There was tonight a glint of ironic amusement in the Agent’s eyes. This was the second taxi he had driven within a space of twenty-four hours. The first he had stolen and destroyed. This one he had bought. But he preferred to consider the first a loan, for money from the account of Elisha Pond would pay for them both eventually. He wasn’t a criminal, and when he found it necessary to destroy property he took pains to reimburse the owners. The present cab had been purchased for the purpose of installing the hidden tank of compressed gas, the lever control, and the outlet tube in the passenger’s compartment. To aid in capturing a man like Morvay, to break the hideous “Torture Trust,” the investment seemed legitimate.
But he was not taking Morvay to jail.
The cab passed on up the drive, turned east, then north, and continued through the heart of the city. Agent “X” drove with the ease of a man to whom all types of cars are familiar.
He came to the suburbs at last, but still forged on through the rain-swept night. Miles beyond the city limits, he turned off on a little dirt road. The cab jounced and pitched like a ship on a stormy sea. The body of Professor Morvay rolled with it, his glassy eyes still directed toward the ceiling and the “X” that glowed there. But the eyes were unseeing now.
Agent “X” stopped the cab. He opened the door and lifted Morvay out as though he had been a sack of meal. He carried him, arms and legs dangling, through the pelting rain, to the dim outlines of a house. It was an old, ramshackle farmhouse—the same to which he had taken Jason Hertz on the night Hertz escaped from prison.
He held Morvay over his shoulder with one hand for a moment. A key grated in the lock, the door opened, and Agent “X” and his prisoner were inside.
The rain drummed steadily on the worn shingles of the roof. There was the musty, stifling smell of old carpets and moldy walls. The Agent took Morvay to a back room and struck a light.
There he set to work quickly, eagerly, for he had much to do. He deposited Morvay in a chair, backed the chair to an upright supporting the big beams in the center of the room and, after drawing Morvay’s inert arms about the upright, snapped handcuffs over his wrists. Morvay was now a prisoner, held erect in the chair by the metal cuffs.
Agent “X” went to a shelf and drew out a bottle and a piece of cotton. He dipped the cotton into the bottle and held it close to Morvay’s nose. The pungent smell of carbonate of ammonia filled the room.
SLOWLY Morvay stirred and began to breathe more deeply as the powerful stimulant overcame the effects of the gas. In three minutes he lifted his head. His eyes opened, closed, and opened again. They were no longer glassy, but were alive, intelligent. Morvay had returned to consciousness.
But fear and horror overspread his features. He tugged at his manacled hands, strained till the cords stood out in his neck, then began cursing harshly. There was the look of an evil, predatory beast on his features.
The Agent’s face was bleak, unyielding. His eyes under his visored cap glowed like coals of fire.
“Agent ‘X’! You are still alive then?” said Morvay. “They did not kill you—the fools, the fools!” There was bitterness in his voice and fury that bordered on the insane. The blundering deaf-mutes were to be pitied if he ever got free.
Agent “X” came closer. He hadn’t spoken, but his eyes were boring into those of the professor’s. His voice was low, persuasive.
“You are a murderer, Professor Morvay—one of a trio of murderers. The electric chair awaits you. But there is one road of escape. It is a road which no man of decency or principle would think of following. But you have proved that you are neither. Therefore, I am offering you this road. Turn States’ evidence, tell me the names of your two friends, your fellow criminals and murderers, and you will escape the death penalty.”
Agent “X” knew it would be futile to employ the method he had used so effectively with Jason Hertz—the method of hypnosis. A man of Morvay’s type, a psychologist and hard-headed intellectual, could never be hypnotized.
Morvay blinked at the Agent for a moment, as though weighing the proposition. Then his lips curled back in an ugly sneer and a mocking laugh came from them.
“Fool! Fool! I will tell you nothing! You have no evidence against me! No proof! You will never find out who my colleagues are, nor learn our secrets!”
