“That’s as good a name as any,” she said with a levity she was far from feeling. There was with her constantly the thought of the mad thing he was about to attempt. She put up a hand and touched his shoulder. “What broad shoulders you have, Mr. Black! And what a funny hooked nose. At a distance I would almost take you for Killer Kyle!”
HE nodded in satisfaction. “That was my intention. The nose, of course, is a work of art. The shoulders are mechanical. I have thin concave plates strapped under my shirt. They give the effect of broad shoulders.” He suddenly grew serious. “But never mind that. Let’s get down to business. What have you found out for me?”
And as suddenly, her eyes grew moist. She gripped his sleeve impulsively. “You mustn’t do it. You can’t get Kyle out of there. Not even Burks could do it. It’s suicide!”
She stopped, and bowed her head. For she saw the adamant granite-like look that had come into his face. She had seen it before. Nothing she could say would swerve him from his purpose. He had dedicated his life to this work, and he risked it so often that she had even ceased getting those all-over cold feelings when she learned of his hairbreadth escapes from destruction.
Her head still bowed, she said in a low, choked voice, “I’m sorry. Don’t pay any attention to me. You will, of course, do what you think is right. And I shall help you to the best of my ability.”
His face softened—this strange face of Mr. James L. Black—
“Good, Betty!” he said. “Now, tell me what you’ve found out.”
She proceeded to relate in detail all the steps the police had taken to ensure that Kyle could not be rescued.
“It just can’t be done,” she finished. “They’d blast you into eternity before you even got to the top of the basement stairs. And if you did succeed, by some miracle, in reaching the main floor, there are guards all around the corridors, and machine guns and motorcycles outside. You can’t try gas, either, because they’ve foreseen that. The commissioner has ordered the men equipped with gas masks.”
“Is Commissioner Foster there?” he asked her.
“No. He’s at home. He’s given Inspector Burks full charge, but he phones every half hour or so to see that everything’s all right.”
“Were you able to discover whether Kyle talked?”
“He didn’t tell them a thing. Inspector Burks, Lieutenant Fitzimmons, and Mr. Peters from the district attorney’s office have just stopped questioning him. Kyle only kept repeating that he would be out of there in twenty-four hours.”
“Perhaps he will be out sooner,” Secret Agent “X” said softly. “And now, were you able to get that other thing I phoned you about?”
“Sam Slawson’s fingerprints? No. There’s something peculiar about that. You know Jack Price, the fingerprint man over there, lets me ramble in the fingerprint room. I went through the cards, and Slawson’s fingerprints are missing! They must have been stolen from the file! I couldn’t ask Jack about them, because that would have given it away. But I’m sure some one’s stolen them.”
Secret Agent “X” nodded thoughtfully. “I thought you would have something like that to report. It indicates that there is some one high in the government behind all this.”
“Why,” she asked, “are you so interested in this Sam Slawson? Is it just because he escaped from the same prison as Kyle?”
“It’s something much deeper than that, Betty. There is a hand of horror reaching out to crush the state in a terrible grip of murder and torture. Kyle is a tool. Slawson must be a tool, too. But Slawson is far more dangerous—because he is intelligent. We must find him—somehow!”
“Is there anything else that you want me to do? Can I help you—since you insist in going ahead with this impossible plan?”
“No. You will now go back to your regular work. Forget about this whole thing. From now on, anyone who appears to be remotely connected with this thing will be in danger of meeting the same fate that Crome met.”
She shuddered. “What about you?”
He smiled, “You ought to know, by this time, that I can take care of myself.” He got out of the car, came around to her side, and helped her out.
She said, “The police cordon starts at the next block. I don’t know what your plan is, but—” she whispered it, for her throat was choked—“good luck!”
She watched him walk down Cherry Street through the darkness, in the direction of headquarters—watched him until his figure blended with the night, and until she could no longer see because of the film of moisture that welled in her eyes.
Then she turned and walked in the opposite direction.
