“Who are you?” Hobart asked. “Where’s Bedford? He drugged me!”
“X” nodded. “He was acting upon orders just as I am. You can call me Lawson. Your name, according to the tag on that uniform which you are going to put on, is Johnas. That uniform will be a little small for you, but we’ve got to chance it.”
Used to the strange orders he had received since being employed by the man whom he knew as Mr. Martin, Hobart obeyed without hesitation. However, his shock at seeing his own reflection in the mirror was almost too much for him. “I’ll never believe it’s me!” he gasped. “Will—will I ever get back to normal? This may be an improvement over my face, but I still don’t like it!” He rubbed his fingers lightly over his new face.
“X” said: “Don’t worry. It will come off. Now, I’ll take the initiative in everything. You just keep still. Don’t answer anyone except in grunts. Forget that you are Jim Hobart and try to identify yourself with the guard Johnas.”
“Okeh. But what’s the idea?”
“We’re going to prison, Hobart. Right into the death house. Come along. I’ll explain while we’re getting over there.”
They had only five minutes to get out to the penitentiary and check in. It would be necessary to use the car.
“Get this, Jim,” Agent “X” explained as the car jounced over the rocky street, “I’m going to enter the cell of Pete Tolman. Tolman is coming out. He will be wearing a guard’s uniform, and it is your duty to watch him. He’ll do whatever you say. Don’t answer his questions, but let him know that you’re a member of the criminal gang known as the Seven Silent Men. You get him back to New York in Martin’s plane. Take him to Martin’s office and guard him yourself until you hear from Martin. Remember, Tolman is a killer.”
Hobart wagged his head. “I’ve got it all right. It’s some risk, but it will make a knockout of a news story.”
They abandoned the car a short distance from the prison gates and continued on foot. They were admitted to the prison without question from the guards at the gate. “X,” who had acquainted himself with the plan of the penitentiary before they had left New York, led the way straight to the cells. He approached the head guard and said: “Lawson and Johnas going on duty, sir.”
“A rotten time you’ll have of it, too,” responded the head guard. “Tolman’s nuts.”
“Nerve broke?” the Agent inquired.
“Nope. More nerve than ever now. He just swears he’ll never hang. All the other cons have been removed from your block of cells. Tolman’s yelling is a little more punishment than is due them.”
“The rope will soon finish that,” said “X” grimly as he passed into the hall that led down between the tiers of barred cells. Hobart followed him closely without uttering a word.
A BLACK steel door closed upon the condemned block. A knock admitted them into the beehive of iron-barred cells where many a man spent his last moments in the shadow of the scaffold. The condemned men had been removed to another part of the prison.
At least there was sufficient kindliness in the law to spare them the sight of their fellow’s hanging. At the end of the room was a sort of alcove, high and narrow with walls and floors immaculately clean. There stood the gallows, newly erected for the hanging of Pete Tolman.
The Secret Agent exchanged a few shallow pleasantries with the two guards whom he and Hobart relieved, watched them leave the death house, and listened to the sound of their footsteps receding down corridor. Hobart was pacing the floor nervously, glancing in the direction of the only occupied cell. From the bunk behind the bars came the sound of lusty snoring. Beyond the black door of the death house, guards paced monotonously back and forth, their footsteps sounding like a dozen death clocks, clicking off the narrow span of Tolman’s life. Yet Pete Tolman seemed to be sleeping peacefully.
“X” walked over to the condemned man’s cell. He cleared his throat. Tolman snored on. “X” coughed loudly. Tolman stirred and opened his vicious little eyes. He sat up and yawned. But Secret Agent “X,” judging from the appearance of Tolman’s eyes, knew that he had not been sleeping.
“What time is it, screw?” Tolman asked in a sharp, nasal voice.
“X” looked at his watch. “It’s eight-forty-five.” Then he added in a lower tone: “Are you waiting for Seven?”
At the mention of the number seven, Tolman’s face became a studied blank. “X” was sure that his long shot had gone home. “Not long now until you trot up the thirteen steps,” said “X” quietly. He was anxious to provoke further conversation with Tolman in hope of gaining some scrap of information.