His harsh laugh sounded again, and seconds passed as their eyes clashed. “X” might have resorted to torture to make Morvay talk. But that was not his way. He knew that men are not always truthful under torture—and the truth was what he wanted.
He stood frowning, irresolute, with Morvay’s harsh laughter ringing in his ears. He might turn Morvay over to the police, but the evidence against him was still too weak. There were missing links in the chain; and it wasn’t the Agent’s concern to have individuals arrested. He wanted to smash the whole hideous pattern of the “Torture Trust.”
He turned then, brought his movie camera out, and focused the calcium flare on Morvay’s evil face. The professor cursed and struggled in his chair as the camera clicked. Before he realized what was being done, “X” had started the dictaphone machine also, making a record of his voice. Morvay grew wise suddenly, and ceased speaking. There was a light of fury in his eyes, and he followed every movement the Agent made like a tiger hoping for a chance to spring.
Agent “X,” silent and intent, filled a hypo needle from a small vial in a rack. There were other vials beside it, marked with different hour numbers. He selected one, the label of which read, “Thirty-six.”
Morvay began cursing again as Agent “X” approached him with the hypo needle. He bared his teeth like a cornered animal and the light in his eyes was satanic. But calmly, deftly, the Agent thrust the point of the needle into his arm and pressed the plunger home.
Morvay’s curses became incoherent, babbling. His lips quivered, his eyes closed again. In a few moments his head fell forward. For thirty-six hours he would be dead to the world.
Agent “X” unsnapped the handcuffs from about the upright and carried the professor to the attic. There he deposited him on a pile of straw and carefully went through his pockets, taking Morvay’s keys, watch, and private papers. He descended to the first floor room, removed the record from the dictaphone machine, the film from the movie camera, and left the farmhouse, driving back through the rain to the city. His interview with Morvay had not been satisfactory. He had failed to learn the identities of the other members of the “Torture Trust.” He was still working in a black pall of mystery.
For hours that night he labored in his hidden room in the old Montgomery mansion. Sleep seemed unnecessary to the Agent. Vital, nervous forces drove him on. He developed the movie film, wound it on a drying reel, put the dictaphone record under a phonograph needle, and listened to Morvay’s voice.
Once he thrust a hand into his pocket and brought out a box of varicolored, transparent capsules. They were about an inch long, filled with various essences and strange looking substances. The Agent selected several and swallowed them.
He continued his work until the slow, gray fingers of dawn crept across the street outside and made steely glints on the surface of the river.
BY the next evening Agent “X” had a disguise of Professor Morvay as perfect as the one he had done of Jason Hertz. He left the Montgomery mansion as twilight descended, and took a taxi to Morvay’s house in that respectable street in the suburbs. There he once again opened the safe, and began a more comprehensive inspection of the books it contained. He found something he had not had time to investigate before—a lengthy paper written in code. It appeared meaningless, unintelligible. Groups of five letters were spaced at intervals across the page. Where did Morvay keep the code book which would make the paper understandable? He searched the room for a half hour without results.
Then, philosophically, with a box of cigarettes, a pencil and sheets of paper handy, he settled himself in a big chair under the light. Patience and perhaps hours of work lay ahead of him, but he knew how to
go about the task in hand.
In forty-five minutes, by use of word frequency tables, he had mastered the code of Morvay’s paper. His eyes gleamed with excitement. Besides giving methods of work, countersigns, times of meeting, and types of acids used by the “Torture Trust,” there were two names listed. The names were Albert Bartholdy and Eric Van Houten, M.D. Names which had a ring to them—names which seemed to carry dignity and prestige.
The Agent’s face hardened. Crime in its most hideous form sometimes blossomed in high places just as the deadliest fungi grew in the richest soil. It was not always the spawn of the poor, the downtrodden, and suffering who turned to the byways of evil. Nature worked strange contrasts.
