BUT the leopards had tasted blood and the pain of the tear gas still in their eyes had driven them to savage frenzy. They ignored their mistress. Agent “X” fired his gun again straight at the animals’ huge heads. But this second spurt of gas sprayed futilely against the cats’ closed eyes. He flung the pistol at a sleek, tawny body. The leopard roared as the weapon struck, but he only clawed the servant more furiously.
Agent “X” whirled as Tasha Merlo drew a small revolver from her sleeve. In a bound, before she could aim at him, he had reached her side and snatched it from her fingers. While she screamed at him wildly, he walked up to the leopards and pressed the muzzle of the gun close. In quick succession he fired a shot into the head of each animal, behind the ears. The growls stilled abruptly in their hairy throats. They rolled over on the floor.
But the rug beneath them where the body of Basson lay was a stained and sodden shambles. The servant was dead, his throat torn horribly by the tawny beasts’ teeth and claws. Agent “X” felt sickened. He turned as the shrill voice of Tasha Merlo rose wildly.
“You have killed my pets,” she cried. “I will kill you—kill you for that!”
Contempt curled the Agent’s lips. He pointed toward the dead man on the floor. “What about him? He is dead. The cats killed him. You seem more worried about them than about the life of a man.”
“Any servant will do,” said Tasha Merlo angrily, “but Satan and Nero can never be matched. You—”
The Agent silenced her by suddenly turning the gun in her direction. His eyes were flaming with the intense, dynamic light that had power to cow those upon whom it blazed. He came close to the woman, looking at her steadily.
“I am not sorry I killed your pets, as you call them. And now you are going to talk. You will answer certain questions.”
The woman flinched; but she tossed her gleaming red hair back with a show of bravado. “I will answer nothing,” she said.
Agent “X” reached into his pocket, and abruptly drew out Quade’s stock certificate. He thrust it before Tasha Merlo, watched her intently, and saw her face muscles stiffen.
“Some of your own merchandise,” he said. “You recognize it, I see!”
Tasha Merlo compressed her lips grimly. For seconds their eyes clashed. Tasha Merlo looked away from the Agent’s piercing gaze. She seemed suddenly unsure of her ground.
“What is this stock?” he pressed. “I know you gave up the lucrative profession of selling stolen goods to peddle it.”
Her look grew more defiant. “Whatever I may or may not have done in the past, my present business is legitimate. Could you tempt me with that necklace? No. If you are a police spy, you have failed. There is nothing illegal about a woman’s acting in the capacity of broker for a corporation.”
Tasha Merlo was stalling. Agent “X” stepped closer.
“And I suppose there is nothing illegal about a stock issue that brings in a dividend of one thousand per cent,” he said softly.
The woman’s baby smooth face seemed to harden. “Who told you it paid that?”
“Never mind—that is beside the point!”
Tasha Merlo was silent. Abruptly “X” spoke again:
“It may interest you to know that I have learned something—this certificate bears the mark of the Octopus!”
AT this the woman’s face went chalk-white. She raised a hand to her breast. Her eyes roved over his face. She breathed quickly, and he edged toward her. Suddenly fear supplanted every other emotion in her expression. Her voice grew husky.
“Well—what of it?”
“You are going to tell me who he is,” said “X” harshly. “Certain facts I’ve already guessed. Others you are going to give me.”
“No! No! No!” the woman said wildly. “You’re trying to bluff me again—as you did with that necklace. You’re lying. You know nothing!”
“I suspect,” said “X” evenly, “that you are selling stock in one of the strangest corporations that ever existed. I suspect that you gave up your work as fence because you found it more profitable to act as the representative of a nation-wide organization of criminals. I am laying my cards on the table, you see.”
The woman nodded slowly, staring at him with new interest, a certain veiled awe in her violet eyes.
“I understand, now,” she said, almost in a whisper. “You must be the man they call Secret Agent ‘X.’ No one else could have guessed—so much.”
Agent “X” was silent. The woman spoke again, as though submitting to a will she felt powerless to combat.
“I will show you all the data I have,” she said. “It is not much. I am acting only under instructions. But come.”
Moving callously by the still forms on the floor, Tasha Merlo led Agent “X” through a curtain and into another room furnished only with a few chairs and a large old-fashioned desk over against one wall. The desk was tall, made of brown, richly polished wood. Tasha Merlo walked directly to it.
“Here,” she said, “is all I have.”
“X,” watching for possible treachery, half expected her to pull another gun or give some secret signal. But he did not anticipate the one thing she suddenly did. For Tasha Merlo abruptly ducked, plunging straight forward through what appeared to be the bottom of the desk. In one flashing instant she had disappeared from sight, and a metal door under the desk, painted to look like wood, had slammed shut. The Octopus’s beautiful, cunning representative had escaped.
