“Keep in hiding until you hear from me,” he cautioned her.
“But you—you haven’t a chance of getting out of here! The place must be surrounded—”
“Don’t worry,” he interrupted her cheerfully. He stepped back into the hall and closed the door behind him. On the floor below he could hear the police. They had probably entered Betty’s apartment.
Below stairs came a sharp command. “Search the next floor. We’ve got them cold. They’d have to have wings to get out of here.”
“X” sprang into the elevator, slammed the door, and pressed the button for ascending. The car did not move. He pressed again and again. He tried the other buttons on the control panel. The police, he knew, foreseeing that the elevator might be used as a means of escape, had cut the power probably not more than a few seconds after he and Betty had entered the apartment of the department store buyer.
Through the frosted glass window of the elevator door, “X” could see the shadowy forms of men walking around in the hall. He was caught as nicely as a rat in a trap.
Chapter XII
ESCAPE
TO stand there helpless in the elevator waiting for the police to find him was an absurdity. “X” knew those efficient, painstaking men from headquarters. He knew they would leave no stone unturned in their search. Furthermore, “X” feared that their search would lead them to the apartment where Betty Dale was hiding. Because the Seven gang must think that Betty had been killed, he knew that it would never do for the police to find her unharmed. There was but one way to prevent the police from looking farther. He must show himself, using the waxen mask he wore as a means of decoying the police from Betty’s hiding place. “X” slid the door of the elevator open a crack. Five plainclothes men were standing in the hall questioning a pajama-clad man.
“There’s a woman downstairs who’s been knocked out cold,” a detective sergeant by the name of Mallon was saying. “X” knew that Mallon referred to the blonde woman who had taken a lung-full of the charge from his gas gun. “Did you hear anything?” the sergeant went on, addressing the man in pajamas.
The man shook his head. “I was asleep.”
“Riley,” Mallon rapped, “you and Jennings block off the fire-escape. Jones, Henniger, and I will finish up on this floor.”
From the crack in the elevator door, “X” saw two of the detectives turn down the hall towards the fire-escape. Mallon and his two men crossed the hall to the door of the apartment where Betty was hiding. Agent “X” sent the elevator door slamming open. He sprang into the hall, gun in hand. At the sound of the opening of the elevator door, the police turned. But “X” fired first. His gas gun was effective at even a distance of twenty feet and there could be no doubt but what at least one of the detectives would succumb to the anesthetizing vapor.
Mallon received the very center of the gas discharge. The automatic in his hand blasted a hurried, ineffectual shot as he spilled forward on his face. One of the other detectives, staggering forward, hampered his companion. “X” gained the stairway. As he sprang up the steps, a detective got in two quick shots. One struck the iron banister of the stairway and buzzed off harmlessly. The other burned across the calf of the Secret Agent’s leg.
Gaining the top of the steps, “X” ran straight towards the fire-escape at the back of the hall. He felt certain that any police following him, would think that he had continued to the next floor.
Stepping out on the iron stairway, “X” looked down in the alley below. He could see the two detectives that had been sent to watch the fire-escape. They both looked up as “X” stepped out onto the escape. Imitating the voice of Sergeant Mallon, “X” shouted: “Hold your fire, Jennings. It’s Mallon. I’m coming down.”
“X” knew that the gloom of the alley would hide him for the time being and he depended upon his skill as a mimic to maintain the illusion that he was Detective Mallon. He ran down the steps, but as he came to the last flight, one of the police turned a flashlight full upon “X’s” face, or rather the waxen mask that covered it.
“That’s not Mallon!” shouted one of the men. “It’s one of the Seven gang!”
But as soon as the light struck his eyes, “X” vaulted over the iron railing of the escape. It was a twelve foot drop. “X” landed squarely on the back of the surprised detective. Together, they rolled over, the dick clawing at his gun with one hand and trying to ward off the blows that “X” was driving into his mid-section.
