Presently the confused sound of men’s voices made the amplifier’s earphone buzz. Another turn of the rheostat and Agent “X” could hear the voices of those inside the car distinctly. Two men were talking together in the back seat. They were only a foot or two away. One seemed glum, harsh.
“I’m gettin’ fed up, Lefty. If I don’t get outa this damn thing soon I’ll go nuts. It’s the screwiest racket I was ever in—an’ with these bugs makin’ everybody sick it gives me the creeps.”
“You’re gettin’ paid, ain’t you?” snarled the other. “You get a cut on everything that comes in. Ten grand tonight fer squirtin’ a little juice into the son of a millionaire mug. It’s a good racket, if you ask me. I don’t blame the bosses for playin’ it to the limit.”
“They’ll go a couple of rounds too many, if they don’t look out. The whole town’s gettin’ sick. What if some of us comes down with sleeping sickness! I tell you it’s givin’ me the creeps.”
“You’ll stick with the rest of us,” the other replied ominously. “You can’t get out of Branford till the bosses are ready to let you go. Quit yer damn grouching.”
There was a few seconds of silence. Agent “X” had almost stopped breathing. His guess that these men were only underlings had been correct.
THE Agent eased his cramped position. It was no mean feat to cling with a single arm to the spare tire casing, where every irregularity in the road caused the maximum of jarring vibration. After a moment he resumed his grip and pressed the amplifier to his ear again. The grumbling voice of the complainer came gratingly.
“Some guy’s goin’ to get wise if we don’t quit, and quit soon. There’ll be dicks after us some night.”
“You can’t win without takin’ a chance. There’s a whole bunch of rich mugs that ain’t been shaken down yet. The Channing girl comes tonight, Dillon’s goin’ after her.”
The Agent’s heart leaped. He felt a coldness creeping over him. The Channing girl! That would be Paula Channing, Betty Dale’s cousin—the girl she said she was going to visit tonight. The hideous ring of microbe spreaders had marked her for their next victim. She, too, would be inoculated with encephalitis.
For an instant Agent “X” considered dropping off the car and giving the Channings warning. But he might never have a chance like this present one again. His warning might save Paula Channing from sleeping sickness—but it would mean that his desperate effort to trace the criminals would fail. The future destiny of a whole city lay almost within reach of his hand now.
All during the time he had clung to the car, “X” had been on the alert to note any symptoms which might appear in himself as a result of the hypo injection. So far there had been none. This relieved him. Receiving the serum had been an unavoidable part of his scheme, but he had been more worried than he had admitted to himself as to the possible effect on his own system—whether or not it would produce results which would make him unfit to carry his plan to its conclusion.
The car had left the boulevard now. It was threading a series of dark, winding streets, penetrating into the heart of Branford’s slums.
Abruptly the car slowed. Dark buildings shadowed the street ahead. Closed warehouses; a deserted factory; a huge gas tank rearing up into the night sky like some ungainly monster. A sluggish inlet of the river penetrated here. A few empty barges creaked on their moorings. The region was darkly sinister, the air dank.
The car swung sharply. Its headlights pointed toward the door of a low garage.
Instantly the Agent dropped to hands and knees on the street, backing off behind the car to the shadow of a fence.
One of the men got out and unlocked the door of the garage. The door slid back on smooth-running rollers, and “X” caught a glimpse of the interior. It was an ordinary one-car garage with a cement floor. The man who had opened the door backed against a wall as the car rolled in. The roller door slid shut
The Secret Agent’s eyes gleamed. He had trailed the members of the germ-spreading band to their lair, or at least within close range of it.
He let two minutes elapse before he crept forward. Then he took a set of chromium tools from his pocket. Opening the lock was child’s play to him. But he listened long and carefully with his amplifier before rolling the door back. No sound of voices issued from within.
Cautiously he slid the door back an inch at a time He stepped inside, every sense alert, and stopped to avoid running into the rear of the car. Still there was no sound. The Agent flashed on a small light.
