“They say you’re a rich man, Quade,” rasped Agent “X.” “They say you’ve left your old haunts and your old friends and have put on a lot of swank.”
“I’ve got some money—not much—but I’ll pay you what you want if you won’t kill me,” said Quade wheezingly.
“You’ve got a nice tidy little income, I understand.”
“Investments,” said Quade. “I—I managed to save a little. I invested wisely. I’ve been lucky.”
“Splendid,” said Agent “X.” “That’s what I came for, Quade—to get a tip from you—about those investments. Maybe I’d like to invest, too. Just what investments do you recommend?”
Quade stiffened in his chair. His fat face was screwed up. He gripped the desk before him.
“I—I can’t say off-hand.”
“I haven’t found your name, Quade, listed in any broker’s office. The only stock you seem to have in your possession is Paragon Cosmetics—a small company few people have heard of.”
Agent “X” emphasized his words with another closer jab of the gun.
Quade almost screamed. “Yes—that’s it—Paragon Cosmetics. It’s a closed corporation—I’ve been most fortunate. They’ve paid me good dividends.”
“But you hold only a few hundred, Quade—don’t try to fool me.”
“My God—I’m not fooling you. They pay—nearly a thousand per cent. I’m not lying. They have made me rich.”
Agent “X” laughed harshly.
“I might think you were lying, Quade—if I didn’t know certain things. I was tipped off that you had a stock which was a bonanza. You talked, Quade, once when you were drunk. I want to get some of this remarkable stock, too. An issue that yields a dividend ten times more than the original price is worth having.”
Quade was silent for a second. He seemed to realize he had said too much. Agent “X’s” voice sounded softly in his ear:
“Better keep on talking, Quade, or—” Another jab with the gun made clear the meaning of “X’s” words. “Tell me more about this stock.”
“I can’t. I know nothing about the operations of the company. I bought it through a private broker.”
“His name?”
“It’s—it’s a woman. You’ve probably never heard of her.”
“Her name, Quade?”
“Tasha Merlo.”
Again Agent “X” laughed. There was no humor in the sound.
“So,” he said. “One of the underworld’s most brilliant women fences has become a stock broker, a promoter. Interesting, Quade!”
“You know her, then?”
“Only by reputation. Her specialty, I’ve heard, is disposing of stolen jewels. She is clever, beautiful. She mingles with society, finds customers in strange places. Am I right?”
“Yes—but she is no longer a fence.”
“I understand, Quade. She is a stock broker now. Give me her address.”
“It is useless,” said Quade. “It is a closed corporation, I tell you. All the stock has been divided.”
“Give me her address.”
Bill Quade shook his head. “Don’t ask me that! I—won’t.”
“You won’t?”
“No.”
Again Agent “X” laughed. Then he drew something from his pocket It was an apparently blank piece of paper—but one which the Agent had prepared. He laid it on the desk before Quade, handed Quade a pencil.
“Write as I dictate,” he said.
QUADE took the pencil, but shook his head again. “I’m not going to sign any sort of confession. I haven’t done anything.”
“This won’t be a confession,” said “X” mildly. His alert gaze was fixed on Quade’s face.
Suddenly the gambler drew in his breath with a hiss. He grew rigid in his chair. His eyes bulged. They were focused on the blank paper before him. On its surface the hideous outline of an octopus was appearing, written there by “X” in ink that turned dark under the influence of light. Quade’s reaction betrayed him. He had obviously seen this strange symbol before.
The Agent’s voice was low, insinuating. “You know the trademark, I see, Quade. Do you also know the man who uses it?”
Fear thickened Quade’s reply. “No—I swear it. I’ve seen the mark—yes. But the man—is a dark horse to me! He’s behind the stock—but I don’t know who he is.”
“Give me Tasha Merlo’s address then,” ordered Agent “X” again. “And if you lie to me about it—nothing, not even all your money, can save you.”