The other detective, afraid of hitting his companion, dared not fire a shot. He blasted his whistle and jumped into the fight. One man was on top of “X”. The Secret Agent got an arm free for a short, savage punch to the detective’s jaw. It was a terrific jolt, actually lifting the detective. “X” rolled to one side, picked himself up and at the same time drew his gas gun. He swung around to meet the second detective who was ready with his gun drawn. The crash of the cop’s pistol drowned out the spurt of “X’s” gas gun. But while the slug whined inches from the Secret Agent’s head, the charge of the gas found its mark.
“X” BROKE into a run, zig-zagging in and out of the shadows. Gun hail followed him. Lead flattened against the walls of buildings, ricocheted, snagged wooden telephone posts. Nothing stopped him. Nothing could stop him unless at the end of the alley he found the police waiting for him.
As he reached the corner, a moving car pulled up sharply. A powerful searchlight cleaved the darkness of the alley like a scimitar. It blinded “X”; it made him a perfect target for his pursuers. With the car blocking his exit from the alley and the police closing in on him from behind, escape was impossible. Suddenly, the searchlight was turned off. A harsh voice called:
“Get in here, Tolman! Do you want to get chopped down!”
Unmistakable, that voice. It belonged to the leader of the Seven gang. It was Number One himself.
Secret Agent “X” leaped for the open rear door of the car and had hardly landed before the motor picked up speed and the car leaped into the street. Bullets whanged against the steel sides of the car. But the car was as perfectly armored as the trucks which the gang used in delivering its counterfeit money.
Looking through the rear window of the car, “X” saw that an opaque cloud of smoke fumed from the exhaust pipe. The car was spreading a chemical smoke screen that would make pursuit impossible. Then “X”’ noted that another of the Silent Men shared the back seat with him. There were two more in the front—one of them was certainly the big boss himself.
Number One was driving, for he called over his shoulder, “Did you think we had deserted you, Tolman?”
“Right!” the Agent rapped in the nasal snarl of Pete Tolman. “And a lousy trick it was. Seems as if you’d take more care of a man who’s of so much value as I am!”
“Softly, now, Pete,” Number One soothed. “I was so anxious for your welfare that I myself chauffeured the car that brought you and the two other brothers to the apartment. Numbers Three and Four tell me you did a good job. It is unfortunate that a woman came so near to ruining your good work. Numbers Three and Four saw a very lovely blonde woman in the hall and nothing would do but what they must follow her!”
Number One was all scorn. “You see, that woman was the wife of Number Four, here. What is more, Number Four has the bad habit of drinking too much and babbling in his sleep. His wife overheard him talking about the plans for tonight’s little job. Because she is a mercenary woman, instead of going to the police with her information, she tried to blackmail her husband.
“Imagine! So she tipped off the police in an effort to frighten Number Four into giving her the money. What is more, she will hold on to her information, that her husband is a member of the Seven group, until she does squeeze the money out of him. Now, what would you do in a case like that, Tolman?”
“Me?” “X” laughed. “Why, I’d finish that! I’d give Number Four the works!”
Number One said softly, “No-no. He is far too valuable a man for that. It is the woman who
is to get ‘the works’ as you put it. And his punishment for not catching her tonight and bringing her to me, is that he must kill her with his own hands. What do you say, Number Four?”
A groan escaped the man at “X’s” side. “I—I won’t do it,” he muttered fiercely.
“Oh, but you will!” Number One insisted. “See what you will gain. The object of your affection is quite another person than your wife. You will be glad to get rid of her, really.”
Number Four moodily murmured his assent. “True enough. But after all, to kill my own wife—”
“The alternative,” said Number One, “would be exquisite torture at the hands of the bishop. By tomorrow night, you will be perfectly willing to do as I bid you!”
Secret Agent “X” felt the man at his side shudder. He knew that already Number Four had resolved to kill his own wife rather than be a subject to the mysterious tortures of which Number One spoke.
“And,” Number One continued, “tonight by special messenger, your wife will receive the amount of money she demands for silence. Tomorrow, she will receive silence itself—eternal silence.”