Tolman, however, merely snorted through his high, thin nostrils, turned his back on “X” and paced to the window of his cell. Outside, the sky was tar black.
“X” quietly removed the keys from the belt of his uniform and inserted the proper one in the lock of the grating. Tolman whirled. His hands clasped and unclasped as though he was eager to kill yet another man before his death.
“X” pressed a finger to his lips, swung back the door, and entered the cell.
“What the hell!” Tolman muttered. Hope and bewilderment battled on his face.
“You want to escape, don’t you?” “X” asked quietly.
Tolman looked suspicious. He didn’t answer, fearing to say the wrong thing and send his hopes on the rocks. “X” walked quickly towards Tolman. His right hand was hidden behind his back. There was a flash of fear in Tolman’s eyes. He backed slowly towards the wall. Had “X” approached him with gun drawn, Tolman might have put up a fight. But the invisible threat of “X’s” hidden hand was too much for Tolman’s ratlike courage. He dropped to the bunk, shrinking, as far from Secret Agent “X” as he could.
“Wh-what are you?” he whimpered. “D-don’t stare at me! I’m goin’ to get topped anyway. Y-you get out a here!”
“Who do you think I am?” “X” demanded.
Tolman’s little eyes screwed up as though he was thinking very hard. “Why, you’re just a guard—Lawson or something like that.”
“And who else?” “X” persisted.
Tolman swallowed. His voice was a scarcely audible whisper. “You might be one of the Seven Silent Men.”
THEN the Secret Agent’s conjecture had been correct. The Seven gang had been in communication with Pete Tolman. It was all the information he could hope to get from Tolman. If he questioned the killer further, Tolman might become suspicious.
Without a moment’s hesitation, “X” jerked his hand from behind his back. In it, he held a hypodermic needle loaded with his special drug. He plunged the needle straight into Tolman’s arm. The killer squealed, tried desperately to get to his feet, then sank back as still as death.
“X” looked out of the cell towards Jim Hobart. The private detective was standing still, staring in awe at Tolman. “X” frowned, shook his head, and motioned to Hobart to continue his pacing.
Then Secret Agent “X” began his work. His nerves dictated frenzied haste. He realized that he was in the narrowest strait of his career. He knew that once he had taken the step he contemplated, nothing, nothing in the power of man could save him from death if the Seven Silent Men failed to do what Agent “X” expected them to do. But he must make sure. The hideous phantoms of panic and famine hovered over his country. The Seven Silent Men and the devils’ coin they distributed must be checked.
“X” crossed to the window of the cell. Through this alone Tolman could have received communication from The Seven gang. Outside the window, “X” could hear the patient pacing of the guards in the prison yard. But standing out against the black sky, far from the prison, was a square of light. The name of a popular cigarette was emblazoned in colored lights that flashed in and out. “X” watched the sign, counting mentally the intervals between the flashes.
An exclamation escaped his lips. How simple it all was. For as he watched, he became conscious that the sign did not flash at regular intervals. It was sending out dots and dashes in Morse co
de. Yet the making and breaking of the circuit was so carefully handled that the casual observer would not have noticed it.
“X” translated as the message flashed out: “Seven.... Seven.... Seven,” repeated over and over.
It was for this signal that Tolman had been watching. Then came a pause in the message. Not for long, however. Soon again, came halting but intelligible words:
HAVE HOPE TOLMAN LOOK IN COT FOR TWO SMALL WHITE CARTRIDGES UNWRAP AND INSERT ONE IN EACH NOSTRIL BEFORE GOING TO SCAFFOLD BREATHE ONLY THROUGH NOSE YOU WILL BE SAVED .... SEVEN .... SEVEN .... SEVEN.
“X” turned from the window. He lifted Tolman from the cot, then raised the scanty bed clothes that covered the hard pallet. Next to the thin mattress he found them—two small, white cellophane-wrapped cylinders. Putting these to one side, “X” hurriedly straightened the cot. Then he stripped the coarse prison garments from Pete Tolman’s inert form. From beneath the uniform that he wore, “X” took his compact make-up kit.
