“We seen you slip into the cottage,” the man with the gun said. “We heard Peters hollerin’. What’s goin’ on here?”
“Look and see,” said “X” quietly.
The man in the chauffeur’s uniform did so, while the other held the gun unwaveringly on “X.” A hoarse, horrified curse came from the open door of the cottage.
“Good God!—Peters has been murdered!”
“Murdered!” the gardener’s eyes glinted. “We got the killer here, Jake. Hold the gun on him while I take a look.”
The chauffeur came out, trembling violently. The whites of his eyes were showing. His lips were blue. When he took the gun, his hands shook so that “X” thought he might pull the trigger accidentally.
The gardener went in. He, too, swore and came out like a man who has seen a ghost.
“Tortured,” he said. “This devil scratched him up first and killed him afterwards.”
He jerked the gun from the chauffeur’s hands, jabbed its heavy muzzle against “X’s” body.
“Who are you? What did you do that to Peters for?”
Agent “X” spoke quietly again.
“I didn’t. It was another man—a man in a green mask!”
The gardener’s voice was a disbelieving snarl. “A likely story. Get going, you buzzard. We’ll wake the senator up—an’ tell him about this. We’ll turn you over to the cops.”
The Agent’s eyes burned like fire. He said nothing more—and he did not try to break away. He wanted to learn whose estate this was—which senator it belonged to. The dead man, Peters, had said that he worked for a “big gun.” In a moment “X” would meet the man—the person whom Peters thought had stolen the plans.
The gardener and the chauffeur conducted “X” along a path to the big house which loomed in the trees ahead. A light was burning in one of the top-floor windows.
“The senator’s still up, Jake,” said the gardener. “Run and get him down. Then open the back door. I’ll take this killer in.”
He held the shotgun close as the chauffeur sped off.
“I’d like to pull the trigger,” he snarled. “I’d like to blow you in two after what you did to Peters.”
TWO minutes passed. Lights flashed in the lower floor of the house. The kitchen door swung open.
“Bring him in. The senator’s down,” the chauffeur called out.
The gardener, still prodding “X” with the gun, marched him into the house and through the kitchen.
In a front room, a gaunt, saturnine-looking man in a dressing gown and slippers was waiting. Agent “X” recognized him at once. Senator Haden Rathborne.
The man’s deep-sunken eyes were burning. His thin lips were twisted. He fixed his piercing gaze on “X.”
“Who are you? What’s the meaning of this? They tell me you murdered Peters.”
Agent “X” was silent, and Senator Rathborne strode across the floor and came close.
“Keep the gun on him, Benstead. Shoot if he makes a move.”
Chin thrust forward, eyes glaring, Rathborne seemed to be trying to bore into “X’s” very soul. Agent “X” returned his stare calmly. He in turn was sizing up the senator. It was a dark rumor he had heard about Rathborne. Peters had said that the senator had threatened Captain Nelson’s life. But was it possible that Peters had made some mistake?
“Speak up,” said Rathborne. “Who are you?”
Still “X” was silent, and Rathborne gave an abrupt, harsh order.
“Search him, Jake.”
The chauffeur went through “X’s” pockets, brought out a wallet. But there was no name in it. He shook his head and passed it to the senator. Rathborne cursed angrily.
“I never saw him before. Did you, Jake?”
“No, sir.”
Senator Rathborne strode to a table, opened a drawer, and took out a gleaming revolver. There was a hard light in his eyes as he came back. He fingered the gun, came close and jabbed it against “X’s” chest.
“Speak now,” he said, “or I’ll kill you. What did you murder my superintendent, Peters, for?”
The expression on “X’s” face did not change. His disguise was still that of Renfew, the spy. So perfect was his make-up that even at close range it was not detectable as such. His eyes burned with a steady flame as he returned Senator Rathborne’s gaze. The man was strong-willed, almost a fanatic. “X” knew his political reputation as he did those of all United States senators. He made it a point to follow such things. He had well-catalogued files, innumerable notes.
