Fleer whirled at him, snarled, “Shut up, you!”
Gates subsided, cowering from the murderous glint in the little gunman’s eyes.
And then Thane pointed an accusing finger at “X.” “Kyle!” he shouted. “Kyle did it! Kyle killed him!”
Hanscom suddenly said, “By God! Of course he did! It’s a good thing the troopers are coming!”
Thane started to raise his gun.
“X” jabbed his own gun out at him, rapped, “Don’t do it, Thane!”
Thane froze at the cold finality of that command. “X,” who was facing him across the body of Rice, reached over and took the gun from his unresisting hand. And as he did so, the Secret Agent saw Fleer, out of the corner of his eye, draw an automatic from an armpit holster.
Before Fleer could bring the automatic to bear, “X” flung Thane’s gun at him. The gun caught Fleer in the face, and he staggered back, dropping the automatic.
“X” had no desire to engage in a gun battle with any of the men in the room, until he was sure which were the plotters. Moreover, he was averse to taking human life. So he pushed Hanscom aside, and leaped through the window, out into the night.
The room behind him broke into an uproar. But no one appeared at the window—they doubtless remembered that he had a gun.
“X” sped around the house, and made for the mausoleum. He had suddenly remembered the stranger whom the princess had admitted through the gate a little while ago, and in whose company she had disappeared in the direction of the mausoleum. He glanced at his watch. The radium dial showed both hands at twelve. It was midnight.
Chapter XVI
Crypt of Horror
IF “X” had gone directly to the mausoleum, as he intended, there might have been averted many of the things that took place between midnight and dawn.
But he had not taken a dozen steps in the direction of the granite bulk of the crypt, before he was startled by a shout from the direction of the garage.
The garage was built into the eastern side of the building, facing toward the mausoleum. The driveway ran around past the front of the house, and ended in a concrete square in front of the garage. The ground had been leveled off here, and it sloped sharply upward from the driveway toward the rear where “X” stood.
He looked down, and saw Jurgen staggering out of the garage. He had apparently recovered consciousness just now. Jurgen saw the Secret Agent as he passed under the light streaming from one of the windows of the house, and had raised his voice to give the alarm.
“X” had no wish to be seen making for the mausoleum. He had chosen to go there for two reasons—first, to see whether the princess had fled there, and second to seek some hiding place from the troopers who would be here at any moment.
He was still Kyle, hunted, a fugitive from the law. The order was no doubt out to shoot him on sight. Rice had seen to that as the last thing in life.
And even as Jurgen shouted at the top of his voice, “Kyle! It’s Kyle! Kyle is loose!” the window of the room he had just quit erupted four figures, one after the other. Hanscom, Fleer, Thane; Gates last of all, because he didn’t want to remain alone with the body of Rice.
The others had finally gotten up enough courage to give chase.
Fleer, who was second, saw “X” and fired at him quickly, a full clip from the automatic. But it was night, and the little gunman was nervous. “X” was not hit. He bent over, and ran, weaving, toward the garage.
A heavy revolver roared out behind him. Probably Thane. A slug whizzed past him, too close for comfort.
Now “X” was down on the concrete driveway in front of the garage. He was illumined by the light coming from its interior, and Thane emptied his revolver. “X” felt a hot finger sear his side, but kept on.
Jurgen was not unarmed. He had hauled out the Thompson gun. “X” had not seen him for a moment, and assumed that he had taken refuge in the garage. He had, but for a purpose.
Suddenly, as “X” sped past the open door, a chattering broke out from inside. “X” knew that sound. Many times in France he had dropped to the ground, hugged the terrain, when that deadly chattering made itself heard. Now he did the same thing, and the first burst drummed over his head. In a moment Jurgen would lower the muzzle, rake him as he lay on the ground.
“X” rolled sideways, away from the lighted entrance. With a sigh of relief he found himself past the entrance, out of range. The chatter of the Thompson ceased for a moment. Jurgen was coming out of the garage, a deadly killer armed with a deadly weapon.