For ten tedious minutes, he worked, molding and proportioning Tolman’s face until it resembled the face of Lawson which “X” had assumed. The next part of his preparation called for his finest efforts. With the aid of a mirror, he transformed his own face so that it looked exactly like Pete Tolman’s.
AFTER a short time, satisfied with the results of his painstaking efforts, “X” donned the trousers and coarse shirt that Tolman had worn. Then he clothed Tolman in the discarded clothes of the prison guard. He would have liked to spend more time on Tolman’s disguise. He knew that he should have given Tolman some detailed instructions. However, at almost any moment, he expected to be interrupted by the entrance of some prison official. He immediately injected the antidote for the narcotic into Tolman’s arm.
The killer opened his eyes. He stared about bewilderedly. His eyes met “X’s” face and his jaw sagged in wonder. “It’s over,” Tolman muttered huskily. “They didn’t save me after all. I’m dead. I’m—”
“That’s enough!” “X” rapped, imitating Tolman’s nasal voice. He held the mirror before Tolman’s face so that the killer could see the remarkable change that had taken place.
Tolman ran a finger around the band of his collar. “Lord! I’m not me! I’m that screw, Lawson!”
“Exactly,” replied the Secret Agent. “Act like him. Get up on your feet. You’re going to get clear of the big house. You’re going to escape, just as the Seven Silent Men promised. You’re perfectly safe as long as you obey that guard out there—” indicating Jim Hobart. “If you don’t do as he says, you’ll pray for a return to the death cell!”
Tolman stood up and wandered to the door of the cell. “You mean I’m to walk out?”
“Yes. Lock me in the cell and keep right on pacing the floor until you’re relieved from duty or until the other guard gets an opportunity to get out. If you must talk, imitate Lawson’s voice as near as possible. Tell anyone who questions you that you’ve got a cold. You can take that make-up off when you’re out of here.”
“Don’t worry. I’m pretty good!” Tolman assured him. Something of gangland’s eternal swagger was already returning to this man who had escaped the gallows—for a time. Tolman opened the door, went out, and locked the door after him. Then with burlesqued dignity, he began pacing the floor, following the amazed Jim Hobart.
“X” looked at his watch. Two short hours until midnight. One hundred and twenty minutes until he, Secret Agent “X,” innocent of crime, would face the hangman. No horrible nightmare, but stark reality, the very thought of which would send the average man mad. But “X” immediately set about disposing of all his special weapons and devices. Makeup kit, gas gun, his kit of special drugs—all must be hidden in the cot in the death cell. From here on, “X” was in other hands than his own.
His train of thought was suddenly interrupted by the opening of an iron door that led into the death house. Another guard entered, accompanied by a man in severe, black garments. The prison chaplain had come to pay a visit to the condemned man.
And all the while, Pete Tolman, wearing the garb of a prison guard, smirked behind the sky-pilot’s back, already confident that he had cheated the gallows.
Chapter VI
JAWS OF DEATH
WITH braggart gestures, Agent “X” scorned the ministrations of the prison chaplain. He was acting the part as Pete Tolman would have acted. He threatened to cram the chaplain’s prayer book down his throat. By the time the chaplain had given up in despair, many minutes had passed slowly for “X.” The impersonation of Tolman taxed his dramatic powers to the utmost.
As the time for execution approached, several workmen entered the room and proceeded to the end where the gallows stood. “X” knew that they had come to fix the four ropes, one of which would manipulate the catch on the gallows trap. These ropes would lead through the wall into a room beyond and for each rope there would be a guard to pull it. Since only one of the ropes actually opened the trap, the identity of the real executioner would be forever a mystery.
A short time later, reporters and witnesses of the execution could be heard filing into the end of the room. Even the most calloused reporter seemed awed by the proximity of the death swing and there was an almost churchly hush over the room. Then the black steel door at the opposite end of the room opened to admit the prison officials: chaplain, prison doctor, additional guards, and the warden.