The gang leader had stopped the smoke which had plumed from the car. The motor was idling now, the car barely moving. “X” saw that they were in a run-down section of the city.
“By the way, Tolman,” Number One asked, as the car pulled over to the curb, “did you manage to brand the forehead of the girl whom you just killed before the police intervened?”
“Sure, boss,” the Agent lied. “It was a good job. But say, are we gettin’ out of here?”
Number One laughed. “Wouldn’t you like to know!”
“X” suddenly felt a sharp stab of pain in his arm. He turned towards Number Four. The man was about to apply his hypodermic needle to yet another portion of the Secret Agent’s body. He knew that they were preparing him to go to the gang headquarters. Or had they discovered his deception? How did he know whether the needle had contained drug or deadly poison?
His senses were already dulling. He had presence of mind to look at his watch this time. It was nearly two A. M. Somewhere, seemingly far distant. Number One was speaking:
“And tomorrow, when Secret Agent ‘X’ reads in the papers that Betty Dale has been found murdered by the Seven—”
The sound faded. “X’s” sight dimmed. But his mind was drumming out the alarming thought, “You are trapped…. You are trapped.” For “X” knew that when the morning papers did not speak of the murder of Betty Dale, Number One would know that he had been tricked by Secret Agent “X”.
Chapter XIII
THE BLACK BOOK
WHEN “X” regained full possession of his senses, he found himself in a small room, bare as a prison cell, and without doors or windows. It was lighted by a frosted electric fixture in the center of the ceiling. He stood up, patted himself all over to make sure that none of his special devices had been taken from him. Evidently, he was trusted by the leader of the gang and had not been searched.
He was about to inspect the room, hoping to ascertain the method of entrance, when a sliding panel opened to admit one of the Seven Silent Men. This man, dressed in the usual dark suit, and wearing the doll-like mask, was marked by a diamond badge fashioned in the form of a figure two.
“Howdy, Number Two,” said “X” genially. “I was just wonderin’ when somebody was goin’ to show up. This box would get on your nerves after a few hours.”
“Yeah. Well, there’s plenty in this house to drive you nuts,” replied Number Two, slurring his syllables in a manner that “X” associated with underworld characters.
“Say, you speak my language,” said Agent “X”. “You’re a top guy.”
“Well, in this outfit, Number One’s the top guy, and get that in your noggin. He sent me here to get you. You’ve got to put it down in writing.”
“You mean sign a confession in the chief’s record book?”
“You get ideas quick,” replied Number Two. “And from then on, Tolman, you’re in it up to your neck.”
“Wait a minute,” said “X” peevishly, “How come everybody in this joint knows me and I don’t know anybody except by their number? How come they haven’t even opened up as to where this shack is?”
“Don’t be so curious,” growled Number Two as he led “X” through the door. “You’ll get a number soon enough. As far as knowin’ where this dump is, you know as much about that as I do. Nobody but One, Three, Four, and Seven knows just where it is. Oh, The Bishop, he knows, but he’s screwy. Five guys out of a gang that’s got more members than you can count, ain’t many. I get drugged the same as you when I’m brought into headquarters. But we better get hikin’. Number One don’t care about being kept waiting.”
They were walking down a narrow corridor, arched and beamed after the ancient Gothic pattern. With the exception of the cell in which “X” had been held, the entire house seemed to be of incredible age. And it was as silent as a tomb. Not a murmur penetrated from the outside world.
“Who’s this Bishop?” asked the Agent. “This dump gets more like a church every time I get a squint at it. Now you tell me you’ve even got a Bishop!”
“Church!” an ugly laugh roared from Number Two. “Church of hell, maybe!” Then he added, as though he feared that he might have been overheard by some one who was easily offended: “Oh, they treat you right enough. Pay your money down in good hard cash. It’s pretty sweet. Better pay and no more risk than if you was on your own, runnin’—” Number Two checked himself. “The Bishop, now, you’ll know him when you meet him. He’d get kicked out of any church just on account of his looks!”
