HE did not question Renfew further. The man’s secret records would give him the leads he sought. He looked at Renfew fixedly for a moment. The spy’s face began to pale again, losing the color that had come back at the sight of money. He sensed something speculative and coldly impersonal in “X’s” attitude.
“What you going to do?” he cried.
“This!” said “X”—and before Renfew could move he raised his gun and pulled the trigger. The spy opened his mouth to give a piercing scream, but a cloud of gas from the gun’s muzzle filled his throat, choked him.
One gurgling whisper came from his lips, then slowly he slumped forward and fell to the floor. He was not dead, merely knocked out, and he would remain so for many minutes.
The Agent looked at his watch. It was nearly twelve-thirty.
He wanted to make sure that Renfew stayed unconscious for a good while to come. He could take no chances with the spy now. A method of getting him out of the country had occurred to the Agent. But there was no time to effect it. He went to his suitcase, opened the false bottom and took out a minute hypo needle. Expertly he jabbed this into Renfew’s arm. For twenty-four hours, unless the Agent chose to wake him sooner, Renfew would remain unknowing.
Next the Agent propped Renfew back up in the chair and studied him. For long moments he looked at the man from every angle. Then he got his make-up materials and began to work on his own features. This was his object in capturing the spy. By stepping into Renfew’s shoes he hoped to gain information that could be gotten in no other way. The disguise he now undertook was in many ways the most difficult he had assumed for many months. Small strips of the transparent adhesive were necessary to simulate Renfew’s wrinkles. The Agent plastered his own brown hair down with a special liquid that evaporated on contact with the air.
Before it had a chance to disappear, and while his hair was still close to his scalp, he slipped a rubber cap over his head, giving an impression of baldness. He added plastic material around the edges, smoothed it out—and when he had finished, Renfew’s double seemed to be standing in the room.
“X” went through the spy’s pockets carefully, took out all papers and keys that might be helpful, and carried Renfew’s inert body to a big clothes closet. He had had an eye to this in selecting the apartment. There was a wide crack under the door. Renfew would not suffocate. “X” put him in and locked the door.
Then he went quickly out into the street again and climbed into his roadster. He made the trip back to the dark section of town where Renfew lived in fifteen minutes.
He parked his car, walked forward, and quietly entered the spy’s three-story house.
His first act was to return to Renfew’s bedroom and close the trapdoor. A breath of dank, moldy air rose upward from the cellar as he pulled the door shut. He fastened it and carefully arranged the cord by the bed again.
Then he searched around the room till he found an old safe concealed inside a big desk. At the end of ten minutes the Agent had opened this. With eyes intent he began going through the spy’s private papers.
Most of them were in code, but he remembered the tattered, well-worn book he had taken from Renfew’s pocket. He would have been able to decipher the code without it, but time was an important element.
He opened the book, found the code key, and began reading the papers.
Here were brief reports of espionage deals that would have shocked the State Department. Records of military secrets being bartered, records of the bribery of public officials. Entries that hinted at dark, unspeakable things done to gain information which could be sold.
Then Agent “X” suddenly raised his head. He listened a moment, thrust the papers back into the safe and closed it.
The faint jingle of a bell had sounded eerily in the still house. Someone was at the front door.
Chapter VIII
Death Cry!
THE bell’s note was repeated as he tiptoed down the dark stairs. He might be facing a bad situation. This might be one of Renfew’s friends. Would his disguise work?
Strange echoes were still sounding through the old house as he reached the front door. Small leaded windows were set in its side frame—more of Renfew’s precautionary measures.
Agent “X” used one of them now. At first he could see nothing. Then his eyes got used to the gloom of the street outside. It was at least brighter than the room he was in. Light from a distant pole lamp filtered along the pavement.
A man was standing outside. He was hunched over. His collar was turned up. His hat pulled down. Agent “X” caught a glimpse of his profile. He had never to his knowledge seen the man before. The man was just about to turn away when “X” opened the door. He started violently, peered forward.
