“God!” he broke out, in a high-pitched voice. “Stop that walking! Those damn shoes of yours—squeaking like that! They give me the creeps!”
The tall man kept on walking, “Losing your nerve?” he demanded bitingly.
Another of the four stirred in his chair. He was a man with a large, heavy body. His face was almost entirely hidden in the depths of the upholstery. He took a bulky, old-fashioned watch from his vest pocket, snapped open the case. “It’s eight-fifteen,” he said in a deep, authoritative voice. “If anything has happened, it’s over by this time. Turn on the radio, and get the news flashes. It’s better than phoning in to the city for information. That might arouse suspicion.”
The fourth man remained silent. He sat still and self-contained, a mere shadow in the darkness.
The tall man grunted, walked over to the radio, treading hard so as to make his shoes squeak louder.
The pudgy man said, “God! That squeaking will drive me crazy!”
THE others paid him no attention. They stiffened in their seats as the radio sprang to life under the tall man’s manipulation.
The announcer’s voice billowed into the room, filled it. “And to bear out once more all the dark rumors and fearful whispers about the sinister hand that seems to be enveloping the entire state in a clutch of horror,” he was saying, “we learn that within the last hour a bold, brazen and murderous attempt has been made to assassinate Judge Guy B. Farrell, the governor-elect of the state! Fortunately, the murderer was balked in the attempt, and the life of the governor-elect was saved. But no one feels safe any longer within the borders of the state!”
The voice of the pudgy man quavered shrilly, drowning out the announcer’s voice. “God! Failed! What’ll we do?”
“Shut up!” the tall man snarled. He turned the volume control, and the announcer’s voice grew louder:
“The killer was captured after his murderous attempt, and turned out to be none other than the dangerous desperado, the escaped convict, ‘Killer’ Kyle, whose escape from Riker Penitentiary a few days ago was shrouded in such mystery that the warden would not even grant an interview. Kyle is the second convict to break out of Riker within a week. You will recall that Sam Slawson, the all-around confidence man, was the first.”
The large man who had suggested turning on the radio, grunted, and said, “They’re tying things up—guessing close. Something will have to be done.”
The announcer continued: “It becomes rapidly clearer that there is some enormous plot on foot to seize control of the state through murder of key men. Last week, shortly after Sam Slawson’s escape from Riker, Governor-elect Farrell’s secretary was hideously tortured, and then murdered. There is no apparent reason why this terrible thing should have been done to Michael Crome. Crome was Judge Farrell’s secretary for eleven years.
“Judge Farrell is an honest, upright man—that is why he was drafted to run for governor on the Conservative party ticket. Why should Crome have been killed, and why should this attempt have been made on the judge’s life? Kyle admits that he had nothing against Judge Farrell, but refuses to disclose who aided him to escape from Riker, or who paid him to try to kill the governor-elect.
“Immediately after his arrest he was taken to headquarters where he will be grilled by Inspector Burks. He is defiant, and boasts that he will be out within twenty-four hours. Inspector Burks, in a statement to the press, said that extraordinary precautions have been taken, and that not even a fly could get out of headquarters. Nevertheless, grave doubts are being expressed, in view of the fact that there seems to be a deep-laid plot on foot, engineered by a master criminal who commands the respect even of such men as Killer Kyle!”
The pudgy man appeared to shudder perceptibly. “God! Remember what Crome’s body looked like? All bloated up to twice its size! And his throat swollen so he couldn’t breathe—and strangled to death!” He sprang up. “I can’t stand it, I tell you!” He started for the door.
The tall man reached out a long hand and seized his arm, hurled him back into the chair. “Be careful,” he said coldly. “We can’t afford to have any weak sisters. And it’s too late to back out. You’re in this—” he leaned forward and said the next words slowly “—alive—or dead!”
The radio announcer was still talking. “Judge Farrell, who has been without a secretary since election day, due to the murder of Michael Crome, has announced that he will not engage a new one for the present. He will temporarily make use of the services of his fiancée, the beautiful Princess Ar-Lassi, whose recent advent into society has attracted wide attention. The swift romance that grew between the judge and the fascinating widow of the Egyptian prince, Mehemet Ar-Lassi, is—”
The tall man shut off the radio with an impatient flick of his fingers.
