The broad-shouldered, dynamic man who swung from the taxicab cast a keen, quizzical look at the cars. His hawkish eyes caught the license number of the headquarters sedan immediately before the entrance. He looked up toward the officer on guard, said: “That’s Inspector Burks’ car, isn’t it?”’
The patrolman frowned. “What’s it to you, mister?”
The broad-shouldered man mounted the four steps to the entrance, displayed a press card. “The name is Martin,” he said. “Associated Press. Burks is a friend of mine.”
The cop thumbed toward the door. “You can go up. The inspector is on the second floor—in the bedroom.”
Mr. Martin of the Associated Press nodded, and entered. Down the long hall on the ground floor he caught a glimpse of the sitting room through the open door; saw the servants grouped together in a dazed huddle, with a plainclothes man standing guard. Then he proceeded upstairs.
At the top of the stairs another uniformed officer was on guard. When Martin flashed his press card, he was permitted to enter the bedroom at the end of the hall. Here he found several other newspapermen, police photographers, fingerprint men, and a precinct lieutenant. There was also Inspector Burks who nodded sourly from his position near the bed. Martin returned the nod, glanced toward the bed. The medical examiner’s back barred his vision.
Martin approached, looked over the shoulder of the medical man. The body that lay there was that of Lewis Forman, the master of the house. But he was almost unrecognizable. The bed itself was a welter of blood. Forman’s throat was a gaping, raw wound. Though Forman had been a physically big man in life, his body was now shrunken to a mummy-like husk. For the blood had been drained from it as though by a pump.
The skin lay against his ribs, showing the outline of every bone, as if he were a skeleton wrapped in some transparent material. His eyes were wide open, with the pupils turned upward. His cheeks were two gaunt hollows, and the skin lay in folds against his cheekbones.
Mr. Martin studied that body for a long time. He tore his eyes away from it as Burks stepped to his side, whispered bitterly: “Well, there’s another story you can flash over the wire. Lewis Forman, the biggest railroad man in the country—killed by some wild beast. The same as the others that have died in the past nine days. I suppose your rags will be panning the department again.”
Martin turned, studied the harassed, drawn countenance of the police inspector. “The papers know you’re doing the best you can, inspector. It’s just that they have to have something to write about.” He jerked his head toward the bed. “No clues to who did it?”
“Who?” Burks growled. “You mean what! There must be some beasts of prey loose here in the city. And they seem to pick the biggest men in town. They come at night, make their kill, drink their victims’ blood, and steal away without leaving a trace. I tell you, I almost begin to think they’re supernatural!”
Martin shrugged, remained silent.
IN a moment the medical examiner arose from the body, wiping his hands upon a towel. He heaved a deep sigh, brushed the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping off the beads of sweat that had gathered there. “Whew!” he exclaimed. “That was nasty work.”
Burks demanded eagerly: “When did he die, doc?”
“He’s been dead at least ten hours,” the doctor diagnosed. “That makes the time of his murder somewhere before midnight.”
Burks nodded somberly. “I thought so. Nobody died yesterday, and we were beginning to hope that it was the end of these daily murders. But here it is on schedule again.”
The other newspapermen in the room were busy making notes. But Martin of the Associated Press was not bothering with paper or pencil. His gaze rested upon a tall, cadaverous looking man in a dressing gown who was standing at the other end of the room, puffing furiously at a cigarette.
This man noted Mr. Martin’s glance, and returned it with a scowl. His eyes shifted away, strayed to the corpse on the bed, and he shuddered violently.
Martin said to him: “You’re Stanton?”
The tall man nodded. “That’s right. How did you know?”
“In my business,” Martin told him, “we always remember faces. You’re Oscar Stanton, the man who cornered Peerless Locomotive three years ago. Everybody knows you. They call you ‘the man who beat Wall Street.’ ”
Stanton seemed to like that. He was obviously flattered that a newspaper man should remember him.