From behind, up the slope, “X” could hear Fleer shouting, “Stand back! It’s Jurgen. He’ll get him!”
THICK shrubbery lined the driveway on the side away from the house. “X,” still on the ground, rolled into this. He got to his knees and crept through it, just as Jurgen came out of the garage. Jurgen had seen him, and with a wolfish smile that shone fiercely under the light from inside, steadied the Thompson at his shoulder, preparing to send another burst into the shrubbery.
There were few times in “X’s” career that he had found it necessary to use a lethal weapon. This was one of them. He raised Jurgen’s own gun, and with a motion so fast that it defied the eye to follow it, he fired a single shot.
It struck Jurgen in the left shoulder, and he staggered back with the impact. The muzzle of the Thompson was raised, and a spattering hail of lead flashed into the air as Jurgen’s hand compressed involuntarily on the lever.
“X” rolled through the shrubbery, away from the spot he had been in; and none too soon, for lead roared from one of the guns on the slope, and slugs tore into the ground close beside him.
The Secret Agent peered out of his place of concealment, and saw them scatter, Fleer rounding toward the mausoleum, Thane behind him. Gates stayed where he was, hugging the wall, while Hanscom came down toward Jurgen, who was sitting against the garage wall, with the sub-machine gun in his lap, and waiting for a sight of the quarry.
Hanscom called out to Jurgen, “Did he hit you?”
Jurgen answered, “Only in the shoulder. Wait’ll I see that—”
The Secret Agent started to make his way silently toward the gate. That was the only avenue of escape. And as he approached it, he suddenly saw a pair of headlights coming up the road outside, toward the gate.
A motor roared outside, then was quiet as the car slowed down, stopped before the entrance to the grounds. The headlights were strong, and a moment later they were augmented by a spotlight that swept the grounds through the grille work.
“X” stopped short, crouched low while the beam of the spotlight hovered over him. But it passed on, came to rest on Jurgen and Hanscom.
Hanscom shouted, “The troopers! Thank God!” He started to run down toward the gate. He passed so close to the Secret Agent that “X” could have touched him by reaching out his hand.
Two of the troopers got out of the car and came toward the gate. Hanscom opened it, and they came through, the car following them slowly.
Hanscom seized the first trooper by the sleeve. “Kyle,” he exclaimed. “Killer Kyle is loose somewhere on the grounds! He’s killed Lieutenant Governor Rice! Killed him in a hideous way! Have you got enough men? Search the grounds!”
The trooper said, “Murder, huh?” He turned to the one behind him. “Better go up to the house and phone Major Denvers, Jack. Tell him the lieutenant governor’s been murdered. He’ll want to take charge here himself.”
The trooper addressed as Jack said. “Okay, Hank,” and went in the direction of the house.
THE car was inside the gates now, and two more troopers got out. Hank was apparently in charge. He said to Hanscom, “Call in everybody of your party that’s out on the grounds. Get them all in the house. When we know they’re all safe, we’ll start combing the grounds. Then we can shoot on sight if we see anybody around—we’ll know he don’t belong.”
Hanscom said, “That’s just what I was about to suggest.” He raised his voice, called, “Thane! Co
me here! The troopers are here!”
From the direction of the mausoleum a flashlight bobbed. There was a hail, and soon Thane and Fleer came into sight.
“X” was crouching not ten feet from the trooper, Hank. They were close to the gate. “X” could, of course, try to make a run for it, to get out of the grounds. He elected to stay; the solution of the terrible death that struck in the dark lay somewhere on those grounds, and “X” was determined to find it.
The task would be doubly hard now, with the state troopers on the scene; it would be even more difficult when Major Denvers arrived. “X” knew Major Denvers. Years ago he had served with him in the same outfit. Denvers was a thorough soldier, a much older man than “X,” and a martinet of the old school. He would prosecute the investigation to the bitter end, no matter whom it involved.
But “X” doubted that he would succeed where Burks had failed. This was no ordinary crime, conceived by an ordinary criminal, but one that was aimed at high places, and planned for the highest stakes in the world—lives of men against power.