He put the paper away in his pocket and reached for the telephone book, then paused. There had come a sudden strident ringing of the front door bell. Supposing it were Van Houten or Bartholdy come to pay a social visit to their colleague in crime? His disguise would fool them, but could he play his part, knowing nothing of their relations with Morvay? With wildly beating heart he strode to the door, opened it, then stepped back, for once finding it difficult to maintain his composure. For the man who stood before him was Inspector John Burks of the city Homicide Squad.
Chapter XVI
The Terrible Trio
TENSE and alert, Agent “X” stared at the man before him. Then he noticed the expression on Burks’s face. That expression was grave, thoughtful—not the look of a man who has come to make an arrest or cross-question a suspect. He waited for the inspector to speak first.
“You don’t know me,” the detective chief said. “I’m Inspector Burks. They told me about you at City College. They said you might be a good man to talk to.”
Again the Agent found it difficult not to show amazement. A man of a thousand faces should expect to create strange situations. But this one was unbelievably fantastic.
“Come in, inspector,” he said, making an effort to keep his voice casual.
The inspector entered stolidly, his pale, gaunt face composed.
“It’s about these torture murders, Morvay,” he said when they were seated. “I’ve got a theory I want to talk over with an expert—someone like you. These killings strike me as being the work of an abnormal man.”
“A sadist,” said the Agent quietly.
Burks leaned forward in excitement.
“That’s the word. But would a man like that—a sadist who likes to hurt people, have enough brains to execute such a series of crimes? Wouldn’t he be deficient mentally?”
The Agent leaned back in his chair, a cigarette in his long fingers, smoke curling lazily from his nostrils. He was enjoying the situation now. What would Burks do if he knew his real identity? It was grotesque, ironic, that the two men pursuing the same group of criminals should meet under such circumstances.
“Have you ever thought,” he said, “that these acid throwers may be only the tools of some greater criminal, or criminals? The money extorted by the ‘Torture Trust’ has been gotten with the greatest cleverness. There are cunning brains behind this.”
The inspector leaned forward, his eyes snapping.
“By God, I know it! And if there’s a master criminal back of this racket, I know who it is!”
“You do?”
“Yes, a man who calls himself Secret Agent ‘X.’ A man who’s as cunning as a fox.”
For a moment there was silence so complete that the clock on the mantel seemed to give out sledge-hammer blows. Then the Agent spoke.
“Why not go after him?”
The inspector swore bitterly.
“I had him the other night. A cop caught him sneaking down a fire escape after an acid throwing. But he got away—I won’t say how. There are twenty headquarters men out looking for him now.”
“Tell them to keep at it,” was the Agent’s calm rejoinder.
Burks didn’t catch the faintly mocking note, and if he had he wouldn’t have understood. He asked another question relating to sadism. And Agent “X,” posing as the psychologist Morvay, began a learned discussion of the subject.
When Inspector Burks left, he was impressed with the fact that Morvay was a well-informed man.
THE instant the door had closed, Agent “X” sprang out of his chair and set to work again on Morvay’s desk. All his casualness of manner had left him. A fierce inward fire seemed to be driving him on. He hadn’t forgotten those terrible moments in the subterranean corridors of the black-robed trio’s hide-out. He hadn’t forgotten the haggard, terror-stricken look on Betty Dale’s face when he had come in time to save her from awful mutilation. And at any moment the “Torture Trust” might strike again. The threat of it was a black, ever present menace. The inspector’s words had brought home to him the utter bafflement of the police.
He finished with the desk and took out Morvay’s wallet. It contained sixty dollars in bills, membership cards to several exclusive clubs, a driver’s license. Then, in an inside pocket, he found a crumpled newspaper clipping.
It was marked by pencil and announced the sailing to America on board the steamship Victoria of Sir Anthony Dunsmark, distinguished official of the Bank of England.
For long seconds the Agent stared at the clipping, his eyes glowing strangely.
He reached again for the telephone book. Albert Bartholdy and Doctor Eric Van Houten were both listed, their addresses given. The Agent paused in doubt. He was faced with one of the biggest problems of his life.
