The black mustache and most of the characteristics of Commissioner Foster disappeared. Plates plucked from his nostrils changed the contour of his nose. When he reappeared he was a different person. But he still had the commissioner’s clothing on. He walked rapidly away, hailed a taxi, and drove to the neighborhood of one of his several hideouts.
Alone, with a portable make-up box before him, he made a careful change of facial disguise, removing the last traces of those things which had made him resemble Commissioner Foster.
He slipped into a new suit, a pepper and salt, loose-fitting tweed. He drew on a slouch hat and a raglan coat. A notebook pencil and Associated Press card completed his disguise. As an inquiring newspaper reporter many channels of investigation would be open to him.
The Agent’s work was only beginning. His desperate visit to headquarters in the role of Commissioner Foster had led to an impasse. In this sinister business of the Flammenwerfer murders the police were working in a black and ghastly fog of mystery.
His eyes were hard and bright as he descended into the street again. One name and one face still remained in his mind. Banton! In a case where clews seemed lacking it was the Agent’s method to leave no stone unturned. Banton was worth investigating.
He took a taxi to within two blocks of the bank, then walked forward. Police still held the tense-faced crowd back. The crowd had thinned, but those who hung on were the seasoned and morbid thrill-searchers who would stay all night if necessary.
Agent “X” saw the tall, familiar form of the medical examiner. The official doctor had completed his work, checked up on the charred bodies. A police ambulance was backed up to the door of the bank. Four men with a stretcher between them were moving toward the ambulance. The crowd shuddered, craning collective necks. But the still figure on the stretcher was mercifully covered. The victims of hideous murder were being removed.
Agent “X,” displaying his press card, broke through the police lines. But one of Inspector Burks’s men barred him at the door of the bank, refusing admittance.
“There’s been enough snooping around here tonight,” he said harshly. “Orders from the chief! You gotta keep out.”
THE sound of angry voices came from inside the bank. Two detectives walked forward roughly propelling a third man between them.
Agent “X” stared intently. The third man had a red face, thick lips, and a fat body. But his eyes were small, shrewd. It was Banton, the ex-police lieutenant. The two detectives shoved him forcefully out. Banton was complaining bitterly.
“The commish himself told me I could look around,” he said.
“He didn’t say you could poke into all the bank’s private papers,” snarled one of the dicks. “Give you an inch and you take a mile. Get the hell out and stay out.”
There was an ugly gleam in Banton’s eyes. He made one of his jeering, sneering remarks.
“Smart boys, eh!” he said. “The whole lousy force will be wiped out before any of you find who the killers are. But it won’t hurt the city if a lot of dumb clucks are cleaned up.”
“What’s that?” said one of the detectives.
“I said you could go to blazes,” lied Banton.
He stood mopping his face, glaring toward the receding backs of the two detectives who had ejected him. Secret Agent “X” moved up, displaying his press card.
“They won’t let me in at all, buddy,” he said. “Give us the low-down on what’s happened.”
Banton rolled a belligerent eye.
“Go to hell. Find out for yourself.”
Agent “X’s” voice was wheedling.
“Give a guy a break,” he said. “I just got here—couldn’t get away from the office sooner. Who do the dicks suspect?”
Banton’s lip curled contemptuously. “Ask ’em,” he said. “They’re hot stuff—always on the inside track, always have the right dope. They’ll give you the murderer’s address and phone number. Then you can go around and get a signed story.”
With a raucous, sarcastic laugh Banton flung off. He passed through the police lines with a jeering word to a cop. Agent “X” watched him a moment, then casually turned and followed. He edged to the outside of the crowd, kept Banton in sight.
The man swung around the block and approached the bank building from the other side. There was a side entrance there, leading up to the scores of office floors above.
Banton, lumbering like a huge, ill-tempered bear, went into the building. His office could evidently be reached from this side, too. Since the police had barricaded the front, he had come around this way.
When Banton had disappeared Secret Agent “X” increased the speed of his steps. He moved out of the shadows, crossed the street. An instant more, and he had slipped into the bank building, following the belligerent ex-police lieutenant.
Chapter VI
The Blue Light
THERE was one all-night elevator still running, operated by the janitor in the basement. This could be summoned by a bell. The door of it was just clicking shut. Banton was ascending.
Agent “X” walked back along the corridor and looked at the directory board. Searching under “B” he found the name “Banton. Detective Agency.” The suite was No. 428.
With quick decision he turned and made for the stairway. Silently and swiftly he moved upward.
When he reached the fourth floor, the broad, lumbering form of Agency Detective George Banton was just disappearing down a corridor that swung at right angles. He did not look back. He didn’t know that he was being followed. Agent “X,” master of shadowing, seemed almost a part of the dark wall as he proceeded after the ex-police lieutenant.
When he came to the angle of the corridor he peered around it. Banton was thrusting a key in a lock, opening his office. He disappeared inside, snapped on a switch, and shut the door. Through the frosted plate glass Secret Agent “X” saw the man’s shadow for a moment and saw the large gilt lettering that proclaimed the man’s profession to the world.