He gasped in sheer astonishment then. The floor and three blank walls were all that showed up in the beam of the light. There wasn’t even a small door in the rear—no visible exit by which the men could have left. But that was not the mystery that baffled him most. It was the big car that he searched for in vain. That too, had vanished as though black magic had been used to dissolve it into thin air.
Chapter XIII
Terror Strikes
AGENT “X” stood dumfounded. With his small light he continued to search the interior of the garage. He hardly believed his own eyes. It was as though the drug he had taken to slow his pulse, or the serum injected into his veins, had affected his sight. Then he bent forward. A fresh drop of oil glistened in the center of the garage floor—proof that a car had recently stood there.
“X” walked around it, tapping the cement. It seemed solid, forming a firm foundation. At the sides and end of the garage it appeared to be flush with the wooden framework.
He turned his light upward. It revealed nothing but dusty rafters and the roof above his head. For a moment Agent “X” stooped and pressed the disc of his tiny amplifier to the hard cement.
A faint, hollow roaring reached him. Second by second the sound diminished, then ceased altogether in a barely perceptible jar. Silence followed. But the Secret Agent’s eyes were burning with excitement.
Mysterious as had been the disappearance of the car, he believed he had found the explanation. But proving it would take time. And just now minutes were precious. Paula Channing had been marked for inoculation—and Paula was Betty Dale’s cousin.
The thought that his blonde ally would be close when one of the night-prowling germ-spreaders attacked troubled Agent “X.” Betty and the Channings must be warned before anything else was attempted. He left the garage, locking the sliding doors behind him. He walked swiftly away through dark streets. He was definitely on the trail of the criminals, now. As soon as possible he would take it up, return to this place, and systematically search the garage.
The lighted front of a small cigar store glowed in the darkness and he hurried toward it. He flipped the pages of the city telephone directory, then plunged into a booth. His fingertip made the dial snarl as he called the Channing’s number. The voice of a servant answered and Agent “X” spoke quickly.
“Doctor Preston speaking. I believe Miss Betty Dale is visiting Miss Channing. I’d like to speak to her.”
The servant’s reply was impersonally precise.
“Hold the wire. I’ll tell Miss Dale you are calling.”
Agent “X” heard the servant’s footsteps receding. A full minute of silence passed. The servant did not return. The voice of Betty Dale that “X” was eagerly awaiting did not reach his ears. Then, suddenly, something else did!
Faint at first, the sound spread like a clutching chill through the Secret Agent’s mind. It was a girl’s shrill scream. The crashing tinkle of breaking glass followed it.
Fiercely Agent “X” clattered the telephone receiver on its hook. He cursed the servant. Dread made him tremble. Long since, he had cast out fear for his own safety. The strange and terrible dangers his work led him into had built up immunity to personal fear. But he could not stifle his emotions where Betty Dale was concerned. She was the one person, outside his chief in Washington, who knew the nature of his activities—the one whose faith and loyalty had never wavered. He couldn’t calmly contemplate the possibility of danger overtaking Betty Dale.
Agent “X” slammed the receiver on its hook and tore out of the booth. Like a man possessed, he strode through the dark deserted streets till he spotted a single cruising taxi. Leaping in, he pressed a five-dollar bill into the driver’s hand, gave the address of the Channing house.
“Step on it! Get there as fast as you can!”
THE driver responded instantly. Passengers were scarce in Branford these days. The heavy cab lurched forward, whined around corners, bored steadily ahead. Traffic regulations were non-existent in the nightly quest for the gorillas. In the dark interior of the cab the Agent’s hands worked miracles, changing his disguise once more to that of Doctor Preston.
White-lipped, tense, he waited impatiently as the taxi crossed the city. It rolled at last into a short driveway that led to a handsome brownstone house. Agent “X” flung the cab door open and bounded up the steps of the house.
It was seconds before his ring was answered. Those seconds seemed eternities to Agent “X.” Then the door was opened cautiously by a servant whose hands trembled. His face was livid and fear writhed like a live thing in the depths of his eyes.
