The Secret Agent stepped into the hall; but as he did so his right fist shot out, knocking the elevator starting lever to the up position, and at the same time releasing a fragile glass capsule that he held in his hand. As the elevator shot upward, there was scarcely so much as a surprised exclamation from the men within the car. The glass capsule that “X” had smashed on the floor contained enough harmless anesthetizing vapor to render the men unconscious almost instantly. By now, they were probably at the top of the building where the safety device would stop the elevator. And Agent “X” was comparatively free to pursue his course of investigation.
His first task was to get to Dr. Luigi’s suite. It was the last place the police would expect to find the man they were hunting. In addition, the suave Italian doctor was an object of intense interest to “X” because of his close association with Gilbert Warnow, and because he was a frequent visitor at the Warnow suite.
Another moment found “X” knocking at the door of the suite of Dr. Luigi. It was located directly above that leased by Gilbert Warnow. It was not Luigi, however, who opened the door. It was the broad-shouldered, gray-headed Lionel Gage.
“Well, Inspector Burks!” Gage puffed the words out with mouthfuls of pipe smoke. He regarded “X” for a moment. “And how is Mr. Warnow making out?”
“Dr. Luigi in?” the Agent inquired, ignoring Gage’s question.
Gage shook his mountainous head. “Just stepped out to pick up a friend who was going to discuss a plan—”
“I must see Dr. Luigi,” the Secret Agent interrupted. “I’ll wait for him here.”
Lionel Gage courteously ushered the man whom he supposed to be Burks into the room. When the door had closed, “X” said: “Then Luigi didn’t tell you that Warnow had been murdered?”
“Been murd—” Gage’s face was blank with astonishment. “Good Lord, no! With your men in the room? It’s incredible!”
“X” nodded. “That’s the way with the Ghoul. And he’s always got by—so far. Strange, though, that Dr. Luigi didn’t mention it. Like a medical man. They are habitually reticent.”
Scowling, Gage puffed furiously at his pipe. “No doubt but what Warnow’s death caused the consternation Luigi exhibited when he returned here. He immediately put on his coat and rushed from the room. I had previously outlined a plan which we hoped would outwit the Ghoul—a rather costly plan, I’m afraid.” Gage examined the polished toes of his oxfords.
“Just what was your plan, Mr. Gage?” The Agent inquired.
“I’d rather not divulge it at present,” was the reply. “If I did, it might seem that I am attempting to appear heroic. The far-reaching power of this Ghoul infuriates me so that I am tempted to go to any length in an attempt to check him.” He took hold of “X’s” arm, gripped it, and stared earnestly into “X’s” face. “Any length—” his voice dropped to a whisper—“if it costs me my life.”
“That is, of course, commendable of you, Gage. And if you are not yet ready to confide in the police, there’s no way I can force you to speak. I must urge, however—”
GAGE interrupted with a shake of his mountainous head. “Not yet. I’ve no doubt that this plan of mine will have publicity soon enough!” A slight shudder passed over his broad shoulders.
Agent “X” glanced about the room. “I suppose that Dr. Luigi, being a medical man, has a private phone?”
Gage nodded. “Right here.” He opened the door of a tiny office half filled with a huge desk upon which were two telephones.
“X” nodded his thanks. “I have a call to make.” He entered the room and closed the door behind him. He was considerably disappointed at not finding Luigi at home. The doctor’s actions had aroused his suspicion. In close contact with Warnow, Luigi might well have had a hand in the crime. With the disappearance of Warnow’s body there was no possible way in which to prove that the doctor’s hypodermic injection had not been something quite different from morphine. But while the Ghoul’s sinister progress remained unchecked, “X” knew that the loss of a single second might be vital.
His chief point of query was not Dr. Luigi, but the girl in the chambermaid’s uniform whom he had found listening at the door of Warnow’s room. “X” had penetrated her disguise; knew that far from being what she seemed, the girl was a strikingly beautiful blonde known by a number of aliases, one of which was Drew Devon. Famous behind footlights, and in divorce courts, “X” guessed that Drew Devon concealed behind glamour the fact that she was a dangerous woman; that she figured in more serious enterprises than profitable affaires du coeur.