“X” noted that he was crouching in almost the same spot that the princess had stood in when she disappeared with the stranger whom she had admitted earlier in the evening. He felt around cautiously in the darkness, careful not to make the slightest sound, for Hank, the trooper, was talking to Hanscom and Thane not ten feet from him. Up by the garage, Fleer had gone up to Jurgen, and was trying to render him first aid. Gates was no longer at the wall. He was nowhere in sight.
“X’s” foot touched a spot in the ground where there seemed to be a hole. He felt it with his hand. The hole wasn’t round. The edge that he touched seemed to extend in a straight line. He felt along the edge a little farther, expecting to feel where it ended.
It didn’t end.
“X” now understood how the princess and her slouch-hatted friend had disappeared. This was no hole. It was a ditch, probably unused now, but formerly used for irrigation purposes on the grounds. It must run along toward the mausoleum.
“X” did not know how deep it was, but he put his foot into it, then stepped in. It was fully five feet deep, and by walking hunched over, a tall man could make his way through the grounds unseen. That, then, was where the princess and the man had gone to. They had merely stepped into the ditch and walked away.
“X” reflected that few people would know about the ditch. It had probably been unused for a dozen years at least, ever since modern pipe lines had been laid on these estates.
“X” walked along it cautiously, feeling his way before him. Gradually the voices of the others were lost to him, as he got farther and farther away, closer to the mausoleum.
Abruptly, the ditch ended. “X” scrambled out. Before him, the white granite mausoleum loomed in the darkness, spectral, forbidding.
HE approached it soundlessly. The massive grilled door was closed. “X” swung it open, slowly at first, to be sure it didn’t creak, then wide when he found it was well oiled.
The darkness was intense. He felt his way down a single step in what he knew to be a sort of outer chamber, and across this to a heavy stone door that opened into the crypt proper. The door was locked. There was a little barred opening in the middle of this door, about the height of a man’s head. The opening was no more than six inches square, and had two bars running up and down.
“X” took out his pocket flashlight, cupped it in his hands, and let its beam trickle through the opening into the interior. The crypt was large, some fifteen feet square. There were niches on two walls, with sliding drawers for the coffins. There was a large stone table against one wall, and a bench against the other.
Three niches were occupied by coffins. Another niche seemed to have been prepared to receive a coffin, for the sliding drawer was open.
In the center of the crypt lay a coffin. The lid had been placed on it carelessly, without being fastened. Otherwise, the crypt appeared to be empty.
“X” snapped off the flashlight. He had seen enough to make him anxious to get in there. His fingers wandered over the lock, determined that it was of the tumbler type, with a rotary bolt.
Swiftly he got the tool kit out of his vest pocket, opened it, and selected a key. There were a dozen keys in that kit, and each was a master key for a certain type of lock. Unerringly, again, he had chosen the right key. The tumbler fell, the bolt clicked, and the door swung open.
“X” stepped inside the pitch-dark crypt, and shut the door. The spring lock clicked. Outside, he heard voices. One of them was very loud, positive, assured. He recognized that voice. It belonged to Major Denvers of the State Police. The major was saying, “This Kyle must be on the grounds. Run the car up the driveway, and rotate the spotlight. We can’t fail to find him. And when you do, shoot to kill!”
“X” retreated from the door. He was trapped, for they would eventually come to search the mausoleum when they didn’t find him anywhere else. In the meantime, though, he could pursue his investigation. Time to worry about that later.
He felt his way to the coffin, ran his hands over it. It was a large coffin—a man’s. “X” wondered if it contained the body the princess had referred to. Hardly, because she had offered to tell Rice and the others where to find a certain body. There was no mystery about the whereabouts of this one.
He raised the lid, placed it on the floor. Then he shaded his flashlight with his hands once more, threw its beams into the box. He looked once, gasped, and clicked the light off.
He remained perfectly still, hardly breathing, a thousand thoughts racing through his brain—thoughts conjured up by the thing he had seen in the box.