Chapter VI
Bearding the Lion
JAMES L. BLACK—Secret Agent “X”—went down Cherry Street, whistling a tune from “Pinafore.” He appeared to be a man without a care in the world; a big man, heavily built, with a hooked nose and a shock of black hair over which a worn felt hat was pushed back from a high forehead. Only the piercing eyes, darting everywhere, would have revealed that his mind was working at lightning speed, storing away every detail of the situation.
At the outer line of police guards he was stopped by a scowling plain-clothes man who stepped out of a doorway, holding a riot gun in the crook of his elbow.
“Hey!” the detective demanded. “Where do you think you’re going?”
As if by magic there materialized from the shadows several other plain-clothes men, who surrounded the stranger.
Mr. James L. Black stopped, seemed to be surprised, then grinned. “Looks like you fellows mean business. I wish you’d turn that gun away from my stomach. I’d hate to have it go off by accident.”
“Never mind that,” the detective barked. “Who are you, and where are you going?”
“Why,” in a slow, drawling voice, “as to that, my name is James L. Black; and I’m going in to get Killer Kyle out of the clutches of the police.”
The detective grinned crookedly. “You got a funny sense of humor, buddy. This is no time for jokes. You better talk fast, or you’ll find yourself in a nice cell where you can spend the night cracking jokes to yourself!”
That seemed to sober Mr. James L. Black. He said, “All right, if that’s the way you feel about it. I want to see Inspector Burks. I’ve got some private business with him.”
The detective said, “You’ll see Inspector Burks, all right. But you’ll wish you hadn’t.” He turned to one of the men behind him. “Look, Cleary. Take this fellow down to the next block and turn him over to Lieutenant Fitzimmons. He’s acting too damn funny.”
Cleary, a chunky, powerful man, put a hand on the service revolver bolstered at his hip, and said, “Come on, feller. And don’t make any funny moves. Orders tonight are to shoot first and investigate afterwards.” He took the arm of Mr. James L. Black and piloted him down the street to the next corner.
Lieutenant Fitzimmons got out of the patrol car where he had been sitting. He was in charge of the outside arrangements, which he directed from the car. Cleary saluted, said, “Here’s a fellow that’s making wisecracks, sir. Says he wants to see Inspector Burks.”
Fitzimmons frowned. The genial Mr. James L. Black hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his vest, and surveyed the street, with the watching shadows in doorways, prowling cars from which protruded the black muzzles of riot guns, and the men stationed along the curb in groups of two and three.
The casual, almost joshing air seemed to slip from Mr. Black, and he became crisp, businesslike.
He produced a card from his wallet, which he handed to the police lieutenant. “It is important,” he said, “that I see Inspector Burks at once.”
FITZIMMONS glanced at him suspiciously, then at the card. At once, his manner changed. He looked up, smiled coldly. “I see. You fellows are always right on the job.” He returned the card. “I’ll have you taken to the inspector.” He ordered Cleary, “Show this gentleman to the Chief Inspector’s office—and stay with him till you get the boss’s okay.” He added apologeticall
y to Mr. Black. “We have to take that precaution. Not that I think you’re phony, or anything, but those are orders—nobody goes into headquarters tonight, or comes out, without an escort.”
Cleary led Mr. Black down the street into the headquarters building.
Inspector Burks was alone in his office on the ground floor, when they came in.
Cleary said, “Lieut. Fitzimmons said to bring this man to you, sir.”
Burks’ thick black eyebrows came together as his frown deepened. They contrasted sharply with his white hair. “What do you want here?” he demanded of the stranger.
Mr. James L. Black had by this time entirely lost his casual pose. He said, “I want to see you—alone, inspector.” At the same time he drew a card from his vest pocket, and handed it across the desk. Burks made no offer to take it. His hard eyes were sizing up the visitor.
Mr. James L. Black placed the card on the desk, and stepped back. He smiled blandly. “The card will tell you all about me, inspector.”
Burks jerked his eyes down to the card, and started when he read it. It said:
JAMES L. BLACK
Special Investigator
And in the lower left-hand corner appeared the words,
Office of the United States Attorney General. Washington, D.C.