If Bartholdy and Van Houten were the other members of the trio, he would have to proceed with the greatest caution. A false step now would put them on their guard. Yet he would have to act quickly, before the disappearance of Morvay was suspected. That tiny clipping mentioning the coming of Dunsmark might be the key to the situation. Why was Morvay interested in Dunsmark?
The Agent left Morvay’s house and went first to the address of Albert Bartholdy. He changed his disguise, on the way to H.J. Martin.
Bartholdy lived in a fashionable apartment building. Posing as a credit investigator, Agent “X” learned from the apartment manager that Bartholdy was a lawyer employed as an assistant in the district attorney’s office. That explained the trio’s uncanny knowledge of police movements.
He got his car out of the mid-town garage, drove to Doctor Van Houten’s address, and his eyes brightened. It was a private home.
He parked his car far up the block, then, under cover of the darkness he slipped through a servant’s alley, crossed a back yard and circled the house till he located the windows of what appeared to be an office.
Using fingers and toe holds and risking a fall, he climbed stealthily up the side of the building till he got a view into the window under the narrow space below the shade.
A thin, gray-haired man inside was sitting at a desk interviewing a lady. “X” could not hear what was being said, but the thin man’s manner was studied, professional. He drew a prescription pad from a drawer of the desk, wrote something on it, and handed it to the lady, as “X” watched. The man was unquestionably Doctor Van Houten.
The Agent studied him carefully. Van Houten, too, had a face of intelligence; but the nostrils were thin, the mouth small, and the eyes narrow and close-set. High, flat cheek bones and a cleft chin gave the features a look of power—but it was a face that might harbor brutality and greed—the face of a possible criminal.
The Agent slid noiselessly to the ground and began a patient vigil in the shadows across the street. If an immediate crime were being plotted, the trio would surely meet again.
IT was close to ten-thirty when he saw the figure of Doctor Van Houten emerge. Many patients had gone in and come out. The doctor’s office hours were over.
With the skfll of long experience, the Agent shadowed his man. His heart beat faster. Doctor Van Houten was getting into a cab.
At a safe distance the Agent followed. Where was Van Houten bound? The doctor’s next move convinced him. For Van Houten got out, dismissed the cab and walked several blocks. Then,
after a glance around him, signaled another taxi.
The Agent overtook the cab, passed it, and went on out of sight. He pressed the gas button down and drove his roadster like a demon. He glanced at the clock on the instrument board. It was twenty minutes to eleven. Could it be that a meeting was scheduled to take place in the mysterious council chamber at that hour? Van Houten’s furtive movements seemed an affirmative answer.
He raced ahead of the doctor, reaching the deserted warehouse at ten minutes of eleven. Somewhere inside the sinister deaf-mutes might be lurking, but there was one route through which the Agent felt he could go unmolested. Morvay always entered by the rear buildings, and Morvay would not be present tonight.
Using his master keys, he let himself in through the now familiar door. The place seemed silent and deserted. But “X” sensed the presence of death and horror. He stopped a moment, his reasoning faculties working.
The trio always wore black hoods and robes. Was it to hide their identities from their victims? Or did they want to remain unknown to their slaves, the deaf-mutes, as well. Morvay had not had the weird garments with him when he had emerged. They must be stored close at hand, for, if they were to protect Morvay from the gaze of the deaf-mutes, he would not want to traverse the corridors without them.
Risking detection, Agent “X” probed carefully with the beam of his flash. Then he stepped forward. Reason had led him aright. There was a locked closet close to the first door. He groped, opened it, and drew forth the hood and robe—symbols of darkness and death.
Standing in the blackness of the corridor, he adjusted them over his body and walked forward. Twice he turned on the flash light, fearless now of being discovered by the mutes.
He was the first to reach the council chamber and he had a strange sense of eeriness as he settled himself into the middle chair. He was taking a terrible chance tonight, going into the very jaws of death. A slip might betray him—some overt act that he couldn’t anticipate.
Secret Agent X – The Complete Series Volume 1 (Annotated) Page 10