“I won’t lie,” babbled Quade. Something about this strange visitor’s manner and voice had struck terror to his soul. How had the man entered in spite of all the locks and alarms? How had he learned about the secret symbol of the Octopus? Quade gave the Agent the notorious fence’s address. When he had finished, Agent “X” took the gas gun from the fat gambler’s neck. As Quade turned in surprise, Agent “X” fired full into the man’s open mouth. The scream of terror that rose to Quade’s lips was blocked and stifled by the choking cloud of gas. It entered his mouth, nostrils, lungs, and, without a sound, he slipped sidewise in his chair and fell to the floor.
AGENT “X” stooped for a moment, pressed the point of a small hypo-syringe into Quade’s fat arm. In it was a harmless anesthetizing drug that would insure Quade’s unconsciousness for at least six hours. It would prevent Quade from warning the beautiful fence, Tasha Merlo, that a certain stranger had been making inquiries about her and the stock she now dealt in.
As quickly as he had come Agent “X” left the ex-gambler’s mansion. He had learned all he wanted from Quade. His next dealings would be with a clever, unusual woman, who was reputed to be as unscrupulous as she was beautiful.
In preparation for this visit Agent “X” made another trip to his main hideout in the Montgomery Mansion. Dawn would soon be stealing over the city, though it was still dark.
From a filing cabinet in his hide-out, Agent “X” drew the photograph of a man, with a recent newspaper clipping attached.
The man, with aristocratic features and a wispy blonde mustache, who stared out at him from the photo was an international jewel thief named St. John. The clipping told that he had made a daring escape from an English prison a week before. The photo was a copy of one held in the rogues’ gallery of New Scotland Yard. A British photographer in the pay of Agent “X” had shipped it to him along with others. It showed front and side views of St. John.
Agent “X” studied these for long moments; then set up his triple-sided mirror. The contours of the jewel thief’s face were not hard for a master of disguise such as “X” to duplicate.
At the end of five minutes, his long, skilled fingers had sculpted the plastic material into St. John’s features. Every line and plane was matched with amazing fidelity. St. John’s hair was blonde. Agent “X” selected a blonde wig from his collection that held hair of every texture and color. Over this blonde wig he mysteriously placed another that was jet black. It could be removed without disturbing the lower one. He did not duplicate St. John’s blonde mustache that showed in the photo.
When his disguise was complete Agent “X” went to a drawer which contained many articles of jewelry. Watches, rings, cuff links, scarf pins—all objects that he had occasion to use in his disguises. At the very bottom of the drawer was a gleaming woman’s necklace, apparently of blue-white diamonds. The jewels were really imitation, made of a special fused paste. Agent “X” slipped this into an inner pocket. Then, putting on a battered old hat and coat, he left his hideout for the second time that night.
The first gray streaks of dawn were breaking in the east as he walked to the address that Quade had given him—the address of Tasha Merlo. A few milkmen and push cart peddlers were the only living souls abroad. The semi-gloom of early morning seemed as sinister as the darkness. The evil forces of the night, soon to be put to rout, seemed gathering close over the city. Through shadowed streets more than one denizen of the underworld was stealing to his daytime hideo
ut after a night of evil.
Agent “X,” hat pulled down, coat collar turned up, seemed like a criminal himself, hurrying to escape the probing light of day. He walked up to the house of Tasha Merlo, pressed the bell quickly.
It was minutes before any indication of life came. Then abruptly the door in front of “X” opened, and a giant mulatto stood in the gloom of the hall. His long face, almost Mongolian in its cast, had the fixed expression of a statue. His slanted eyes gleamed. He said nothing, waited for “X” to speak.
“I want to see Tasha Merlo,” the Agent said hoarsely.
“She is not up,” the mulatto answered. “You can’t see her. Who are you?”
“I must see her,” “X” said. “I have business.”
For an instant his fingers reached into his pocket. He drew out the top of the necklace, so that the faint light of the hallway caught its imitation jewels and sent prismatic flashes into the big mulatto’s face. The man’s eyes widened. “X” dropped the thing back into his coat.
“You understand why I must see Miss Merlo?”
The servant made a slight motion with his hand, beckoned “X” into the hallway. The door closed after him.