He was facing one of the hardest-headed lawmakers in the country. Rathborne was a man of great independence, a senator of the old school. But would he dare kill a man in cold blood, even a man he thought was a murderer? Agent “X” spoke then, his voice a soft drawl.
“I wouldn’t shoot if I were you, senator,” he said. “Circumstantial evidence isn’t always reliable. You’d have a lot of explaining to do if you killed me—and perhaps your own life may not bear investigating.”
It was a shot in the dark, bait thrown out, and Senator Rathborne rose to it. A trembling seized his body. His head came forward on his short neck like the head of a predatory bird.
“What do you mean?” he shouted. “What is there in my life that I can’t tell the whole world about?”
“You know better than I do, senator. But if you should kill two men—”
The Agent’s eyes were probing the senator’s, trying to read his thoughts. A mottled hue of fury came over Rathborne’s face. It did not seem to be the fury of a killer. It was the fury of outraged pride.
“The man is crazy,” he shouted.
He lowered his gun, stepped away, then strode swiftly across the room to a table. With trembling hands he picked up a phone, clattered the receiver on its hook. He put his white lips close to the mouthpiece, barked into it.
“Get me the police!” he said.
Chapter X
Hounds of the Law
A THIN-LIPPED smile twitched the corners of Agent “X’s” mouth. Either Rathborne was the finest bluffer in the world—or else Peters had been wrong. “X” was inclined to believe the latter. There was no time to verify it now. He must get away before the police arrived. They might recognize him as Michael Renfew. If they did, it would put an end to his espionage work.
But the shotgun in the gardener’s hand was still pointed at his heart. A slight twitch of the man’s finger would literally blow him in two.
Rathborne, his face still mottled with fury, lighted a cigar. He had laid his gun on the edge of the telephone table. He advanced toward “X” again, blowing a cloud of smoke from his nostrils.
“We’ll see about your circumstantial evidence,” he said harshly. “They’ll send you to the chair or to an asylum where you can’t commit any more such atrocities.”
Agent “X,” face expressionless, slowly let his body sag. The movement was calculated, almost imperceptible. His arms were still raised above his head, but his knees were bent.
“Stand still,” said the man with the shotgun.
The Agent’s eyes had swivelled side-wise. He saw that a window in the room was half open. Suddenly he tautened his lax muscles, leaping to the left, toward the spot where Rathborne stood.
The gun in the gardener’s hand roared. The noise, in that confined space, was terrific. It seemed that a bomb had gone off. The charge of buckshot whistled past the place where “X” had been. It crashed into a glass-doored bookcase, shattered the glass, and riddled the books. Before the gardener could swing his gun, “X” had grabbed the senator.
Rathborne was a vigorous man, but Agent “X” was stronger. He literally whirled the senator off his feet, drew his body around as a shield.
When the gardener had once more got his gun into position, Agent “X” was behind the senator, holding the senator’s arms pinioned at his sides. If the gardener fired again, he would kill his employer.
The gardener’s face turned a sickly white. The gun in his h
ands wavered. Rathborne struggled fiercely and tried to kick back with his heels. The gardener shouted hoarsely.
“I can’t shoot—go and knock him out, Jake.”
The chauffeur sprang across the floor; but “X” pulled Rathborne back toward the window, dragging the senator’s heels over the floor as if he were a dummy. For a moment he held Rathborne with one arm only, reached behind with the other and raised the half-open window.
He suddenly released his clutch on Rathborne, shoved him straight forward toward the gardener with the gun, and stepped backwards out of the window.
He dropped on his hands and knees, moved close to the house, and darted along its sides. The head of the gardener appeared in the window just as “X” made the corner of the house. The shotgun roared again, but the bullets whistled harmlessly by “X’s” head. He was already around the building.
He had the whole night to hide in now. He sprinted for the dark woods that composed half of Rathborne’s estate. In an instant he was in their protective cover.