And now the fourth man in the room leaned forward in his chair and spoke for the first time. His hands, with carefully manicured fingernails, were trembling visibly as he tapped the gun-metal cigarette case he had extracted from his pocket. “So,” he said in a low, tense voice, “Kyle failed to kill Farrell, and was caught. And now they want to make him talk. And he boasts he will be out in twenty-four hours!” His long finger stabbed up at the tall man. “Is there any basis for that boast?”
The tall man glared downward a moment and spoke sharply, hoarsely: “Why ask me? You know—”
He did not finish the sentence. His face was working strangely. And, in the silence that followed his words, the atmosphere of tense foreboding in the room deepened. A mysterious force seemed to be at work, chilling the minds and hearts of its occupants with a fear they dared not even voice. That force was like the slow, relentless grip of a hand of horror, crushing them in its snaky fingers.
Chapter II
Horror of the Past
BEFORE the desk of the Clayton Hotel, four young men and a young woman waited impatiently. The woman was hardly more than a girl. Her trim little figure was charged with the quick energy of youth. A pair of blue eyes sparkled in the small, creamy oval of her face. Blonde hair peeped out from under the brim of her hat. She was exchanging light chatter with the four men. But behind her apparent gayety there were undertones of tense emotion and purpose.
The phone on the clerk’s desk jangled abruptly. The clerk answered it, then nodded to the little group, his eyes feasting on the loveliness of the girl. “The governor-elect will see you now.” His announcement included them all.
One of the men with the girl said, “Let’s go.” He consulted his wrist-watch, then spoke to the girl. “You can shoot the works to him, Betty. He’ll probably stand for more from you than from us.” He led the way to the elevator.
It was apparent that the police weren’t going to allow another attack upon the governor-elect. Several headquarters detectives were stationed in the lobby. One grim-faced man stood close to the elevator door, watching all those who entered or left the car. He nodded to the four men and the girl as they got in.
Then, just as the door was about to slide to, a tall stranger bustled through the crowds in the lobby and leaped toward the elevator. He appeared to be of indefinite age. He was plainly dressed, and his blunt, nondescript features were as inconspicuous as his clothes. But, in the depths of his eyes, was a glow of flashing, penetrating intelligence. This look of dynamic mental power seemed mysteriously out of keeping with his commonplace face. As though anxious to hide it, he quickly lowered his gaze. The detective stretched out an arm and barred his way.
“Where to, mister?”
The keen-eyed man said, “To see Governor-elect Farrell. I just got in from upstate.” He took a wallet out of his pocket, and exhibited a card.
The detective said: “Oh, yeah. The commissioner said it would be okay for you to go up. You’re just in time.” He moved out of the way, and the tall, keen-eyed man went in.
The operator closed the door, and shot the cage up to the fifteenth floor. They all got out. The girl led the way down the corridor to a door before which another plain-cl
othes man was stationed. He nodded genially, and opened the door for them. The keen-eyed man who had arrived late seemed to have attached himself to their group, for he followed them in, though no word had yet been spoken by him.
Inside the governor-elect’s suite, they waited in an anteroom until the inner door opened. A gorgeously beautiful woman stood framed in the doorway. She was slender, sinuous, and appeared taller then she really was by reason of the long, tightly, fitting evening dress she wore.
The dress was of bright red, and expensive. So well was it fitted that it seemed to have been molded to her body. A coral necklace that matched the dress lay against her white throat, and jet black hair was done into a large knot at the nape of her neck. She was a strikingly attractive woman, in spite of the strange hardness that shone in her eyes.
She said in a low voice, with a trace of accent: “Eef you will come in, miss and gentlemen, Meestaire Farrell will see you now. He is vairy nervous—after that so terrible experience.” She shuddered prettily, and motioned them in.
