The Corpse Cavalcade
Chapter I
HANDS THAT KILL
MISTY rain held the winter’s pall of smoke low over the city. The narrow strip of sky, visible from the street, was like thick gray flannel. There was a vague, unfamiliar quality in the sound of things, as if the bustle of the awakening business world was muffled by some tangible shadow.
In front of the Suburban National Bank and extending for half a block beyond its brass grated doors, was a line of people. There was anxiety on every face, and the mutter of angry threats in every mouth. Men, women, children clutched tightly at passbooks, each selfishly wondering if he or she would be in time to make a withdrawal while the cash still held out.
The custodian of the Suburban National swept moodily with a broom behind the brass-barred gate. He glanced at his watch. It was five minutes to nine.
“Hey, granpa!” a man near the head of the line of depositors shouted to the bank custodian. “Open up. What’s five minutes or so? We want our money!”
“Yeah,” another echoed. “Good, solid money. If we get it at the bank we know it’s good!”
The custodian scowled bitterly. “You’ll get it! Suburban National’s been open every day the law allowed. Never defaulted yet, and ain’t goin’ to start now! You people must be crazy. This bank’s as sound as a rock!”
“You have a hard-earned twenty-dollar bill refused on the grocery bill, and you’d get scared yourself,” a plump-faced woman called back. “We’re getting our money while we know it’s the real thing—and not counterfeit!”
Riot broke out in the rear of the line. A middle-aged man, drunk with panic, was lunging at the line, head lowered and shoulders bucking. A blue-coated policeman stepped from the curb, seized the agitator by the collar and pulled him from the line. Another cop, swinging his stick threateningly, restored some sort of order among the depositors. But the indignant man fought free from the hands of the policeman, and lunged again at the line.
“Here, none o’ that!” This time the cop was less gentle as he yanked the man back to his place. “You wait your turn like the rest or I’ll give you a rap on that thick skull of yours.”
The middle-aged man turned a white, frightened face up to meet the eyes of the policeman. “I’ve got to get in there,” he pleaded. “I can’t wait! It’s a matter of life and death! My wife—she’s got to have an operation! I’ve got to get money—real money. She’s got to have a specialist. It’s more than just grocery bills!”
The policeman’s face softened slightly. But he shook his head discouragingly. “Sorry, buddy. You got to take your chance just like the others. Back to the tail of the line.”
Somewhere, a clock boomed the first stroke of nine. A shout rose from the mob of anxious depositors. There was a sudden surge forward against the gates that barred the entrance to the bank. Simultaneously with the striking of the clock, the morning parade of traffic in the street was broken by three big armored trucks that drew over to the curb in front of the bank. Some one in the line of anxious depositors saw the armored cars and shouted:
“Money! They’re bringing our money!”
As if a bomb had burst in its midst the line of people suddenly broke and became a roaring crowd. The people turned in a disorganized mass and rushed towards the curb and the armored trucks. The handful of police, though battling valiantly to check the tide of humanity, were lost in the mob, their arms pinioned to their sides by the sheer weight of the frantic people.
DISREGARDING the threatening machine gun muzzles that were thrust through the slots in the armor plate sides of the trucks, the mob pressed close. Then some one in the foremost ranks of the bank depositors shouted:
“Back! Give them a chance to get out of the trucks. There’ll be time enough and money enough for all!”
The crowd pressed back. A woman fainted, stifled in the jam. A policeman, poking and prodding with his stick, forced his way through the outer fringes of the crowd. He ran to the call box on the corner. Riot was impending. A squad of police would be needed in another five minutes.
The armored trucks spilled men armed with automatics and machine guns. Some carried heavy leather satchels that were linked to their wrists with chains. All of them ran, with heads lowered and collars turned up, straight towards the bank doors.
In the lobby of the bank stood a man of perhaps forty years of age. His carefully brushed, thick, white hair contrasted sharply with smooth, tanned skin and sharp black eyes. He was Abel Corin, a director in the bank and an executive in half a dozen industrial enterprises. As the armed men from the trucks entered, Corin strode forward, seized the foremost bank messenger by the arm.