It was probably that she was the blonde woman referred to by Gilbert Warnow just before Luigi’s drug had caused him to doze off. “X’s” best source of information in regard to Drew Devon would be Betty Dale, the lovely girl reporter of the Herald who had assisted “X” in so many of his perilous battles against crime.
Though he knew his position to be perilous; though he realized that the Ghoul’s forces were working in the hotel itself, and might have managed to tap the telephone wires, he felt that information concerning Drew Devon was too important to neglect even for a short time. Accordingly, he called Betty Dale’s apartment.
“Miss Dale?” he enquired in a whisper that could not have been heard outside the little room.
“This is Miss Dale speaking,” came a clear, beautiful feminine voice. Yet pleasant as was that voice, a scowl crept across the forehead of Agent “X”. Some sixth sense flashed a warning to his brain. Here was a situation that called for all his amazing powers of rapid lucid thinking. There was something—some almost imperceptible inflection in the girl’s voice that sent the blood pounding through his arteries. Betty Dale was in danger. For the woman who was speaking to him at that moment was not Betty Dale.
“Who is speaking, please?” came the feminine voice that so artfully impersonated Betty.
“Impossible to talk now,” replied the Agent “Will call you in ten minutes.” He forked the receiver and flung from the room. Gage, seated in a chair and puffing at his pipe, turned as “X” entered the room. “Can’t wait any longer for Luigi,” explained “X” hastily, and hurried into the hall.
On the floor below, he could hear Burks’ thunderous voice as he evidently attempted to locate the runaway elevator and its unconscious cargo. If Burks stayed on the floor below, there was yet a thin chance of “X” getting clear of the hotel. He thumbed the elevator signal button and, as the car came to a stop, sprang inside. “Basement garage, and no stops!” he rasped out.
STANDING as far back in the cage as possible, “X” saw the irate Inspector Burks standing directly in front of the door of the elevator shaft. But evidently the elevator boy was too impressed by the importance of his passenger to take any note of what was going on outside the rapidly descending car.
From the elevator, “X” stepped into the garage. He entered the lavatory and, with a master key which he took from his pocket, locked the door behind him. Never had he moved faster than he did in the next few minutes. Spurred on by the danger which threatened Betty Dale, his fingers fairly flew as he opened a compact make-up kit which he always carried. How the Ghoul had learned of his association with Betty he did not know. But master criminal that the Ghoul was he would naturally try to find his chief opponent’s most vulnerable spot and such investigation must have led to Betty.
When he had concluded his makeup job, Agent “X” appeared the very picture of a timid, inoffensive young man. His name, the one under which he had engaged his hideout in the Hotel Empire, was Roscoe Jennings. In another moment he had obtained his car from the hotel garage and was on his way.
As “X” turned into the street, he noted a gleaming touring car in front of the hotel. Two men were alighting—one of them the sleek-haired Dr. Luigi, and the other a swarthy, beetle-browed man known in the empire of finance as Daniel Calvert. Oddly enough, “X” thought, he had last seen Calvert’s ugly face on the front page of a sensational tabloid, figuring in a story involving
a good deal of scandal and the blonde charmer, Drew Devon.
Ten minutes of fast driving, and “X” was at the door of Betty Dale’s apartment. But a moment was required for him to select the correct master key from the collection he always carried. Stealthily, he fitted the key in the lock, opened the door, entered, and closed the door behind him.
A woman started up from in front of a small telephone desk, and regarded “X” with wide, violet eyes. She was tall, statuesque, and garbed in a becoming dark suit. A wealth of platinum blonde hair was arranged in soft waves on her head. Her features were regular, undeniably beautiful.
“What do you mean by this, sir?” she demanded, her voice brittle.
“X” saw that her slender white hand was fingering behind her toward a small, pearl-handled revolver on the phone table. The Agent’s gas gun seemed to leap from his pocket. He saw that the only way to deal with this woman was to confront her with immediate, personal danger. His tongue dripped ice as he said:
“Make no mistake. I would not hesitate a second to put a bullet through your brain. Where is Miss Dale?”