They filed in past her, the keen-eyed man last. As he brushed her in passing he cast a searching glance into her features, and there was a quizzical smile on his lips. The woman flushed under his sharp gaze, and turned away.
The room which they were now in was lit only by a floor lamp near the door. The other end of the room was in semi-gloom, but there was enough light to see the harassed features of the man who sat behind the desk. He was a stately, dignified man in his fifties, hair turning gray at the temples, eyes sunk deep, cheeks gaunt and pale from the strenuous campaign he had been through. His hands rested on the glass top of the desk. On the middle finger of the right hand he wore a heavy gold ring with a strange design. It was a raised figure, Egyptian in type, but its lines were indistinguishable because of the lack of light.
The woman with the jet hair came around and stood beside the desk. The man looked up at her, nodded, and spoke to the visitors. “All right. I can give you five minutes—no more. I am very tired; and somewhat unstrung by this attempt on my life. Perhaps it will be better if one of you does the talking for all.”
One of the men tapped the blonde girl on the shoulder. “Go on, Betty. Talk up.”
THE girl took a step toward the desk, and smiled pleasantly. “I’ll try to make it as short as I can, judge. The first question is: What were your sensations when Kyle fired at you with the automatic?”
Farrell moved restlessly. The queer Egyptian ring seemed to radiate a disquieting glow. “Shock, more than anything else,” he said. “At first I didn’t realize I was being fired at. There was this explosion at the end of the corridor, and something whizzed past my head. Then there was a crash in the woodwork beside me. You can see where the bullet struck, when you go out. Captain Donovan, my bodyguard, drew his gun and raced down the hall.
“Only then did I understand that somebody was trying to kill me. The princess here, with whom I was going on a motor ride, screamed. I turned and saw this Killer Kyle down near the elevators. He was firing again, but Captain Donovan was between me and the assassin. Kyle’s remaining six bullets found their mark in the poor captain’s body. He took the death that was intended for me. Then the house detective came around the bend in the hall, and struck Kyle over the head with his revolver. That was all.”
Betty and the four reporters were busy taking notes. The governor-elect’s statement would go in their papers word for word. The keen-eyed man, however, took no notes. During Farrell’s recital he listened attentively, his piercing eyes darting from the speaker to the exotically beautiful princess.
Betty said, “Thank you, governor. Now, number two: Do you suspect that Killer Kyle had anything to do with the murder of your secretary, Michael Crome, which occurred last week?”
Farrell frowned. “I don’t know what to think. There seems to be some deep-seated plot against the incoming state officials. What is behind it is a mystery.”
“Who,” Betty asked, “would succeed you if anything happened to you?”
The eyes of the Princess Ar-Lassi flashed angrily. “I think,” she exclaimed, “that this question which you now ask is in vairy poor taste!”
BETTY started to say, “I’m sorry—” but the governor-elect raised a patient hand.
“It’s all right, my dear,” he said. “When you become accustomed to newspaper reporters, you will learn not to be offended at anything they may ask. It’s their business.” He smiled at Betty. “I’ll answer that by saying that according to the statute, if I were to be killed, Lieutenant Governor Alvin Rice, who has been re-elected, would become governor. And in the event that Lieutenant Governor Rice should become incapacitated, the gubernatorial functions would be assumed by the president pro-tem of the senate—who happens to be State Senator Anton Thane, a very good friend of mine. So, for that matter, is Mr. Rice—even though he fought me for the nomination in the convention.”
“Both these gentlemen belong to the Conservative Party, the same as you?” Betty asked.
“They do. We are all regular party men. That, as you know, is why I yielded to the entreaties of my good friend, John Hanscom, the Conservative Party leader, and agreed to run for governor. I was quite satisfied with my position as Justice of the Supreme Court, but I feel that party loyalty comes before personal preference.” Farrell’s tone had unconsciously assumed an oratorical note. Phrases like these were second nature to politicians.
Betty went on with her questions. “Do you know of any reason why your secretary, Michael Crome, should have been tortured and killed in that hideous way? Was he in possession of any secrets that the murderer might have wanted to wrest from him?”