Stopping and looking back, he saw the gardener and the chauffeur come out with lanterns in their hands. They ran confusedly around the house, flashed their lights into the woods. They seemed to realize the hopelessness of trying to find the man who had escaped.
Tense and silent “X” waited. He had the idea of going back into the house and searching Rathborne’s safe after the police had come and gone.
A speeding automobile came up the long drive. Its headlights goggled weirdly through the wet shrubbery. It came to a stop before the front of Rathborne’s house. Four men leaped out. There was a hurried conversation on the front steps that “X” couldn’t hear. He could see the angry form of Rathborne still in his dressing gown and slippers.
THE police began scouting around the house. When they came dangerously near, Agent “X” stole back into the woods. He wasn’t afraid of being caught. He could see them in the lights from the house. They couldn’t see him.
They went back along the path that led to Peters’ cottage, and “X” followed. He wanted if possible to hear what the police said when they saw the torture victim. But the gardener with his shotgun was still alert. His face was white. He was more to be feared than the police. “X” couldn’t get close enough to hear.
Suddenly he stiffened and listened. Ten minutes had passed. Another car was coming into the drive, a second load of cops apparently.
“X” circled through the woods and peered from between the trees. Then suddenly his lips tightened grimly.
It was another police car, but the police were not alone. Three huge dogs leaped from the car ahead of the men. They had monstrous heads, powerful jaws, flapping ears. Bloodhounds.
This was something he hadn’t anticipated. Evidently Rathborne had put in another telephone call. The hounds were on chains. A beefy-faced man led them forward under the window from which “X” had leaped.
The great dogs sniffed the grass. Suddenly one of them lifted his head and gave tongue. The sound echoed through the still night woods. It was like a devil’s cry. The other two answered, strained at the leashes that held them. The beefy-faced man snapped them loose, and, with a bound of powerful legs, the three monstrous animals leaped forward toward the woods where “X” was watching.
With a sudden hissing intake of breath Agent “X” turned and fled toward the path along which he had come from the spot on the highway where he had left his car. The police and the gardener with his lantern and gun would follow the dogs. “X” was trapped if he didn’t outdistance them. He suspected that he would be shot on sight this time.
The dogs had gone to the spot where he had first crouched in the woods, watching. They bayed excitedly, then struck off, following his footsteps with the grimness of fate itself. He could hear them crashing and leaping in the wet woods behind him, hear the excited shouts of the men urging them on.
“X” flashed his tiny light, found the path. He sped along it, but the dogs, able to see in the dark, were plunging forward at twice his speed. Every second they drew nearer. They were outdistancing the men, leaving them far behind. They were overtaking Agent “X.”
The blood pounded in his veins. The old wound in his side ached. The baying tongues of the great hounds seemed to echo directly in his ears now. Their crashing grew louder and louder. He looked over his shoulder and saw the gleaming phosphorescence of their eyes. They had found the path, too. They were speeding along it, noses to the ground, great jaws slavering. “X” knew he would never make the car before the dogs reached him.
He stopped suddenly in the very center of the path. His lips moved in the darkness. From them issued a strange whistle, a note that was both melodious and eerie, a sound that seemed to fill the whole air at once. It was the whistle of Secret Agent “X”—unique in all the world.
It penetrated the deep woods, reverberated weirdly. It seemed to have a strange effect on the dogs. They stopped baying. They dashed up to Agent “X,” paused in a ring around him, their greenish phosphorescent eyes staring curiously. He spoke softly then.
“Nice fellows,” he said. “Quiet there! It’s all right.”
The leader of the great man-hunting beasts, trained to follow human scent, shuffled forward on padded feet. He thrust a wet muzzle against the Agent’s hand, licked his skin.
A bleak smile touched the Agent’s face. He had demonstrated again the strange power he had of inspiring friendliness in animals.
Another low-spoken word and the Agent turned and continued along the path. The men had found the path, too. They were shouting and running behind. But the dogs remained silent. As though the Agent had been their master they padded quietly at his heels, a strange and awe-inspiring escort.