“I was afraid you weren’t in, guv’nor!” the man said.
His accent seemed to indicate cockney extraction.
“A fine time to wake a man up,” said Agent “X,” imitating Renfew’s cracked voice. “What do you want?”
“I’d like a few words with you, Mr. Renfew.”
The man stared behind him along the street. There was a look of uneasiness in his squinted eyes. When “X” told him to come in, he entered the house with the quick, slinking gait of a furtive animal.
“Now what is it?” said “X.” He turned on his little light. It was pointed straight into the man’s face. In his other hand was his gas gun.
“It’s all right,” said the stranger hoarsely. “You ain’t never seen me before, guv’nor—but I’ve heard of you. Don’t get excited.”
“What’s your name?”
“It ain’t important, guv’nor—if you don’t mind—I’ll—I’ll tell you later—after we’ve had a talk.”
“What is it you want of me?”
The man came closer. There was an odd, hungry look in his eyes. “We might as well play square with each other,” he said. “You buy—things. I know that. I ain’t no fool, and I’ve got something to sell—information you might call it.”
“Information?”
“Yes.”
“Follow me,” said Agent “X.”
He led the stranger up the stairway and to a room on the second floor which had served as Renfew’s office. He pulled down the shade, turned on a light, and seated the stranger before a cracked desk. He took a seat behind the desk himself.
“Now what is it?” The Agent’s burning eyes were watching the stranger’s face. The man was at least not dangerous. But he was furtive, tricky-looking—a type common no doubt in this house of espionage.
“Well, guv’nor,” the man said, “there was something stolen tonight right here in Washington—something important enough so that the bloke that stole it killed the bloke that had it. And maybe if I wanted to I could tell the Government where to find it. I ain’t saying I could, but maybe I could.”
The man stared at Agent “X,” licking greedy lips now. The hungry light in his eyes was itching avarice.
“I’m a poor man,” the stranger continued. “I work hard and don’t get nowhere. If it just happens that I get information that somebody else might buy, there ain’t no harm in my selling it, is there?”
“No,” said the Agent. He tried to keep back the excitement that he felt. Here was a development apparently more quick and fortunate than he had dared hope.
“It ought to be worth a lot of dough to someone,” the man said. “Thousands.”
His thin fingers moved as though he were already enjoying the feel of many bank notes. “I could leave this bloomin’ country and go back where I came from,” he added.
“Just what is this thing that was stolen?” said the Agent. “If you’ll tell me what it is perhaps I can give you a better idea of its worth.”
THE man leaned forward. His voice was a hoarse, dramatic croak. “A thing that could turn a whole army into stiffs in a second,” he said. “A thing so ’orrible that ’alf the countries in the world would like to get it—’cause they love each other so much!” A shrill cackle
of laughter came to his lips. He spread his fingers, struck his hands together. “They’d go down like that—the sojers—if you turned this thing on ’em. An’ the country that gets it can wipe out the rest.”
“You are English,” said “X.” “I should think you’d want to let your country have this thing.” He was baiting the man now, seeing what else he could learn. The man shook his head.
“England ain’t never treated me no better than America. I’m like you. I’ll sell to any bloke who has the price. An’ I didn’t say I could get this thing—I said I knew maybe where it could be got.”
“Did a man named Browning invent it?” asked the Agent suddenly.
The man recoiled, fear veiling his eyes. Then he cackled again. “You old fox, Mister Renfew! You’re smarter than I thought—pretending like you didn’t know. Yes, it was a bloke named Browning. You know about it then. You know how much it’s worth. You—”
The man stopped speaking suddenly, turned his head toward the window.
“Did you hear anything?” he said.
“No,” said the Agent.
“I thought I did. Pull that shade down—all the way. There’s a crack! I thought some bloke followed me here.”