Secret Agent “X” quickly inserted the two white cartridges, which had been provided by the Seven gang, in his nostrils. In another moment, he was gratified to see that Hobart and the real Tolman were ordered to leave the room. “X” felt certain that Hobart would lose no time in getting Tolman away from the prison.
As the warden approached the death cell, “X” could see that his stern gray face was beaded with sweat. He tried to smile kindly, gave it up, and resorted to a scowl that he apparently hoped would hide his emotions. For the warden’s was a disagreeable task—giving the signal for the gallows trap to be released.
“Are you ready, Tolman?” asked the warden huskily.
“Well, not exactly,” replied “X” in the nasal voice of Tolman. “But seein’ that it’s you, I wouldn’t keep you waitin’.” He turned to the prison doctor. “It’d be hell to be late for your own funeral, eh, doc?”
The doctor did not answer. He had spent his life learning to save lives. Now, he must stand with arms folded and watch a man die without raising a finger to save him. He did not relish his job.
“My son,” said the chaplain, kindly, “I beg you to think what you are about to do.”
“Ah, nertz!” the Agent snarled.
The door was opened, and “X” was marched between lines of guards towards the scaffold that stood like some gigantic beast waiting to be fed. “X” nodded at the news reporters and shouted: “Give me a good send-off, boys. Tell ’em I’m game. Slap it on in streamers: ‘Pete Tolman’s got guts!’ That’ll—that’ll—”
“X” pawed nervously at his neck. The yellow pine steps that led to the platform of death confronted him. It was becoming more and more difficult to be flippant. What was more, the two cylindrical capsules that he had placed in his nose interfered somewhat with his imitation of Tolman’s voice. Then, if the Seven gang failed, if something went wrong with their plans—
AGENT “X” pushed such thoughts from his head. There was only a little time remaining. Somehow, his legs carried him up the steps. The guards centered him on the trap so that in falling through he might not strike the sides and thus save his neck from breaking. Then heavy straps were tightened about his arms and legs. He found his brain groping frantically for some means of escape. He might, in his last seconds, call out that he wasn’t Pete Tolman. He might demand that fingerprints be compared to prove it.
To the amazement of the guard who was strapping him, “X” uttered a sardonic laugh. Who would believe that he wasn’t Pete Tolman? His disguise was perfect, his impersonation too genuine.
He saw the hangman, a citrous-face
d, stocky man, picking up the black death cap that was to hide the hideous death grimaces of the condemned man. The rope dangled like a dead snake from the beam above, its noose yawning like the very jaws of death. “X” looked down upon the nervous spectators. He recognized only one face in the group—that of Milo Leads, a medical man interested chiefly in toxicology.
Not one man in this entire group could be “X’s” rescuer. His jaws ached to spring apart and shout that he wasn’t Tolman. He fought back the desire—as strenuous a battle as he had ever waged. He knew it was hopeless. If he was to die, if he had indeed overplayed his hand, his identity would die with him. There was no alternative.
The warden had taken out his handkerchief. He would drop it as a signal for the trap to spring. The hangman was inspecting his noose, getting ready to slip it over “X’s” head.
“Peter Tolman—” the warden’s voice was tremulous—“have you anything to say before you die?”
“No!” said “X” sharply. A black ring of shadow appeared on the pine boards of the platform. The noose was directly above his head. In a moment—
“Breathe only through your nose!” A warning whispered within the death chamber. Perhaps it was inaudible to any but Agent “X.” But “X” knew that the warning was intended for him. He knew that somewhere among the state witnesses was a member of the Seven Silent Men. The lips of Secret Agent “X” clamped shut.
Suddenly, it came—a roar that was a concentrated thunderclap. Hell seemed to crack open. “X” had a momentary glimpse of a black line that streaked across the floor. A jagged hole broke through the concrete and a venomous looking cloud of yellow green vapor spurted from the yawning pit.
With a sound like the twang of a bowstring, the scaffold trap sprang open. “X” felt himself dropping like a leaden thing straight into the pit of swirling green mist. “Poison gas!” his mind shrieked. It burned his eyes like acid. But he did not forget to breathe only through his nose.
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 4 Page 28