“Wait here,” the mulatto said. “I will see.”
HE disappeared like a dim wraith. It was ten minutes before he returned. He nodded then to “X” again, led him along the hall up a flight of stairs, into a room the door of which was hung with heavy black draperies. There was a strange scent in this room, exotic perfume that was heavy, cloying in its sweetness.
Two chairs, an ebony table, a divan, formed the only furniture. A shaded bulb overhead gave soft light. The place was almost like the rear room of some funeral parlor.
Again Agent “X” was left to wait. Several dark draperies hung along the walls. He could not tell from which Tasha Merlo would emerge. He had the feeling that eyes were watching him. His first intimation of her presence was the soft, strange drawl of her voice.
Agent “X” turned. A red-haired woman, beautifully molded in face and figure, had stepped from behind the draperies directly behind him. Her violet, heavily lidded eyes were upon him. The lines of her face showed little outward character. They were deceptively mild, almost babyish. Yet “X” knew that here was a woman whose record was on many police blotters. Here was a woman who had taken part in many crimes, before she had won her way to a position in the underworld as one of its most highly successful fences.
“You wish to see me?” the strange woman said.
Agent “X” studied her for an instant. She wore dark lounging pajamas, a silk robe thrown over them. Her hair was becomingly arranged. Her nails were sleekly polished. She did not look as though she had slept at all.
“Yes, I wanted to see you,” said “X,” again bringing a hoarse tremble in to his voice. “You may have heard of me. I am Horace St. John, of England.”
The woman eyed him, suspicion in her veiled glance.
“I have been told that Mr. St. John is a blonde,” she said, “like most Englishmen.”
Agent “X” nodded. He reached up suddenly, drew the dark wig from his head, leaving the blonde one exposed.
“You are right,” he said. “But—you may have read! I escaped from jail. I came across—a stowaway. I landed only last night. Naturally I didn’t want the police to suspect me if I were caught.”
“Naturally not,” echoed Tasha Merlo. She showed white teeth for the first time in a smile. She took a cigarette from a box on the table, lighted it with a small mother-of-pearl lighter. She blew smoke delicately through her shell-pink nostrils. “You are very clever, Mr. St. John—but why do you come to me? We have not, I think, had the pleasure of meeting.”
“No—but there was a man in prison who told me about you. You had helped him once, and—”
Agent “X” reached into his pocket again, drew out the glittering necklace. Even the most expert gaze could not have told that the diamonds were not genuine. A chemical test would be necessary to prove that. Tasha Merlo’s eyes rested on it speculatively.
“I thought perhaps,” said the Agent with assumed hesitancy, “that you could—er—dispose of this for me.”
Tasha Merlo laughed merrily. She shook her gleaming red head. Her eyes shone with a light that might have been amusement.
“I am no longer in the business which your friend no doubt told you about. I am sorry that I cannot help you.”
“You won’t pay me anything for this then?” the Agent asked. Deep disappointment seemed to be in his tone.
“No—I am sorry, my friend.”
The Agent took two steps nearer the woman, the diamond necklace dangling from his hand.
“It’s true then—you have gone into another line of work? I heard rumors of that; heard you’d become interested in stocks.”
This time Tasha Merlo threw back her head and her laughter was a silvery tinkle in the quiet of the room. The white curve of her throat was childlike. The Agent watched her narrowly, sensing a strange undercurrent behind her mild actions, an undercurrent as sinister as the unseen forces of evil menacing the nation. Her next words gave his suspicion startling proof.
“You amuse me—Mr. St. John. You are a good actor—but facts are against you. Three days ago I received a certain cablegram from England, asking for a loan. It was from an escaped jewel thief—the real St. John. I happen to know you are an imposter. And—if you will look behind you, not too quickly—you will see why it doesn’t pay to trick Tasha Merlo.”
With the woman’s soft laughter echoing in his ears, Agent “X” turned, slowly, as she had suggested. A faint prickle that seemed to start at his feet and work up along his whole body followed.