The Agent rose, walked to the window, drew the shade farther down. He saw that the stranger’s face was white with fear.
“Tell me your name,” the Agent said calmly, “and perhaps we can do business. I deal in the sort of thing you have to sell. I have wealthy customers.”
“No,” said the man, “I can’t tell you my name—not now. I’m hired by a bloke who’s a big gun in this city, an’ the country, too. I work fer him, you understand. I happened to hear him make a threat against the bloke who was killed tonight—the bloke that had what was stolen. When the bloke was killed it wasn’t ’ard to figure who killed him. It wasn’t ’ard either to figure who ’ad the thing that was stolen.”
“What’s your employer’s name?”
A crafty look came into the stranger’s eyes. “Say, listen—not too fast!”
The Agent extracted two thousand-dollar bills from his wallet. He flung them down on the desk.
“Maybe this will make it easier to talk.”
The man swallowed twice. He stared at the money. His hands twitched as though he could hardly contain himself. His voice was a husk when he spoke.
“I can’t tell you nothin’ now,” he said. “It’s all got to be arranged businesslike. I just wanted to find out—whether you was in the market. You are—I can see that. I got to have papers drawn up—a lawyer an’ everything—to see I don’t get into trouble.”
“Right!” said the Agent. He saw that the man wasn’t going to talk. He shoved one of the thousand-dollar bills forward. “Take that,” he said, “just as a mark of good will—and as a sort of option. Don’t tell anybody else what you’ve told me, will you?”
The man grabbed the bill, fingered it lovingly.
“No, sir,” he said. “It’ll stay between you an’ me. But I gotta have a lot more of these, an’ everything’s got to be businesslike, the way I said.”
“When will I see you again?”
“Tomorrow night,” the man said.
The Agent nodded. He rose and showed the man downstairs.
“Tomorrow night,” he said softly, then opened the door and the strange, furtive-faced man slipped into the darkness.
Agent “X” knew he would be back—unless something intervened. It was this possibility that made the Agent move quickly after his visitor had gone. Too many sinister forces were in the wind to take any chance. Too many unscrupulous people wanted the information the stranger had to sell. The Agent dared not wait.
Snatching a hat and coat, he ran to the back of the house, slipped out the rear door. Ten seconds after the man had left the front, Agent “X” was on his trail. The man did not know it. He did not know that one of the most masterly shadowers in the world was following him. He used several common ruses to throw off pursuit. He dodged around corners, kept to the dark side of the streets. But Agent “X” did not lose him.
The man got into a small car, drove off. The red tail-light of his auto bobbed up the street. In less than a minute the Agent was following in the fast roadster that he had hired.
It was a long chase, through the night-darkened streets, then out into the still darker suburbs.
ON the highway, almost deserted now, Agent “X” turned off his headlights. For nearly a mile he followed the car ahead, keeping on the road by the dim light reflected from the rain-wet macadam. Trees and fields began to flash beside the road at last. A golf course, silent and deserted, stretched away under the night sky. The road began to cut through dense woods. Rich men’s estates formed little oases of green turf in this forest.
Then “X” saw the car ahead draw to the side of the road, turn and jounce into the bushes. Its red tail-light disappeared, winking off suddenly.
“X” stopped his own car. He left it parked far off the road, sprang out and walked ahead. A distant boom of thunder sounded hollowly across the still, wet woods. He stopped when he came near the spot where the stranger had parked. He listened and could hear the faint sound of footsteps, the rustle of small bushes as someone moved away. The man had struck off through the woods.
“X” entered them cautiously. Shadowing would be difficult now. The woods were black. He could not see the man. He was on unfamiliar territory.
Stooping, he felt the ground with cautious, exploring fingers. The bushes were denser in spots. Less so in others. He continued to feel; made a discovery. A narrow path began here.