“What is the meaning of this?” Corin demanded. “There must be some mistake. You men came here once this morning at the regular time. We have sufficient cash to restore the confidence of the depositors. The people have simply permitted themselves to become overexcited about the sudden flood of counterfeit money that has been discovered in circulation.”
The bank messenger did not reply. Instead, he raised his head and at the same time pushed his hat back from his forehead. Like a dead, unfeeling appendage, Corin’s hand dropped from the man’s sleeve. His face blanched beneath his tanned skin. He retreated step by step before the slowly advancing group of armed men. Corin’s lower lip became pendulous. Saliva drooled from the corners of his mouth. His eyes were terror glazed, staring into the hideous face that the leader of the men had revealed.
It was a strangely inhuman face. Thin features contributed an expression of immeasurable cruelty. Thin lips were parted in a hellish smile as utterly without humor as the grin of a skull. There was a gleam of cunning in the small eyes.
Corin suddenly overcame the paroxysm of terror that had rooted him to the spot. “The police! This is a holdup!” His hoarse voice tocsined throughout the building. He pivoted and fled through the door of the office. The hawk-faced man, shooting from the hip, drilled the window of Corin’s office with a bullet from his automatic.
Then, with a gesture from their hawk-faced leader, the band of armed men broke into two groups and moved swiftly along the walls of the room where the teller’s cages were located. One teller, of cooler nerve than his companions, stamped on the alarm bell. He turned his terror-white face towards his companion in the next cage. For no sound had come from the alarm bell.
“The power’s been cut!” he shouted. “Try the telephone!”
Then following his own order, the teller ran toward the offices located on the balcony at the back of the bank. A tracer of machine-gun bullets chipped granite from the wall behind him. Still he ran—until leaden death caught up with him. He crumpled to the floor, where he lay twitching in a final death struggle. A sharp scream shrilled from a woman. Then a hush fell upon the bank.
THE criminal gang went about its work like a well generaled army. Every man, with the exception of the hawk-faced leader, wore a flesh-colored mask over his face. Those who carried satchels hurried into the vaults at the rear of the building. Others who were armed with Tommy guns nailed bank officials against the walls. Still others ganged across the entrance way. Two police, who had evidently been attracted by the sound of machine-gun fire, were dropped in their tracks as they entered the building.
But with all the activity, not a single masked mobster spoke a word. They seemed like fearsome, tongueless beasts who knew no language but the staccato syllables of rattling machine-gun hail.
The leader seemed to take no part in the looting of the bank. He vaulted over the marble rail that separated the cashier’s booth from the central portion of the room, and approached a white-faced paying teller. The teller flattened himself against the counter and stared at the immobile face of the gang leader like one fascinated by the evil eye of a basilisk. The hawk-faced man advanced slowly, the wolfish grin on his evil face still unchanged. It seemed that he enjoyed to the fullest extent the anguish of his intended victim.
The white-faced teller found his tongue. He
mouthed incoherent sentences. “Wh-what are you going to do? I played up. I—I, God! Don’t stare at me! I couldn’t help it! Did everything you told me—” And his pale hands locked over his eyes, trying to shut out the sight of that hideous, lifeless face with its leering slit of a mouth.
Then the hawk-faced monster abandoned his lethargy. He dropped his automatic upon the marble counter. The fingers of his hands crooked like steel talons. He sprang at the cringing teller, his fingernails digging so deeply into the man’s flesh that they drew blood. A cry burbled in the teller’s throat—became a dry rasp as the hawk-faced man increased pressure. The teller made a piteous, desperate effort to free himself from the inexorable, killing grip. But as his strength waned, the killer seemed to absorb it. His fingers dug deeper and deeper until his victim’s lolling tongue was tinged with blue, and his eyes bulged from their sockets.