On the floor directly behind him two great dark shapes were visible. Predatory, triangular heads swung low, green eyes staring at him fixedly, two fierce leopards crouched there. They had entered the room and crept up so silently that he had not heard the whisper of their padded feet. Their taut bodies and snaky, quivering tails showed that they were ready to spring.
The woman’s voice sounded, low, mocking.
“At a word from me, Mr.—er—St. John, they will tear your throat out. The slightest move on your part means death!”
Chapter VIII
Crimson Fangs
THE great cats’ merciless eyes backed up the woman’s statement. Ferocity and bloodlust gleamed in them. These beasts were eager to kill. Agent “X” had been close to death many times. He knew now the chill whisper of its wings beat about his head. He stood motionless.
“Satan and Nero,” the woman drawled. “They are my pets, my watchdogs. They have killed for me before. They will do so again. My will is their only law.”
Tasha Merlo laughed, betraying the subtle cruelty that lurked behind her innocently childish face. Her words revealed a hidden strain of sadism. Agent “X” sensed that she would enjoy seeing him torn by the cats. She clucked at them softly. They remained where they were, frozen statues of menace.
The woman sidled up to Agent “X,” faced him. Her violet eyes were alert; the pupils contracted to cold pinpoints of cunning. Her childish lips twisted mockingly. She tapped his chest with one flexed finger.
“Now,” she said, “you will tell me who you are and why you came here posing as St. John!”
The Agent stared back at her, his own eyes unfathomable. She repeated her question more harshly. He shook his head.
The woman stepped back, then struck her hands together. For an instant he thought it was the signal that would send the leopards leaping upon him with slashing fangs and claws. But instead the tall man servant entered the room. The mulatto’s nostrils dilated at sight of the animals. His huge body trembled.
Ignoring the servant’s evident terror, Tasha Merlo snapped an order, gesturing toward Agent “X.”
“Search him, Basson. Take everything from his pockets and bring what you find to me.” She turned her back, walked in lazy, languorous strides toward the couch, seated herself. The mulatto, Ba
sson, keeping an eye on the crouching leopards approached “X.”
The Agent stiffened. He couldn’t afford another search of his clothing. He couldn’t afford to have his mysterious personal effects found again.
Disarmingly he reached up, unclipped the fountain pen from his vest pocket. Tasha Merlo, her violet eyes alert, hissed a warning. But she was too late. A slight pressure of the clasp on the pen under the Agent’s quick finger, and a thin jet of tear gas shot into the manservant’s face. Basson cried out, lurched away, rubbing his eyes.
Tasha Merlo had risen from the couch, her soft childish face convulsed in fury. She shouted one strange word. And the crouching leopards, like streaks of snarling, spitting lightning, launched themselves at Secret Agent “X.”
Only the springlike coordination of nerve and muscles saved the Agent from that first fierce leap. He hurled himself sidewise, dropped to one knee, ducked. The raking claws of one of the leopards passed so close that he could feel the swish of air on the taut skin of his neck.
The leopards checked, turned furiously to spring again. But Agent “X’s” hand flashed out He swept the end of his fountain pen in a flashing circle, spraying tear gas into the deadly, gleaming eyes. The beasts snarled and spit viciously, huge bodies convulsed, green eyes closed.
Then the full effects of the smarting chemical in the gas took effect.
One of the leopards opened his huge mouth in a coughing roar. He pawed at his eyes, tail lashing furiously. Agent “X” stood perfectly still. Basson, the mulatto servant, made the mistake of trying to slip from the room. His own eyes still blinded with gas, he stumbled against the small table, fell, fumbled to get up again.
Instantly one of the pain-crazed leopards detected the movement, sprang toward it with blind fury. Its ripping, terrible claws imbedded themselves in the servant’s shoulders. The man’s horrible scream split the air as he crumpled beneath the animal’s weight. The other leopard leaped to join its mate. Basson, helpless under the ravenous claws, screamed chokingly again.
Tasha Merlo gave an answering scream. Her face had gone dead white. “Satan! Nero!” she commanded shrilly. “Stop! Come here!”
Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2 Page 32