This helped. He walked along, feeling his way. Again he stopped. The man’s footsteps were softer now. They grew fainter still and died, as the Agent listened. The man evidently knew his way along this path. The Agent risked flashing his tiny light. The denseness of the woods would hide its glow. He made sure of the path he was on.
For the space of fifteen minutes he lost all sight and sound of the man ahead. But he made sure he was following the path. He was confident where the man was going. A chill dampness came out of the wet woods around him. Once a frightened bird gave a shrill cry. Once a small animal, a squirrel perhaps, skittered away among wet leaves. The Agent continued his way.
Then at last he saw a light ahead. He moved on along the path, and the light became two—the windows of a small house. Beyond them he could see another faint light which seemed to be a larger house. He was approaching one of the rich men’s estates from the rear.
But, as he neared the lights he had first seen, the Agent suddenly paused. A scream cut through the stillness of the damp, night woods. It was a fearful scream that sent prickles along “X’s” back. It held fright, horror. And, as he moved ahead again, running now, every muscle tense, the screaming mounted into a cry of sheer agony that beat upon the eardrums intolerably.
The Agent raced toward the spot. Fearful and shrill as the scream was, he sensed that it was muffled by walls. It had come from inside the cottage where the lights showed. As he neared this the screaming died to a ghastly gurgle, then faded away entirely.
The Agent burst through a patch of shrubbery that marked the path’s end. For a moment he paused, almost tripped.
In the light that flared from the windows of the cottage he had caught sight of a face against a background of wet tree trunks. It was turned toward him, eyes glittering. It was the horrible, green-masked face of the man who had murdered Saunders.
Chapter IX
Death to the Agent
THE face vanished before “X” could move. There was no sound in the darkness. The face and its owner seemed to melt into the woods and be swallowed up by tree trunks. Any attempt at pursuit in that Stygian blackness would be futile—and fatal. “X” sped ahead and jerked open the door of the cottage. Perhaps he would be in time.
But he saw in his first horrified glance that he wasn’t. A ghastly sight met his eyes.
A man was stretched out on the floor. His coat, shirt and
undershirt had been ripped open. Livid scratches made a network of crimson lines across the bare skin of his chest. Grayish powder showed around the edges of the lines. The man’s face was contorted into a hideous mask of agony. But, distorted as it was, the Agent recognized it.
This was the same man who had come to Renfew’s place with a secret to sell—and the man was dead.
The brutal Kep-shak torture had been used. A large amount of the death-flowers’ pollen had been rubbed into his wounds. So much that the man had died after a few moments of excruciating agony. But not before, “X” guessed, he had babbled his secret to Green Mask. Once again Green Mask had gotten ahead of “X,” wrung a secret from a dying man’s lips.
Cursing harshly, fists clenched, Agent “X” stood for a moment staring down. The menace of Browning’s stolen plans was bad enough without having the added horror of this green-masked killer ever present. The murderer’s move tonight convinced “X” of one thing. Green Mask did not have the stolen plans in his possession. He, too, was after them. It was a race between himself and Agent “X.” A race that had become a titanic struggle.
The Agent looked quickly around the room. There was nothing here of interest. Even the man’s name was not important now. He would never satisfy his greed to sell the information he had obtained. He was a mercenary, disloyal rogue, but he did not deserve such a death as this. No human being did. Again the Agent’s curse was like a pledge.
He turned toward the door of the cottage, opened it cautiously. The night outside seemed dark. But when he stepped across the threshold, a harsh voice spoke close to his ear.
“Hands up! Don’t move, fellah—or I’ll blow your damned head off!”
Slowly, stiffly, the Agent raised his hands. A man with a double-barreled shotgun was moving around the edge of the cottage. The gun was pointed straight at “X’s” head. He knew what a load of buckshot would do at such close range. He waited, hands held stiffly aloft, and another man followed the first. This second man was clad in a chauffeur’s uniform. The first one wore overalls and looked like a gardener.
Secret Agent X – The Complete Series Volume 1 (Annotated) Page 47