He reached the highway with the police still three hundred feet behind. Moving swiftly he found his car still parked in the bushes. The hounds seemed loath to leave him. He patted their heads, snapped his fingers, and pointed back into the woods. Then he leaped into the car and backed out.
When the police broke through the highway the red tail-light of his roadster was nearly a half-mile distant.
But, though he had escaped the police, mystery and horror still hung heavy in the night. The sinister man in the green mask had beaten him to the secret that Peters held.
Hours later, that night, “X” went back to Rathborne’s house, entered, and searched the safe. But he found nothing to indicate that the stolen plans were there.
THE next morning newsboys were shouting in the street. The Secret Agent, still in the disguise of Renfew, bought a paper. Then his hands grew tense and his eyes blazed.
The story of Peters’ torture and death was spread across the front page. But that was not all. Senator Rathborne’s house had been robbed during the night. The safe and desk drawers in the senator’s library had been ransacked. A butler who had heard a noise and come in had been stricken with some strange form of paralysis. The paper said it was shock.
Both the murder of Peters and the robbery were attributed to the man who had escaped daringly through Rathborne’s window, using the senator as a shield. They were combing the city for a person referred to as the “Fiend Killer.” No mention was made of a man in a green mask. The police were looking for Secret Agent “X.”
“X” went back to Renfew’s office and paced the floor. Senator Rathborne had given an accurate description of him. There was danger if he appeared abroad in the disguise of Renfew, danger that he might be held and questioned. There was no doubt that Rathborne would identify him. It complicated matters. But he felt fairly secure in Renfew’s house.
He again took up his study of the code papers which Peters’ visit had put a stop to the night before. And again he was interrupted. This time by the jangle of a telephone somewhere in the house. Agent “X” had not known of its existence. He located it concealed inside a cupboard in an otherwise empty room on the second floor. He took the instrument out. It was evidently a private wire. His hands were tense as he put it to his ear.
&nb
sp; A husky voice came out of the receiver: “This is Shank reporting. Anything for me to do today, boss?”
Agent “X” thought quickly. He understood now. A man in Renfew’s position would have some sort of secret organization, someone to help him collect the things he bought and sold.
“Yes,” “X” said. “I think so. Come over.”
“O.K.,” said the voice at the other end. “How about Zeb?”
“Where is he?”
“Right here.”
“Bring him along, too.”
The Agent hung up, eyes gleaming. In disguising himself as Renfew and coming to this establishment, he was acquiring a ready-made following. Shank and Zeb. There might be others, too. He wanted to see them. It was possible they would be of aid in finding out what he wanted to know. But it was ironic that he should be using Renfew’s men.
They came within twenty minutes, two shifty-eyed, dapper individuals. He watched closely to see whether his disguise would arouse their suspicion. But it didn’t.
Shank was hatchet-faced, flat-chested, with a stooping, furtive sort of gait. Zeb was smaller, stouter, an inoffensive-looking little man, except for the cold gleam in his eyes.
“X” wondered what dirty work they had helped Renfew in. Their clothes indicated he had been able to pay them respectable salaries.
Zeb grinned, took out a file, and commenced manicuring his nails. He turned them this way and that, inordinately proud, it seemed, of their glistening polish. Shank chewed gum steadily.
“Stick around, boys,” said “X.” “I’ve got irons in the fire.”
They went to a rear room of the house, drew a pack of dirty cards from a table drawer and began a listless game of pinochle. The Agent went back to his reports.
But the bell of the hidden telephone jangled again. This time when he answered it was a woman’s voice. There was a note of excitement in it.
“Hello, boss. There’s a gent wants to see you,” the woman said.
“Is that so?” The Agent spoke cautiously. He would have to watch his step. A slip, and one of these mongrel hangers-on of Renfew might grow suspicious.
Secret Agent X – The Complete Series Volume 1 (Annotated) Page 48