He wondered if Banton was what he appeared to be. As a police lieutenant Banton’s record had been unenviable. He had indulged openly in graft and had been asked to resign from the force. Some private detectives made a precarious living on the ragged edge of the law. They had been known to frame innocent people, obtain false testimony, and perjure themselves on the witness stand. Banton looked like the type who would know every trick by which a private dick might turn a dishonest penny.
Agent “X” was about to enter the Banton Agency to see why its owner was up so late. But suddenly he stopped. Far down the end of the corridor something diverted his attention.
There was an open transom above a closed office door. Through this transom an odd light showed.
The light had a strange quality to it. It was blue and wavering like the glow from a spark gap. It sent weird reflections along the sides of the corridor, cast flickering shadows around the edge of the transom.
Agent “X” moved toward it wonderingly. As he came close he could hear a faint crackling sound. His body tensed. Then another sound came above the lightning-like crackling. It was the whir of some sort of machinery. This stirred his curiosity even more.
The room at the end of the corridor couldn’t be one of the building’s power stations. The name card on the door said: “A. J. Darlington.” It was obviously a private office.
On a night when the bank below had been attacked, when four men had met horrible deaths, anyone working as late as this in the building was worth investigating. Secret Agent “X” pressed the button beside A. J. Darlington’s door.
The whir of the machinery inside began to diminish. The crackling blue light in the transom above the Agent’s head got dimmer and faded away. Only the glow of an electric bulb showed. Footsteps sounded inside.
The door was opened and a head thrust out. Agent “X” was prepared for the unusual, but he tensed as he stared at the figure which stood just inside the threshold.
The man would have been arresting anyw
here. He was tall, white-haired, and gaunt, with a leathery face and deep-set eyes. Clad in a stained smock, with his sleeves rolled up over skinny, hairy arms, he stared at Agent “X” questioningly.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
His tone was gruff, irritable, the tone of a man who wishes privacy and resents interference. The word “crank” was written all over him—in the unpleasant harshness of his voice, in the peevish, discontented lines of his face. And especially in the antagonistic light in his eyes.
Agent “X” cleared his throat, smiled. He took his press card from his pocket, thrust it under Darlington’s nose.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Darlington.”
As he spoke Agent “X” edged forward, his sharp eyes stabbing into the room. Then he tensed inwardly. Beyond Darlington, through an open door, he glimpsed a completely equipped laboratory, filled with expensive scientific paraphernalia. There were glass retorts for distilling chemicals, strange-shaped jars, metal cylinders, static electrical machines, and a large, complex optical instrument on a tripod. Each object registered in his lightning-fast brain, and roughly he estimated that they must be worth thousands of dollars.
BUT the gaunt man before him drew the door closer and shook his head violently, suspicion in his eyes.
“I’ve nothing to say to you newspaper men. When I’m ready to talk, I’ll talk. You can’t pry into my affairs and misrepresent me. You’re all too dumb to understand what my studies into the nature and action of light may mean. Good-night, sir, and don’t bother me again.”
Darlington tried to close the door, but Agent “X” deftly thrust a foot into it. He pressed forward, shoving the tall man back. Darlington’s eyes blazed angrily. But Agent “X” stood his ground.
“Just a few questions,” he insisted. “I believe you’re going to be disturbed more than once tonight.”
“What do you mean, young man?”
Agent “X” eyed Darlington steadily. “Perhaps it will interest you to know that an attempt was made to rob the Merchants’ and Manufacturers’ Bank downstairs. Four men were murdered.”
Darlington skinned his lips back from long, rodent-like teeth and made annoyed gestures with his hands.
“A bank robbed! What is that to me? It is the gold of the sunlight I’m interested in—gold that travels at the incredible speed of one hundred and eighty-six thousand miles a second. The laws of infinite space—the mystery of electrons billions of miles away—are what I am concerned with.”
“Murder can’t be dismissed,” said Agent “X.” “Four men were killed, I tell you—burned alive in a room less than a hundred feet below you.”
Darlington raised his eyebrows. “Shocking!” he snapped. “But no concern of mine. If men would forget their mundane troubles and contemplate infinity there would be less crime. The life of man is brief—and according to Mr. Einstein’s law of relativity—”
Agent “X” cut him short. “At what time did you come into this building tonight? Answer me that, Mr. Darlington.”
Their eyes clashed for a moment, then Darlington spoke sulkily.
“I always come at eight—after the clammering crowd has gone. I come then so that I can have peace and quiet in which to work.”
“Doesn’t murder mean anything to you?”
“A sordid sociological phenomenon,” said Darlington pompously. “Something for the criminologists to deal with. My labors lie in the field of abstract science.”
“You saw nothing unusual then when you entered this building tonight?”
“There was a light in the bank. I saw that. These are hard times for the fools who slave their silly lives away in the marts of gold. When I saw the lights in the bank’s windows I recalled that magnificent proverb of Marcus Aurelius: ‘He who gazes on the farthest star learns more than—’ ”
Agent “X” interrupted the strange man’s discourse again. “I can quote you as saying then that you saw the lights in the bank at eight o’clock?”
“You can quote me as saying nothing, young man. And now, if you’ll please leave, we’ll terminate this fruitless and unpleasant interview.”