Inspector Burks shifted impatiently. “Never mind that stuff now, Martin. We’ve got to get down to business.” He swung about, beckoned to a detective sergeant who stood near the door. “Reilly, get on the phone. Tell the commissioner I want the reserves out. We’re going to patrol every street in the city, and see if these wild beasts can get anybody else tomorrow!” His ordinarily florid face became suffused with an even deeper glow. “You’d think this was the African jungle instead of a big city in a civilized country. I swear to you they won’t get away with another murder!”
He turned to Stanton, who was lighting a second cigarette from the butt of the first with hands that shook slightly. “You say you were sleeping in the room next to this one, Mr. Stanton?”
The Wall Street speculator finished lighting his cigarette, ground out the butt of the old one on the floor under his heel, and nodded. “I was visiting overnight with Forman. I don’t understand how any sort of beast could have got into this house. I saw the butler lock up. It would take a pretty clever burglar to get in. And yet this—whatever it was—entered, killed Forman, and got away without making the slightest sound to attract anybody in the household.”
Burks asked slowly: “How come you happened to be staying here overnight, Mr. Stanton, when you live in the city yourself?”
Stanton flushed, glared irately at the inspector. “Do you mean to suggest—”
Burks’ bulldog jaw protruded at an obstinate angle. “I don’t mean to suggest anything, Mr. Stanton. This is murder. I just want to get at the facts. Don’t you want to help us corner these wild beasts? For all you know, they might claw your throat next. Suppose they had gone into your room instead of into Forman’s? You’ve got to cooperate with me!”
“All right,” Stanton yielded sullenly. “I was here on a business deal with Forman. We hadn’t finished our discussion last night, and we decided to close it over the breakfast table this morning. That’s why I remained overnight.”
“What was the nature of this deal?” Burks demanded.
“Just a little stock transaction. We were going to pool our stock purchases.”
WHILE Burks had been questioning Stanton, Mr. Martin had been kneeling beside the bed, examining a series of peculiar red marks upon the floor. Burks noticed what he was doing, suddenly desisted from questioning Stanton, and knelt beside him.
The marks which Martin was studying appeared at intervals on the floor along the bed in series of four. They were bloody marks, as if made by something that had been trailing Forman’s blood along the rug.
“Have you seen these yet?” Martin asked the inspector.
Burks shook his head. “I hadn’t paid any attention to them. But now—God! They look like the mark of an animal’s paw!”
“They might be that,” Martin said speculatively.
“Sure they are!” Burks exploded. “The damn thing ripped open Forman’s throat, feasted on his blood, and then just turned and walked out of here!”
Martin said slowly, “Maybe. But it would be a funny kind of beast. You notice that these marks are all in a row along the bed here. If it was an animal that walked out, there would be two rows—unless it was a one-legged animal.”
Burks got up from his knees, pushed Martin away. “Stand clear of it, Martin. I want to get clear photographs of these things.” He snapped a curt demand to one of his assistants: “Get Roth back here before he leaves.”
He saw Martin buttoning up his coat, asked: “Where you going? What’s your hurry? Don’t you want to stay while I talk to Mr. Stanton here and
the servants?”
Martin shook his head. “I’d like to, but I have other business to attend to. Thanks for your courtesy, inspector. Any time I can do anything for you—”
He left the room after casting one more quizzical glance at Oscar Stanton, the stock speculator, who was watching him with a puzzled frown.
When Martin had gone, Stanton walked around the bed close to Burks, said: “That’s funny—a newspaperman leaving before he gets the full story.”
Burks shrugged. “I’ve known that guy a long time. You never can tell what he’s liable to do. He’s got a soft job, too—stays away for months at a time, and then shows up without any explanation.” Burks sighed. “Well, let’s forget about him. We got plenty on our hands.”
INSPECTOR BURKS and Oscar Stanton would have been highly interested in Mr. Martin’s subsequent movements. For Mr. Martin’s next stop was not at any telegraph office or telephone, nor at any newspaper office. It was at a small inconspicuous looking apartment house on the upper west side.