“X” spoke hoarsely, his fingers clutching the man’s arm.
“What has happened!”
“Your name, sir?” whispered the servant.
“Doctor Preston. I called fifteen minutes ago,” snapped “X.” “I asked to speak to Miss Dale on the phone. You didn’t send her. What has happened?”
The frightened servant admitted Agent “X” into the hall.
“It is terrible!” he gasped. “Another doctor is here already. The ape attacked, sir—just as you called! It smashed a window. It entered the room where Miss Paula and her friend were talking. Both have been bitten!”
The man’s words cut through the Agent’s heart like a cold knife blade. The human horror he was fighting had struck abruptly, fearfully close. Betty Dale attacked!
His mind cringed away from the fact—shuddered as he seemed to see her face set in gruesome rigidity. All the vivid life, all the young loyalty of her, frozen in the cast of death. A groan escaped the Agent’s lips. This savage shock was more awful than the impact of gun-lead.
The old wound in his side—the wound that he had received years ago on a battlefield in France—throbbed with pain. He had to shake his head to clear his faculties. That wound in his flesh seemed the sign and symbol of the indomitable, driving will that would not let him submit to defeat. The wound had not killed him—and even this crushing blow could be mastered. He would fight—fight for her sake now, as well as for the humanity he had struggled for impersonally.
“Where is she? Take me to her at once!” he commanded.
“This way, sir.”
The trembling servant led “X” along a hallway to a room beyond. Betty and Paula were there. With them was a doctor, talking to Paula’s father, Mr. Channing.
The Agent’s throat tightened as his eyes rested on the sunny gold hair and sweet face of Betty Dale. She turned toward him as he entered. She started—then, even in the terror and distress of the moment, she remembered not to betray him. Nothing could ever make her do that.
“Doctor Preston,” announced the servant. “He telephoned you, Miss Dale. I was coming to tell you when—it happened. Then I forgot.”
“I heard a scream over the wire,” said “X.” “I got here as quickly as I could.” His words were meant for Betty, and he saw the warm, sweet look she gave him in return.
Mr. Channing turned a haggard face. “James has told you, of course, doctor. One of the apes came through Paula’s window. It broke open a shutter. Both girls were attacked—my daughter and my niece. We need all the medical advice we can get. If you have anything to offer, for God’s sake, tell us…. This is Doctor Barnes, Doctor Preston.”
“X” nodded to the short, thick-set physician who was attending the wounds in the girls’ arms. He looked efficient, but “X” saw that his fingers were not steady.
THE Agent lifted Betty’s wrist and stared at the livid teeth marks on her white skin. He shuddered, knowing that they had been made with a murderous device. The girl’s eyes met his bravely.
“You find me in trouble again, Doctor Preston,” she said. Then she explained to the others. “I was caught in the mob that tried to burn the institute, as I told you. In the crush I fainted and fell in the street. Doctor Preston here happened to find me and took me to my aunt’s.”
No one was listening. Paula, her father, and Doctor Barnes seemed overcome with dread, each expressing fear in a different way. Doctor Barnes was tense, trembling, absorbed. Channing watched him in gloomy silence. Paula Channing was biting her lips and trying to keep back her tears.
Betty Dale’s lips trembled in a smile that touched the Agent’s heart. He had seen her smile before in the presence of danger. But never had she come under the shadow of such horror as this. Already, he knew, the dread bacilli were circulating in her veins. Nothing that he could do would save her. Nothing—unless—
Her voice broke into his desperate thoughts. “I might have expected it, doctor, coming to Branford as I did. I knew it was a rather foolhardy thing to do. But think what a story this will make! Girl Reporter Sleeping Sickness Victim! This is one time I’ll crash the front page of the Herald.”