Drew Devon leaned carelessly back against the phone desk. She folded lovely hands in front of her, and regarded “X” through veiled eyes. Her lips curved in an alluring smile. “What do you intend to do with me?” she asked. “I should have known better than to pit my tiny strength against you, Secret Agent ‘X’!”
“X” STEPPED within inches of the woman. He picked up the pearl-handled revolver from the telephone table and dropped it into his pocket. His gas gun tilted toward Drew Devon’s face. “Only once more—where is Miss Dale?”
For a moment, Drew Devon’s self control deserted her. Her cheeks drained of their natural color. Then her upper lips lifted slightly in an almost imperceptible sneer. Her violet eyes were looking past Agent “X”.
Instantly, the Secret Agent sensed danger behind him. He pivoted. With the silence of shadows, three men had entered the room. There was something in the bizarre color selection of their Oriental clothing that suggested that they were men of the Far East. They wore black domino masks through which slant eyes gleamed evilly.
There was a tense moment, void of sound and motion. Then a knife blade in the yellow hand of one of the men flashed into prominence. “X” went into action. A charge from his gas pistol was centered on the face of the foremost Chinese. The man staggered, fell backwards. “X” came to grips with the others. A swinging, upward thrust of a knife and the hilt met the wrist of the Agent’s right band, sending his gun to the floor.
Behind the fury of the hand-to-hand encounter, “X” saw Drew Devon run from the room. “X” caught the wrist of one would-be assassin and gave it a quick twist. The knife clattered to the floor. The Chinese writhed from “X’s” grasp, and streaked for the door. “X” tried to follow, saw a shadowy something hurtling through the air toward him. He ducked a split second too late. A small walnut table, thrown from the hands of the remaining Chinese, struck him on the head. For a moment, it seemed that he must lose consciousness. But he mastered the pain, forced aside the mist that swam before his eyes—to find the room empty.
“X” ran into the hall. The Chinese had left as silently as they had come, and had taken their unconscious companion with them. “X” went back into the apartment. On entering the bedroom, he knew that his quick action had frustrated the criminals’ plans by a narrow margin. Betty Dale was lying on the bed, bound and gagged, but apparently unharmed.
Her blue eyes searched his face wonderingly as he unknotted the cords that bound her. He smiled gently, quickly drew the letter “X” in the air with his finger.
“You!” she gasped, as soon as the gag was out of her mouth.
“Tell me, Betty, what happened? How did that Devon woman get in here?
Deft fingers unconsciously rearranging her golden hair, Betty hurried her explanation: “She came here about half an hour ago, knocked at the door, and said she had important news for me. Drew Devon is always good for the front page, so I thought myself lucky to get a chance to talk to her. But when she stepped in, a man leaped through the door behind her. He had a gun. Together, they forced me back into this room and tied me up. I knew it was you they were trying to get at. I was afraid for your sake. Then the man said he was going to send three of his ‘boys’ to pick me up, and he went away, leaving Drew Devon.”
Agent “X” smiled a little sadly. “I am afraid that my association with you results in nothing but an untold amount of trouble for you.”
Betty sat up on the edge of the bed, placed her small hand impulsively on his arm. “Please, please don’t think I mind—not at all, if you’re safe. But what does it all mean?”
“Tell me about the man who came with Drew Devon. What was he like?”’
“He wore a black mask,” the girl told him.“But I would know him anywhere. He was so—so evil-looking. His right eye was turned out so that it didn’t match its mate. And I saw that there were only three fingers on his right hand. His skin was yellow, yet I do not think he was a Chinese or Japanese.”
“Come into the living room, Betty,” the Agent suggested. “Undoubtedly Drew Devon was sent here by the Ghoul.”
“The Ghoul!” Betty repeated with a shudder. “The Amber Death?”