Farrell was silent, thoughtful, for a moment. Then he said, “No. It is incredible that such a fiendish act could take place in this civilized country!” His face appeared to look older, harried, at the very thought of Crome’s death.
Betty tactfully passed on to the next subject. “And now,” smilingly, “if you will permit me, I should like to go to a more personal matter—”
Farrell said, “Yes, yes. I know. I suppose you all want to know about myself and the Princess Ar-Lassi.”
They all nodded eagerly. All except the tall man, who stood behind the rest with veiled eyes, as if he were considering a matter far removed from this room. He seemed hardly to hear as Farrell explained, “The princess and I will be married on the evening of my inauguration. We will make that day the date of a double celebration. I am sure that the princess will lend dignity and grace to the gubernatorial mansion. She has already proved invaluable, acting as my secretary since poor Michael was murdered.”
Betty said, “Would you care to tell us how you met—”
Farrell held up a hand. His mouth drew into a stubborn line. “We will not go into that now, if you please. The details of our romance are more or less private property. Even a public official is entitled to some degree of privacy in some matters.”
Betty shrugged. “Just as you say, governor. I know how you feel. I’m sure I’d feel as you do.” She extended a finger, pointed to the governor’s ring. “That ring—I’ve never seen you wear it before.”
“That,” said Farrell, looking affectionately at the princess, “was a gift from my fiancée. It was an heirloom of the family of her former husband, Mehemet Ar-Lassi, Prince of Egypt. She acquired it upon his death. It is said to possess strange properties—” he eyed it speculatively—“which I am testing out.” He raised his head suddenly, tapped on the glass desk top with his open hand. “I’m sorry, but your time is up. Now, if any of you have another question or two, I’ll answer if I can, and then I must ask you to excuse me.” He rose, but remained behind the desk.
One of the reporters demanded eagerly, “Look here, governor, isn’t there any way in which control of the state could get to the Liberal Party, your opponents, if Killer Kyle had been successful?”
Farrell started, then bowed his head reflectively. After a while he said slowly, “There is one way—but it means alm
ost wholesale murder. I hesitate to consider it as a possibility. You see, if I were killed, if Lieutenant Governor Rice were killed, and if State Senator Thane were killed, then the Speaker of the Assembly would become the acting governor. He, as you know, is Assemblyman Linton, of the Liberal Party. He has been fighting for years for public ownership of utilities. But Linton would never turn to murder!”
And then the drawling voice of the hitherto silent man with the piercing eyes startled them all by the depth of its quiet assurance. “If I may ask a question, sir—” though he spoke to Farrell, his gleaming eyes rested on the darkly beautiful princess—“you mentioned the death of Prince Mehemet Ar-Lassi. Is it not true, if my memory serves me, that he was murdered, about three years ago; and in a manner similar to the way your secretary, Michael Crome, met his death? That is, his body swelled to tremendous proportions, and he was throttled by the expansion of his throat muscles?”
Chapter III
Man of a Thousand Faces
IF a bombshell had been exploded in the room it could not have created a greater sensation. All color ebbed from the face of the princess. Her white face, set off by the coral necklace and the jet hair became as a mask of death. She put a hand to her throat and gasped, “How—how did you know that?”
The keen-eyed man smiled slowly. “It happens that—er—a friend of mine was traveling in Africa on a very confidential mission at the time of the prince’s death. He related all the peculiar particulars to me.”
The governor-elect took a step forward from the desk, fists clenched at his sides, his lips set grimly. “Your impertinent insinuation, sir—”
The keen-eyed man held up a placating hand. “I assure you, sir, that I meant to insinuate nothing. I am as interested in probing to the bottom of Michael Crome’s murder as you are. I am merely in search of anything that may help.”
The governor suddenly appeared to wilt. He put an arm across the shoulder of the Princess Ar-Lassi. “It is no use, my dear. Secrets cannot be kept from the press. Perhaps it will be better to tell them.” He turned to the small group of excited news people. “This, gentlemen, must be strictly off the record!” He looked from one to the other of them, and they all nodded in turn, including the keen-eyed man.
Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2 Page 15