Burks motioned to Cleary. “Okay, you can go back to your post, Cleary.”
The big detective saluted mechanically, and left.
When the door closed behind him, Burks opened a drawer of the desk. His hand came out holding a heavy service revolver, which he pointed steadily at the visitor. “Now,” he said, “you can show me your credentials. Anybody can have cards printed.”
JAMES L. BLACK bobbed his head and smiled in admiration. “I have always heard that you were a hard man to fool, inspector. I am convinced of it now.” Under the cold muzzle of Burks’ gun he gingerly withdrew a wallet from his breast pocket, extracted a paper from it, which he handed across the desk. “This will serve to identify me.”
Burks took the paper with his free hand and read it over carefully. It was a statement, on the letterhead of the attorney general, to the effect that Mr. James L. Black bore unlimited authority to conduct investigations in the name of the United States Government. Appended to the sheet was a description of Mr. Black which tallied with his appearance, and also a specimen signature.
Burks thrust a sheet of paper across the desk to his visitor, and handed him a pen. “Let’s see your signature,” he ordered.
Mr. Black signed his name with a flourish, and the inspector compared it with that on the sheet. Finally he grunted in satisfaction, and handed back the sheet.
“I guess you’re Black, all right.” He put the gun back in the drawer. “We have to be careful. I’m almost certain that a rescue of Kyle will be attempted, but I can’t tell what direction it will come from. Now, Mr. Black, what can I do for you—or the attorney general’s office?”
Mr. Black carefully folded up his authorization, and replaced it in the wallet. His voice was no longer bantering. It had become businesslike. “I am tracing down a rumor,” he said, “that Killer Kyle was involved in a couple of recent kidnaping cases; cases where the children were never returned to their parents. I should like to talk to Kyle.”
Burks shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Black. Even if you’re from the United States Government, I can’t allow you to see Kyle. Commissioner’s orders are that no one sees him now, until he’s arraigned. You’ll have a chance to talk to him tomorrow, but I can’t accommodate you tonight.”
“This is extremely important,” Mr. Black told him. “I must see Kyle now.”
“Nothing doing! Kyle is in my charge, and I say that nobody sees him. Commissioner Foster is holding me personally responsible for Kyle’s safekeeping.” He got up and came around the desk. “Sorry, old man. It can’t be done.”
Mr. Black protested. “I’ll assume all the responsibility. It is imperative that I see him now. Kidnaping, inspector, is a federal charge, and supersedes any local charges.”
Burks’ eyes flashed angrily. “It doesn’t supersede murder, Mister Investigator. The murder of Michael Crome is still unsolved, and we believe Kyle was mixed up in it somehow. Furthermore, there seems to be some deep crime afoot, and we’re holding on to Kyle like glue till we get to the bottom of it. So,” he tapped Black’s chest, “you don’t see him tonight—”
He stopped short, a strange look coming into his eyes. The tap of his finger on Black’s chest had brought forth a hollow sound. He had struck the concave plates that “X” had used to give his chest the appearance of depth.
Burks exclaimed, “Say—”
But Mr. Black backed away from the inspector.
Burks leaped at him, driving a fist to his face. Mr. Black ducked the fist gracefully, and brought up his own fist to Burks’ chin in a driving blow that sent the inspector sprawling against the desk. Burks recovered his balance, swung around to the front of the desk, and snatched the revolver out of the drawer. He whirled with it, finger contracting on trigger.
But Mr. Black already had in his hand a peculiar-looking gun.
Before Burks could steady his revolver and depress the trigger, Mr. Black fired. Burks was a brave man but he conceived himself to be in the presence of death. He cried:
“God! You—” And then the anaesthetizing gas from Mr. Black’s gun took effect, and the inspector collapsed on the floor, his suddenly numb fingers releasing the revolver without having fired a shot.