Agent “X” made no move to go, and Darlington suddenly bent his angular body and leaped forward. Seizing Agent “X” by the shoulders he shoved him through the door in an effective “bum’s rush.” The tall crank was amazingly spry and powerful for all his white hair.
Agent “X” tried suddenly to check himself. For, as the door opened and Darlington thrust him out, he saw two men close at the end of the corridor. One was Sergeant Mathers of the homicide squad. The other was a detective from the same department. Before he could stop he slammed into them, nearly knocking the breath from their bodies.
Chapter VII
Find the Woman
IF AGENT “X” hadn’t clutched Mathers, the mastiff-faced detective would have fallen. He gasped, swore, and banged against the wall.
“What the hell!” he growled.
Agent “X” heard the door of Darlington’s office close with a bang. A harsh, mocking laugh floated through the transom overhead.
“What’s going on here?” barked Mathers pulling himself together, recovering his dignity.
Secret Agent “X” drew out his press card again.
“I was looking around, chief. I saw a funny light in that office and knocked. There’s a crank in there named Darlington. I asked him some questions and he got sore. You know the rest.”
“What did he say?”
“He says he isn’t interested in murder—and doesn’t know anything about it.”
“Isn’t interested, eh!”
Sergeant Mathers stepped forward and pounded on the door. “Every tenant in this building is in for a questioning by the police.”
Agent “X” jerked his thumb toward the door of the Banton Detective Agency. “What about him, then?”
Mathers shook his head.
“We know all we need to know about Banton.”
Agent “X” relapsed into silence.
There was no sound in Darlington’s office at Sergeant Mathers’ knock. Not until the detective took out his automatic and began to hammer on the panels with the butt, did the door open again. Then Darlington’s face was contorted with fury.
“Can’t you leave a man alone?” he snarled. “Do you want me to call the police?”
“You’re talking to the police now,” said Mathers grimly. “You’re going to answer a few questions that will go down on the official records.”
“I’ll answer no more of anybody’s questions,” snapped Darlington.
“No?”
“No!”
Sergeant Mathers nodded and thrust out his jaw. “Just for that, Mr. Darlington, you’ll take a little trip down to headquarters and talk to the inspector himself. I’ve orders to round up all suspicious characters.”
Grasping his opportunity Agent “X” crowded back into Darlington’s office, his eyes veiledly alert. He identified the big instrument on the tripod supports as a spectroscope. That upheld Darlington’s claim that he was investigating light. But what about his complex, costly chemical equipment? It seemed to indicate that sunlight wasn’t his only line of research. Deftly, unobtrusively, Agent “X” began a cursory examination of the laboratory’s contents.
Here was a vacuum pump with a chamber for experiments in rarified air. There was an oxygen storage tank. There a high-pressure Bunsen burner. He lingered a moment over this, his eyes deeply speculative.
Darlington interrupted his meditation, stabbing an accusing finger in his direction.
“Take that young man along, too,” he said bitterly. “He’s an impertinent trespasser.”
Mathers snorted scornfully. “We got troubles enough without getting fussed over every snooping news hound in town. Get out of here, you! Scram!”
He shoved Agent “X” out of the laboratory, hustled Darlington into his hat and coat, and, with his colleague, drew the gaunt, protesting crank into the corridor
. Then he locked up.
But as they pushed along the hallway Banton’s door opened. The fat detective stood in the threshold, his small, cunning eyes narrowed.
“What’s all the racket?” he asked,
“None of your business, Shamus,” snapped Mathers.
Darlington held back, jerking a thumb toward Banton, and raising his voice.
“He’s a neighbor of mine—a friend. He’ll tell you this is outrageous. He’ll vouch for my good character.”
“Somebody will have to vouch for his first,” said Mathers sneeringly. “Come on, Santa Claus—the inspector’s waiting.” He gave Darlington’s arm a vicious jerk.
Secret Agent “X” pretended to follow them, but stopped when he reached the head of the stairs. Banton had gone back into his office, and “X” retraced his steps quickly. Would this be a good time to talk to the detective again, or would it be better to wait and watch?
WITH a shrug the Agent turned and opened Banton’s door. Then he paused in brief surprise. The detective’s offices were more luxurious than he had anticipated. The green rug on the floor was soft as a grassy lawn. Crystal clear mirrors lined the walls. The woodwork was highly glossed. The furniture of the latest modern design. It might have been the sanctum of a millionaire broker. What was the basis of Banton’s evident prosperity, strangely at odds with his whining, seedy look? And was it pure coincidence that Banton was friendly with Darlington, who did secret research in a laboratory filled with chemicals?
Then he caught a glimpse of Banton through the open doorway of an inner office. The man was sitting back in a handsome swivel chair, hat tipped over his eyes, a cigar stuck between thick lips.
The agency detective seemed to be in deep and troubled thought, but he took his feet down, swung around, and glared as Secret Agent “X” entered.
“What the hell do you want? I thought I told you to run along.”
“X” assumed the tone of a disgruntled reporter.
“You didn’t give me a break. Now I got some more questions to ask you.”
Secret Agent X – The Complete Series Volume 1 (Annotated) Page 31