THEY had come to the end of the passage and a door swung open at a touch from Number Two. The room they entered was similar in appointments to the rest of the house. At an antique desk, sat Number One. Standing directly behind his chair was another of the Silent Men—Number Seven. Number Two also remained in the room.
The inscrutable eyes of Number One looked “X” up and down for a moment without speaking. Then he said: “Well, Tolman, how do you like it?”
“Not so hot,” the Agent replied promptly. “A lot of dope jabbed in you. You go croak some dame, and where does it get you?”
A low chuckle from Number One. His hand glided across the desk and opened a large drawer. The eyes of Secret Agent “X” followed that hand and saw that the drawer was packed with bills—new, crisp greenbacks of large and small denominations. “This is where it gets you, Tolman,” replied Number One. “Come here and help yourself.”
“X” hesitated. Either Number One and the Silent Seven were wealthy beyond even the dreams of Midas, or there was some sort of catch connected with it.
“What are you waiting for?” demanded Number One.
A scratchy laugh from the Agent. “Ah, you’re puttin’ somethin’ over on me! Ain’t those bills phony?”
“You should know, Tolman,” replied Number One. He dug both hands in the drawer and dipped out as much money as he could hold. He tossed bills carelessly across the desk. “X” advanced cautiously and picked up several bills. He looked at them carefully. Without doubt they were genuine. “Gosh, boss, t’anks!” And Agent “X” began cramming money into his pockets.
“Money, you see,” Number One exclaimed, “means nothing to me.” His powerful fingers closed crushingly on a wad of century notes. “Money in itself is worthless. It is what it will buy that is important—men, souls, power!” He stood up quickly. “Tolman,” he said, “you’ve proved yourself a man worthy of my organization. You have only to sign the confession that has been drawn up for you, and you are one of us. Follow me.”
Number One crossed the room and threw back scarlet portieres, revealing a small closet. In the closet was a writing desk of ancient design and upon it a large record book with an iron cover. The gang leader opened the book. As “X” approached, he noted that all of the page was blank with the exception of a small space at the bottom where the confession to the murder of Bett
y Dale had been drawn up. Agent “X” guessed that the other confessions had been written in invisible ink to prevent “X” from learning the identity of the other members of the gang. He supposed that his own confession would vanish in the same manner that the others had done.
With seemingly great deliberation, “X” read the confession to the murder of Betty Dale. Actually, his eyes were taking in the closet and its contents. He noted that set in the two walls at either end were two rows of bullseye lenses. Certainly Number One would have provided a means of guarding his book in case some member attempted to destroy it. The lenses along the walls led “X” to believe that some arrangement of the electric eye, the photo-electric cell, watched over the book day and night.
He delayed no longer, but picked up the pen on the desk, and signed the name “Pete Tolman” with a flourish.
NUMBER ONE nodded his approval. Then he reached into his pocket and brought out what appeared to be an ordinary penny. He handed it to “X” who examined it carefully.
“It is a convenient way that we leaders of the organization have of recognizing each other when outside the headquarters,” explained Number One. “You will observe that a number is punch-stamped on the face of the coin—the number six, in your case. This badge may be carried in the pocket without arousing suspicion. Naturally, we cannot wear these diamond-studded badges, such as I have on my lapel, out in the street.”
“I getcha,” said “X.”
“As I have no further use for you at present, you will be conducted from the headquarters. Your time is your own until tonight at eleven o’clock when you will appear in dinner clothes at the home of Mr. Lynn Falmouth.”
“Cheez, boss, do I have to put on a monkey suit?” asked “X” in apparent dismay.
“That is imperative. You would not be admitted otherwise. You will be there for the protection of another member of our group who has a job to perform. In case you’re needed, you will be called upon. There will be many people present—quite a number of our own organization as well as several of our hirelings. And I warn you to be on the lookout for Secret Agent “X.” If he has any suspicions as to the identity of any member of our group, this party may attract him.”
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