For the box contained—not a dead man—but the dead, swollen body of the Princess Ar-Lassi. She had met the same fate as Crome and Rice.
Chapter XVII
The Poisoned Bullet
BACK in the city, Betty Dale had been wondering why the Secret Agent did not call her back. She had communicated with the switchboard operator at the Herald, and gotten Rice’s telephone number. Now she waited patiently, her uneasiness growing with every moment that passed without the ringing of the telephone.
She felt that “X” must be in trouble, or he would have called as he had promised.
After an hour of fruitless, restless waiting, her eyes closed involuntarily, and she dozed in her arm-chair. Her troubled sleep was at last interrupted by the telephone. She sprang up. wide awake at once, and snatched it up eagerly.
She was disappointed when she heard the voice of Morgan, the night editor of the Herald. He said, “Look, Betty, can you help me out? I’ve got to send Ridley up to the Catskills on a story, and that’ll leave me nobody to cover headquarters. Will you go over and take his place? I can’t leave it open with things happening so fast around there.”
She exclaimed. “Catskills! What’s happened up there?”
“Nothing much,” Morgan told her. “Only they got Killer Kyle cornered up there at Lieutenant Governor Rice’s house. He just phoned in to the state troopers. It’ll be a big story—if they catch him.”
Betty clutched the phone tightly. “Listen,” she said eagerly, pleadingly, “let me take that assignment, Mr. Morgan. Please, I want it.”
Morgan grumbled a little, then gave in. “I guess you’ll do as well as Ridley, maybe even better. Old Major Denvers up there knew your father, didn’t he?”
So it was, that, later in the night, a big rented Packard deposited Betty at the entrance of the Rice mansion. She was the first reporter to appear on the scene.
She had difficulty in gaining admittance until she showed her press card. Finally, however, the trooper on duty permitted her to enter, and a servant led her through a broad hall to the very room where the body of Lieutenant Governor Rice lay.
The medical examiner had just finished his work, and the body was covered up.
Hanscom was there, and Senator Thane, Gates, and Fleer, while Jurgen lay on an improvised cot. His arm was in a sling. Two state troopers were on guard at the door, and M
ajor Denvers, fifty, with iron-gray hair and a square, jutting chin was in charge.
Denvers took time out front the inquiry to remember Betty’s father, and to say a kindly word to her.
“H-have they found Kyle yet?” she asked breathlessly. She guessed that the Secret Agent might be posing as Kyle, for she recalled the disguise he had worn when she had met him in the car outside headquarters, recalled the plates he had told her about, which had caused him to resemble the killer. “Do they know where he’s hiding?”
“No,” Major Denvers told her. “But they’ll get him. He can’t get out—you saw how the roads are patrolled outside; and my men are combing the grounds now. Don’t worry, you’ll have a good story for your paper tonight.” He took her by the arm. “Now sit down in a corner where you’ll be out of the way, while I ask a few questions of these men. There seems to be a lot wrong around here, and I mean to get to the bottom of it. I hate these fat politicians, anyway!”
She sat down, and Denvers turned to the men. “Now, Mr. Hanscom, will you show me just where you were standing when the lights went out?”
Hanscom had lit another cigar, and he was scowling now. “Look here, major,” he protested, “what’s the use of all this nonsense? We know that Kyle killed Mr. Rice when the lights went out. What difference does it make where the rest of us were standing?”
Denvers thundered at him, “I’m in charge here, Mr. Hanscom, and this investigation will be conducted the way I see fit! I don’t care if you’re the boss of the whole state or not, when I see murder, I look into it!”
Hanscom said, “You won’t gain anything by that attitude, Denvers.”
“I’m not looking to gain, Hanscom. I’m looking to do my duty, and, by God, it’s going to be done! Hasn’t it occurred to any of you here, that Kyle must have had an accomplice? He was standing near the window; the electric light switch is close to the door, and there’s another that controls the room up on the balcony. Now you all tell me that Kyle never moved far from the window. All right, how could he have put out the lights? Some one else must have done that—some one in league with him!”
Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2 Page 23