Chapter VII
Tense Moments
LIKE an actor who steps behind the wings at the end of the play, Secret Agent “X” shed the role of James L. Black, Special Investigator. He glanced down at the unconscious form of the inspector, then moved quickly to the door with the intention of locking it. But the door was an old one, and the catch hadn’t worked for years. Burks had never bothered to have it fixed, for there had never been the necessity of locking it—no one would have dared to walk into that office unannounced any more than to attack a tiger with bare hands.
The Secret Agent shrugged. He would have to take the risk of interruption in the work he was about to do.
His fingers worked swiftly as he removed a flat black case from a pocket. He placed this on the floor beside Burks. From another pocket he took a portable folding mirror, and set it up next to the flat case.
He bent over Burks, and set to work removing the inspector’s clothes. This was a difficult task, as the unconscious form of the inspector was unwieldy. When he got them off, he placed them on the floor, and quickly shed his own outer clothing, donned those of the inspector. He kept his own vest though, as this was equipped with secret pockets where reclined sundry instruments which aided him in his work.
He now knelt before the mirror, and with the help of the contents of the flat black case, he proceeded to change his features. His long, skillful fingers worked with amazing speed, manipulating face plates, wads of cotton, rare pigments, stopping at intervals to inspect the face of the unconscious Burks. All the time, though, he kept half an eye on the unlocked door. At any moment an interruption might occur. Finally, he drew from an inner pocket of his vest a wig, which he adjusted carefully; and a pair of black, bushy things that he pasted above his eyes with infinite care, and which became eyebrows.
When he stood up, he was the living replica of Inspector Burks!
He packed his materials away in the case again, slipped it and the folded mirror into an inner recess of his vest.
Then his eyes scanned the room. At the other end was a door. Quickly he crossed to it and swung it open. Behind it was a room no bigger than a good-sized closet. It had once been used for the purpose of concealing a stenographer when it became desirable to take down statements of suspects, unknown to them. Inspector Burks had trapped many a man in that way in the old days before the dictograph came into use. Now it stood empty and neglected.
“X” smiled at the thought of the use to which that closet was now going to be pu
t. He placed his hands under the arms of the scantily clad inspector, and dragged him into the closet, propping his body against the wall.
“X” shut the closet door, scooped up his own discarded clothes and placed them behind the desk. He seated himself at the desk, and inspected a row of buttons on a small board at the edge. One of the buttons was labeled “messenger,” and “X” pressed this. He assumed one of the inspector’s characteristic poses, and waited.
ALMOST at once there was a knock at the door, and it opened to admit a uniformed patrolman on messenger duty.
“X” said sharply, crisply, “Go downstairs and tell Sergeant Nevins to bring up the prisoner, Kyle!”
The patrolman exclaimed, “K-Kyle, sir? You—you want him up here?”
“Didn’t I make myself clear?” the Secret Agent demanded in the biting manner of the inspector.
The patrolman saluted. “Y-yes, sir.” He turned and left, but with a look of amazement.
“X” was satisfied. He had passed the first test; the patrolman had taken him for Burks. Well and good. But would the canny Sergeant Nevins be fooled by it? “X’s” mind went back to another time when he had had occasion to impersonate the peppery Inspector Burks. It was like tempting fate to try the same thing twice. He shrugged, fatalistically, and waited.
Soon there was another knock at the door, and Detective sergeant Nevins entered. Nevins was the plodding, meticulous type of man, with eyes that missed no details. He was alone.
“Look here, inspector,” he began. “Reilly tells me you want Kyle brought up here. Is it wise? I know you’re the boss, but I distinctly heard the commissioner say that Kyle was to be kept down there, and not brought up for any reason, until the morning. Why, we’ve got a cot set up for him down there. I hope you don’t mind my talking like this—”
“X” roared at him in imitation of Burks. “I certainly do mind! I want to talk to Kyle, not to you! Since when have you become my guardian?”
Nevins was stubborn. “I’m sorry, inspector. The order was so strange that I thought there might be some mistake, so I came up myself to make sure that was what you meant. If it’s necessary to have him up here, don’t you think you’d better phone the commissioner first—or else wait till he calls up?”
Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2 Page 17