“X” nodded. “The Ghoul is no ordinary criminal. The fact is, he is the most—” The Agent paused. Across the living room, he noticed that the light gleamed on some sort of a pin that was partially imbedded in the nap of the rug. He crossed to it and picked it up. It proved to be a hairpin of the same pattern as the one he had found in Warnow’s room. Without a doubt, Drew Devon, in the guise of a chambermaid, had had a hand in preparing Warnow’s room for murder.
“X” looked at his watch. It was nearly two A.M. “Betty,” he said earnestly, “I must not conceal from you the fact that you are in the deadliest danger. The Ghoul will not make a similar attempt tonight. He is far too clever to repeat his tricks. But if he guessed of the friendship I have for you, he is certain of it after this night’s work. You must be extremely careful. Stay as near the newspaper office as you possibly can. That will be the safest place for you.”
“And you? What are you going to do?” she asked with concern.
“I am going now.”
And Betty, who respected the wisdom of this man whose real face she had never seen, made no effort to pry into his affairs.
Chapter IV
VOICE OF THE GHOUL
THE following afternoon, three distinguished gentlemen left the impressive portals of the Bankers’ Club. They were Lionel Gage; Robert Cass, whose timid appearance and manner of speaking effectively concealed the fact that he was a lion of finance; and eccentric old Elisha Pond, whose generous attitude toward many charities had endeared him to thousands of people. On the lower step of the club building, they paused. The timid appearing Robert Cass seemed reluctant to leave his companions of the luncheon hour, and loath to discontinue the discussion of the subject of their conversation.
“Then you have not been approached by the Ghoul, Mr. Pond?” Robert Cass enquired as he lighted a fresh cigar.
“Indeed no,” replied Elisha Pond with a vigorous shake of his head. “And I assure you that the fiend will be sadly disappointed if he makes a demand on me.”
Lionel Gage shook his head dismally. “It’s a terrifying business. I doubt if you realize the seriousness of the matter, Mr. Pond. The police are absolutely up against a stone wall. The power of this Ghoul is amazing—almost supernatural! Only this morning, so the papers say, the police, acting on a tip of some sort, conducted a raid that netted the capture of four men believed to be in the Ghoul’s gang. But before they could reach headquarters they had not four criminals on their hands, but four corpses! The gang committed suicide by some sort of trick.”
“And last night,” said Cass, “the police were frustrated in an attempt to save Ramesey Hurst, the radio manufacturer. But the Amber Death was concealed in Hurst’s cigarette case. Then there was th
e Gilbert Warnow affair. I declare—” Cass stopped. His thin fingers clutched at the sleeve of Mr. Pond’s coat. “Wasn’t that some one calling you?”
Pond bobbed his head in agreement. “Most decidedly—”
“Elisha Pond,” a voice interrupted the aged eccentric.
Cass pointed silently at a flashy touring car that was parked in front of the club. Though the car was empty, the radio under the dash seemed to be turned on. From the concealed loudspeaker, the sepulchral voice of the Golden Ghoul boomed:
“Elisha Pond. This is the Golden Ghoul calling Elisha Pond.”
MEN and women on the sidewalk swarmed around the car, muttering excitedly. They had read of the Ghoul in the papers, and attributed much of what they read to sensational writing. But now they were actually hearing him speak.
“If Elisha Pond is within the range of my voice,” the Ghoul continued, “let him be warned. The toll that he must pay for his life is seventy-five thousand dollars. I shall not bother to speak to him again about the matter. However, he may expect instructions through the mail as to how and where this price of his immunity from the Amber Death may be paid.” The voice sighed into silence.
A confused Babel of voices arose from the knot of people about the car.
“Whose car is that?.... That’s the Ghoul’s car.... Where are the police? Never here when they’re needed.... Ought to be able to trace the car by the license....”
But the general criticism of the police was entirely uncalled for. Hardly had the voice concluded speaking before a broad-shouldered cop shoved his way through the crowd. But of all the people standing about the flashy car, Elisha Pond seemed to be the least concerned.
“So much mumbo jumbo,” he was heard to remark to his companions.
“But Mr. Pond!” exclaimed Cass. “You can’t afford to neglect a warning of this kind! It would cost you your life. If you have not thought of yourself, think of the thousands who would miss you.”
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 4 Page 40