussion of America’s greatest criminal—Secret Agent ‘X’.”
August Langton said truculently: “I was thinking of that when my train of thought was broken.”
“The problem is—” put in Commissioner Foster—“how to capture Secret Agent ‘X’.”
Warner Sinclair pursed his lips, fingered his round chin. “Money,” he said succinctly. “Money. Every man has his price.”
“In that case,” cut in August Langton, “I would give one hundred thousand dollars just to meet this so-called wizard.”
“X” CAREFULLY studied August Langton, paid particular attention to his voice and mannerisms. Then, his mental inventory complete to his satisfaction, he scrutinized each of the others in turn. For one of these men was toying with him, baiting him.
Then Von Huhn spoke to Commissioner Foster. His words were clipped, precise. “Herr Foster, I place myself at your disposal. My services are yours to command in the search for this Secret Agent ‘X’.”
Thank you, baron,” said the commissioner. “Your vast knowledge of the electrical field will be of inestimable value to the police.”
“X” remembered Betty Dale’s saying that J. Reynolds Barker was giving a beach party that night on his Great Neck estate. So “X” threw out a line in that direction. He said:
“Barker old fellow, it’s been a deuce of a long time since we’ve had a chat. Suppose we dine at the club here and make a night of it?” Then “X” spread his hands to include the group about him. “I would be honored if all of you gentlemen would join me.”
J. Reynolds Barker slapped his thigh. “How stupid of me, sir. Stupid, indeed. Tonight I’m giving a beach party out at my place. If I had known that you were on this part of the globe, I would have invited you. But you must come, sir. Foster will be tied up on business. But Sinclair, the baron and Langton will be there. Say you’ll come.”
“Certainty,” readily agreed “X” in the good-natured manner of Elisha Pond. “I’ll be there.”
Talk drifted to the coming party and a determined and combined effort toward stopping the blue-corpse murders. When “X” secured his hat, gloves and stick, he noticed a piece of paper stuck under the sweatband of his hat. He unfolded it and read:
To Elisha Pond—or Secret Agent “X”:
We will meet again—tonight.
The Blue Spark
THE AGENT had carefully studied August Langton’s speech and mannerisms, and had photographed his face in his mind. It wasn’t necessary for him to go to one of his hideouts to make the change. He drove his coupé to a private garage, locked the doors and busied himself with his pigments and tubes of volatile plastic.
In a secret compartment of the coupé he kept a cutaway, striped trousers, silk hat and accessories. He rapidly changed. And taking his high-powered, super-charged roadster, he left the garage. Fifteen minutes later, he parked across the street from August Langton’s bank. He leisurely crossed the street and approached the broad entrance of the institution.
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 5 Page 54