Here he admitted himself to an apartment on the fourth floor, and stepped into a small cubby hole where a man lay upon a couch, apparently asleep.
Martin stood there, staring down at this man. The sleeper’s features were familiar to thousands of people throughout the country. For they were the features of Victor Randall, the president of the Union Trust Company, and chairman of the board of dozens of financial enterprises whose assets ran into billions. Randall was not asleep. He was unconscious, under the influence of an anesthetizing drug.
Mr. Martin now proceeded to do a peculiar thing. He seated himself before a small dressing table. From a drawer in the table he took strange objects. They were jars of some sort of cream, small plates made of metal, and little vials of pigment.
Then, looking in the mirror, he raised long, graceful fingers to his face, began to manipulate them swiftly, capably. And a strange thing happened. For almost as if by magic, the features of Mr. Martin began to disappear. Now it became apparent that those features did not constitute Mr. Martin’s true face. They were the product of an artistic application of plastic material, pigment, nose and face plates, in conjunction with a cunningly contrived wig. In only a few minutes, Mr. Martin was no more. For a short while there was revealed the true countenance of the man who sat before that dressing table.
It was the face of a strong willed, keenly intelligent young man, with deep-set eyes that reflected a strange sort of power. Those finely chiseled, almost eaglelike features had never been beheld by any man now living. For they constituted the true countenance of that strange man who moved in strange, inexplicable ways—Secret Agent “X.”
Secret Agent “X” had interested himself in these strange murders of prominent men. And, under the very nose of Inspector Burks, he had gone to investigate this last murder—the death of Lewis Forman.
If Inspector Burks had known that the man with whom he had talked so casually a few minutes ago was Secret Agent “X”, he would not have hesitated to shoot him without a moment’s warning. For Inspector Burks, as well as the entire police department, considered this man of a thousand faces to be a public enemy of the first magnitude.
However, there were things which Burks and the rest of the police department did not know. For instance, they did not know that Secret Agent “X” operated on written authority from the highest power in the land to act in any way that he thought fit for the purpose of combating crime. Throughout the nation the officers of the law were pledged to shoot Secret Agent “X” on sight. Yet they did not realize that he was the most powerful ally which they had in their constant warfare against the forces of evil.
The identity of A. J. Martin, the Associated Press man, was only one of many personalities which Secret Agent “X” found expedient to assume in his battle with criminals. Now, the disguise of Martin had served its purpose, and he was assuming another disguise—one which called for even greater artistry, for consummate acting ability.
His fingers manipulated the material on the table, and slowly, in the mirror, there grew another face—a replica of the man who was lying unconscious upon the couch. After ten minutes he arose from the table, glanced down at the face of Victor Randall, then back at his own reflection in the mirror, and nodded in satisfaction. No one, looking at both men, could have told which was which.
Now the Agent took a small mask from his pocket, placed it over his face. Then he went into the next room, returned in a few moments with two hypodermic syringes. One of these he placed upon the table, the other he injected into the arm of the sleeping man. Shortly, Randall began to stir, and opened his eyes.
The Agent fastened each of Randall’s wrists to a rung attached to the metal frame of the couch, so that his guest was helpless to move. When Randall’s eyes opened, he shuddered at the masked face bending over him. The Agent said in a low, soothing voice: “Do not be alarmed, Mr. Randall. I mean you no harm.”
RANDALL continued to stare up at him, slowly collecting his senses. Then he said hoarsely: “Who are you? How did I get here?”
“That is beside the point, Mr. Randall. Some day perhaps you will have the explanation of that. Now, there is much at stake, and very little time. You must answer my questions—quickly.”
Randall’s mouth set in a stubborn line. “I will answer nothing. I demand that you release me at once!”
The Agent’s voice was impatient. “Mr. Randall, you are a wealthy, powerful man. But you are a fool. Your life is in danger, and I am the only man who can help you.”
Randall’s face paled. “How—how do you know that my life is in danger?”