Then with a movement that was without apparent effort, the hawk-faced man flung the dying teller to the floor. He jerked from his pocket something that was not unlike a fountain pen in appearance. He unscrewed the cap and bared a nib of some strange, wax-like composition. Pen in hand, he knelt beside his victim and boldly traced something upon the dead man’s forehead. A viscous yellow fluid that fumed as it touched the flesh flowed from the nib of the pen. As the killer arose, an ugly wound appeared on the dead teller’s forehead—a figure seven burned in the flesh with acid.
Then the gang leader sprang to the center of the room in time to join his men who were streaming out of the vault, bags in hand. Outside the bank, the bandits made no further attempt to hide the masks which marked them as desperados. One lone policeman tried to keep the gang from entering the armored trucks. But the three shots from his pistol were purposely high and wide to avoid hitting innocent bystanders. He was dropped in his tracks by a snap shot from the gang leader.
While part of the gang had been inside the bank, the rear guard had remained in the trucks and stood ready for action. Up the street, just beyond the entrance of the alley, a huge van had been shunted across the street, blocking westbound traffic. This was obviously the work of the efficient criminal organization, for the cleared traffic lane offered an avenue of escape up the alley. Once there, the parade of three trucks put on full speed and roared out of sight.
The danger momentarily past, an excited tremor ran through the crowd. Where were the police? What had happened to the pride of the city, the capable John Laws? Two blocks beyond the bank an officer was busily engaged in handling a traffic jam. Evidently he was entirely unaware of the slaughter that had taken place only a few rods away. And throughout the neighborhood, the muffled roar of traffic was unbroken by the wail of police sirens.
One man in the crowd in front of the bank seemed suddenly to awake from what had been a hideous nightmare. “Our money!” he shouted. “They’ve taken our money from the bank! Where were the police?”
Spurred by this sudden realization, the mob moved as one man, pushing through the gates of the bank. Mr. Corin, his usually sleek hair hanging over his haggard eyes, met them with arms outthrust as if to check the crowd in its frantic dash.
“Wait!” Corin shouted, hoarsely. “Stop, everybody! You’ve got to listen! Your money’s safe!”
For a moment, silence. Then the crowd broke into a renewed clamor.
“Go back to your homes!” Corin shouted. “The money’s all here in the vaults. They—they didn’t take a penny as far as we know! Incredible, but true. Some slip-up in their plans. All who wish to make withdrawals may do so, but please go away until later. Give the police a chance. There’s been murder—”
“The police!” a man foremost in the crowd scoffed. “What became of the police when they were needed most? Did they answer your alarm? Have they made any effort?”
Corin shook his head sadly. “Some of them have.” And he nodded at the sprawled bodies of the two policemen who had been slaughtered in the path of the criminal army. “Please! They have made a supreme effort!” His voice was choked with emotion.
“Mr. Corin’s right!” A man shouted. “We’ll give the police another chance. Then, if they don’t get busy, we’ll demand a house cleaning!”
“Mr. Corin’s always right!” the crowd shouted. And with considerable more calm than they had yet shown, the people turned and moved back into the street.
Chapter II
THE MYSTERY MAN
IT was five minutes past nine when a tall, gray-templed man entered the office of Police Commissioner Foster. His card—bearing the inscription: James Hunting; Division of Criminal Investigation, Department of Justice—gained him immediate entrance to the commissioner’s private office.
But that card was false. And the face of James Hunting was false. For the face of James Hunting was but one of the thousand faces of Secret Agent “X.”
Secret Agent “X” had just returned from Washington where he had been closely closeted with a high official whose true identity was hidden behind the alias of K9. K9 was the man who sanctioned the mysterious and sometimes greatly misunderstood activities of Agent “X.” The alarming increase of counterfeiting had been the subject of their discussion. Commissioner Foster regarded “X” unsmilingly. The commissioner was justly proud of the police force of his city. That government officials should have to step in, even in case of a federal offense such as counterfeiting, was a source of annoyance to him.
“X” knew the chances he took in confronting Foster. For the police, unable to understand the unorthodox methods of Secret Agent “X,” thought him to be some archcriminal. “X” had often been called upon to trick Foster in his lone battle against crime and upon one occasion, had narrowly escaped detection.