Channing gave an impatient exclamation. But Agent “X” understood Betty Dale’s bravado. She was trying to keep up her own courage and comfort him at the same time. The pallor of her face showed that she was fully aware of what that wound on her wrist signified. She had seen the effect of the disease in Branford. But her contact with Agent “X” had helped to give her Spartan courage. Under pretext of examining her wound, he pressed her slim fingers, noticing their coldness. Betty was keeping calm through sheer power of will.
A sudden impatience seized Agent “X.” A light like a living flame burned in his eyes. Hatred against the criminals rose in his heart like a red wave. They had brought Betty Dale into the shadow of a slow and horrible death. He must follow the one lead he had uncovered—the lead of the mysterious garage.
Before he left the Channing house, he drew Betty Dale aside. There was a grim smile on his lips as he took her cold hand.
“Don’t worry, Betty. The men who did this have the serum that will cure sleeping sickness. Tonight I trailed them close to their hideout—and tonight I plan to follow them farther.”
Chapter XIV
Trapped!
THE Agent’s words had a vibrant ring in them. They were meant to reassure Betty Dale, and they did. He wanted to lift the cloud of fear from her mind while he followed the hideous crime trail.
“Be careful,” she breathed pleadingly, forgetful now of herself.
Agent “X” was like an avenging nemesis as he went back to that section of the town where the mysterious garage was located. And once again he unlocked its door. Then, with the patience of Job, he set about examining the building. He had a theory. There was only one possible explanation for the enigma of the disappearing car.
Carefully he began a minute scrutiny of the floor, playing his tiny flashlight around the edges of the concrete. There was a two-by-four framework around its base. This overlapped the cement. He shifted his concentration to the sill of the door over which the car had passed, drew out a small sharp knife from his pocket and pried at the sill. At last he rose with brightly gleaming eyes.
Next he searched the building’s interior. His fingers roamed over the inside of each beam. His eyes followed his flashlight, probing, searching. Suddenly he stopped, hands tense.
On the inside of a supporting beam, close to the door, he found a tiny electric button. It did not control the overhead lights. The switch of that he had located easily at once. This one had been deliberately hidden, tucked away in a place that no one, unless he searched patiently, would ever find.
Agent “X” paused a moment. Was it a signal button? Or did it operate the concealed mechanism that the Agent’s keen mind had guessed existed?
He took a chance
and pressed the button. He waited. A second passed. And then a strange thing happened. The concrete he was standing on, the floor of the garage, began sinking slowly. With the gradual movement of a smoothly running elevator it dropped below the level of the side beams that overlapped it.
It was an elevator, cunningly supported on plunger rods beneath—a wooden platform finished off with a thick covering of concrete. As it sank, with the Secret Agent upon it, he seemed to be going into the bowels of the earth. The floor had dropped twenty feet, and he was in a dark, damp well before anything else showed. Then, at the rear of the pit left by the elevator, twenty feet below the back of the garage, the top of an underground doorway showed in the glow of the Agent’s light.
As the concrete platform sank, the doorway seemed to rise. The elevator stopped at last, flush with the bottom of this hidden door. The amazing cleverness of the criminals was proved by this device. These were the most elaborate precautions against shadowing that he had ever seen. Years might go by and no one would ever guess the secret of that ordinary-looking garage with its sinister purpose.
He found that the door in front of him rolled sidewise. His fingers manipulated it. A cold draft of air struck his face. He waited tensely. But no sound came down the corridor he had opened up. It was densely dark. The only noise was the faint purring of the electric motor that had operated the cement platform. This was in a small chamber at the side of the passage. The elevator seemed to be automatic. It was his pressure on the button that had started the motor and made the floor descend.
He stepped into the corridor, closing the door after him. The elevator ascended. Its rise was automatic, too, brought about by the closing of the door.
DARKNESS and mystery lay ahead. Never had Agent “X” felt so completely alone in any battle with criminals. Entering this underground corridor he had stepped into another world, a world of unknown danger and terror. He had no idea what he would find. At any moment, death in some ghastly form might spring out of the darkness upon him.
Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2 Page 10