“I know many things. I know that you received a call from Commissioner Foster. I know that you have been seeking protection from a detective agency.”
“Who—who are you!” Randall demanded.
“X” hesitated a moment. Only his eyes, burning, intense, were visible from behind his mask. Then he said: “I am going to tell you something, Randall—something that I have hoped I would not have to disclose. I am—Secret Agent ‘X’.”
Randall started perceptibly, fear showed in his face. “You—”
“You must believe me,” the Agent went on swiftly, “when I tell you that I have only your interests at heart in doing this. Men have died—died in cruel fashion. You are in danger, too. Are you willing to take a chance—blindly, in order to be saved?”
“But—but—if you are Secret Agent ‘X’—”
The Agent laughed bitterly. “I know what you are thinking—that perhaps it is I who is behind these murders. That is what Inspector Burks thinks, and what Commissioner Foster thinks. And I shall never be able to correct them.” He shrugged. “But it doesn’t matter. Perhaps it is better that they should think that way .... Randall, will you believe me? Will you believe that I mean you no harm—that I am working in your interests?”
Randall stammered: “B-but how do I know t-that you are Secret Agent ‘X’? There’s been much talk about you. Many people defend you. But even if Secret Agent ‘X’ is not a criminal, even if he is on the side of the law, how do I know that you are he?”
“I will prove it to you,” the Agent told him. Slowly he raised his hand, removed the mask.
Randall watched him, fascinated, as the mask was drawn away. Then he uttered a hoarse cry. He was staring into his own countenance.
“My God!” He blinked his eyes, stared again. Then he said in an awed voice: “Everything they say about you must be true. They say you are a superman. And only a superman could disguise himself like that. Why—I could swear that I was looking at myself!”
THE Agent bent close, demanded tensely: “Will you trust me? Will you answer my questions?”
Randall sighed, still staring, and nodded. “Your voice—it compels me to trust you. What do you want?”
“You had a talk with Commissioner Foster today. What was it about?”
“The commissioner called me. I am to be at his office at six o’clock tonight. He said that my life
is in danger; that it’s about those wild-beast murders. He says he has information that I am scheduled to die!”
“I thought so,” the Agent breathed. “Six o’clock, you say?”
“Yes. Six o’clock tonight. Foster told me that there were to be some others there. That’s all I know.”
“Is there anybody who hates you—” the Agent asked him—“who might have reason to wreak such a terrible vengeance upon you? You were quite friendly with some of the others who died. Did you know of anything in their lives that might account for their being marked for such gruesome deaths?”
Randall shook his head. “No—Wait! You’ve heard of Grover Wilkinson, of course?”
The Agent sodded. “The utilities man who was indicted, and escaped from the country. They brought him back, tried him, and he was convicted. But he got off with a two-year sentence. I don’t recall that you had anything to do with that, Randall.”
The banker said vehemently: “I did, in a way. And so did many of the others who have died. You see, just before the crash of his utilities empire, he appealed to us for funds. He wanted a loan of eighty million dollars. We turned him down. He was very bitter after that, and it’s been whispered that he’s mentally deranged. In fact, you know that the reason he got off with such a light sentence was that his attorneys pleaded temporary insanity. Then after his release, he disappeared. Shortly after his disappearance—two of the witnesses who helped to convict him were murdered. There’s been no trace of him since.”
The Agent nodded speculatively, asked more questions. He probed shrewdly into Randall’s private life, touched on matters that Randall never suspected that anyone but he himself was aware of.
Finally the Agent finished. He said: “Now, Mr. Randall, you must understand that what I am doing is for your own good. I am going to keep you here until I have removed the danger which threatens you. In the meantime, I shall go out in your place. If there is any danger, it will strike me instead of you.
“For the time being you must remain here, and I shall make you as comfortable as possible. I shall put you into a comfortable sleep, and when you awake, you will have forgotten this interview. It is the only way. No one must ever know that Secret Agent ‘X’ has been working on this case—not even you.”
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 4 Page 14