However, if there was any apprehension in Secret Agent “X’s” mind, on entering the office of the police commissioner, his marvelous control of facial muscles prevented him from showing it. The grim lips, that were James Hunting’s, smiled as he said:
“Good morning, commissioner. I have a matter of gravest importance to discuss with you. My name is Hunting—”
Foster’s brusk nod interrupted the Secret Agent. “I’ve seen your card. Now, let me examine your credentials, if you please.” He extended his hand across the desk.
“X” was prepared for this. In his private files he kept proper credentials for many of the disguises which he was forced to assume. He took a pass case from the inner pocket of his coat, removed a folded and official looking document, and handed it to Foster. Then, while the commissioner was looking at the document, “X” dropped into a chair across the desk from Foster.
The commissioner handed back the papers. “Everything seems to be in order, Mr. Hunting,” he said, his tone a little more cordial. “I do not envy you your assignment. You may rest assured that you will have every cooperation from the police. But just what do you purpose to do that has not been done before?”
“First,” replied the Secret Agent, “let me ask you a question. Is there any doubt in your mind as to who is responsible for such perfect replicas as these counterfeit bills?”
Foster gnawed his lip. “None whatever,” he replied quietly. “A German engraver by the name of Joseph Fronberg—the most skillful man in his profession who ever lived—”
“And Fronberg—” the Agent persisted.
Foster looked uncomfortable. “You know as well as I do, Mr. Hunting, that Fronberg is dead. So far as we know, he committed suicide to escape capture.”
“X” NODDED. “His clothes were lying on a river-front wharf. Later, an unidentified body was pulled from the water. It was consequently presumed that Fronberg was dead. Well, suppose he is. Has it occurred to you that before his death he might have produced the plates, now used in printing counterfeit money, and hidden them before his gang was captured? You remember that though the gang was wiped out, the plates were never found. But some one has found them and is using them today.”
Foster nodded. “Proceed.”
“Naturally, we must eventually find the gang responsib
le for this flow of spurious currency. But until such a time comes and we have learned sufficient about the activities of a criminal organization, that I am convinced is as powerful as it is efficient, I propose that all the banks in the city be closed pending the examination of every greenback in their vaults!”
Foster, overcome by surprise, sprang to his feet. “You can’t believe that the banks are the source of this counterfeit money. Absurd!”
“X” checked Foster with a wave of his hand. “Not the source, but certainly some banks have served as distribution points. Do you recall that a certain well-known bank was entered not a long time ago? So skillfully was this entrance managed that no one was the wiser until it was found all the money on hand was merely worthless paper. That bank had unknowingly been distributing counterfeit money. How the counterfeit had been substituted for the real, we do not know, though I have a theory—”
And the conference between Secret Agent “X” and Commissioner Foster was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of a powerfully built, red-faced man who stormed across the room, pulping the end of a cigar between his teeth.
“Inspector Burks!” exclaimed Foster.
“Yeah, and something’s gone haywire!” Burks roared. “The Suburban National’s been held up, and by the time the police got there, the crooks had ambled away from the place leaving a couple of cops and a bank teller stretched out fit for a slab! Headquarters got word in plenty of time to get squad cars over there. An all-cars call went out over the police radio and not one of the cars picked it up! That was because of—” Burks checked himself. Only at that moment had he noticed Agent “X.” He stared questioningly from “X” to Foster.
“You may speak freely in front of Mr. Hunting,” said Foster. “He is an agent of the Federal Government assigned to investigate the counterfeit racket.”
Burks did not pause to acknowledge his introduction to Hunting. “It was this way, commissioner. A few minutes before the robbery took place, nearly the whole upper police band on the radio was ripped to pieces by static—electrical interference of some sort. One of the prowl-car boys said it sounded to him as though a big electrical generator was feeding directly into the antenna. The noise was right on the police radio station’s frequency and completely knocked out the voice transmission. We did not find out what was wrong until one of the police reported that he couldn’t hear anything from the police radio station. And that’s why the squad cars didn’t get to the Suburban National until after the damage was done!”
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 4 Page 25