Chapter IX
A Fresh Clue
THE Agent stood still for an instant, chagrined that he had allowed this clever, guileful woman to outwit him so neatly. But on the whole he was satisfied. Her words, her desperate desire to escape, were proof that his suspicions were correct.
The Agent walked quickly to the desk, stooped and examined the false bottom, with the door beneath it. He struck the false wood with his knuckles. It was thick and firmly fastened now on the inside. Given time, he could get through into the mysterious passageway that must open behind it. But Tasha Merlo must already be far off. Agent “X” turned his attention to the top of the desk.
He went through the drawers; saw quickly that the woman had been too clever to leave anything incriminating there. A book listed many shares of Paragon Cosmetics. It gave dates of sale. There were references to the collection of dividends. But there was no list of customers.
The telephone on top of the desk rang sharply, interrupting the Secret Agent’s examination of the book. He took the receiver cautiously from its hook and pressed it to his ear.
“Long distance,” the operator intoned. “Boston calling.”
“Hello,” a man’s voice said impatiently. “I want to speak to Tasha Merlo.”
Agent “X” remembered the voice inflections of Basson, the servant who had been so horribly slain. With the consummate art of the born mimic Agent “X” disguised his own voice.
“This is Basson speaking, sir. Miss Merlo is not in at the moment.”
“Not in!”
“She stayed at a friend’s house last night. I am expecting her back any moment.”
There was an instant’s pause. Then the man at the other end of the wire said irritably, “Have her call Fenway 8482 as soon as she comes in.”
“I will, sir.”
Agent “X” hung up. He was tense with interest now. The phone call had been a lucky break. His own talent as a mimic had turned it to good advantage. The man had not given his name but the Boston number could be easily traced. It was the same as having his address.
But first he must learn what the man wanted of Tasha Merlo. “X” frowned. One thing he could not do successfully—disguise his voice as a woman’s. He could not call the man and impersonate Tasha. For a moment the Agent seemed lost in thought. Then he nodded. There was a way.
He strode quickly back through, the room where the torn body of Basson lay beside the two dead leopards, and found his way to the street door. He stepped out into the chill morning air. He strode quickly to hi
s parked car. He slammed through the still deserted morning streets. The traffic signals had not yet gone on. He made sizzling time across town, then cut down, swinging into Twenty-third Street. He didn’t stop till he’d reached the middle of the block, then drew up before an apartment.
A milk wagon was rattling away. A lean cat prowled across the sidewalk. Agent “X” went to the opposite side of the street from the apartment and looked up. A window on the sixth story was up, fresh morning air streaming in. No light showed.
He puckered his lips suddenly, gave that strange whistle that was at once eerie and melodious. It whispered along the still street almost like the call of some wild bird. He waited a few minutes, repeated it.
IN a moment a head showed at the open window—the small oval face of a girl, framed in masses of clustering, sun-gold hair. Then it was withdrawn, and the Agent moved quickly across the street, entered the apartment and ascended to the sixth floor.
He rapped at a certain door, and was met by a girl whose blue eyes were brightly alert. There was an eager look on her face. But her expression was baffled as she stared at him. Her gaze roved over his features with no sign of recognition. She waited for him to speak.
There was a twinkle of grim amusement in the Secret Agent’s eyes. The girl before him, Betty Dale, reporter for the Herald, was one of the few persons in the world who knew the details of his strange career. She was self-supporting, independent, modern. Her father had been a police captain slain by underworld bullets. She hated crooks and crime as much as “X” did.
She trusted the Secret Agent, had aided him often—yet she was never sure it was he until he made some direct sign. For the perfection of his disguises always fooled her.
The Agent looked along the corridor. No one was in sight. He raised his hand quickly, made a motion with his finger—tracing an X in the air.
Betty Dale nodded, smiled. A flush came to her cheeks. The sparkle in her eyes showed the stirring of a deep, abiding emotion.
“You!” she said. “I heard your whistle—woke up. Then I wondered if I had dreamed it.”
As though this betrayed something she did not want revealed, she flushed again. Deep in her heart she loved this man of mystery whose own face she had never seen. He had been a friend of her father’s. She trusted him implicitly, felt his strange dynamic power. Beside him, all other men seemed somehow insignificant.
“I’m sorry to get you up so early, Betty; but—there is a way you can help me if you will.”
Her eyes brightened still more. She was pleased, happy whenever she could aid Agent “X.” Even if it meant danger for herself.
“I’m glad you got me up,” she said. “We can have breakfast together—and a visit before I go to the office. What is it you want me to do?”
“Make a telephone call for me.”
The girl laughed merrily. “I hoped you had some real work for me—something big that I could help you do.”
“It’s not going to be as easy as you think, Betty. You’ve got to change your voice—and appear to be some one else.”
He explained to her then that he wanted her to mimic Tasha Merlo and call the man in Boston.
“You’ll have to be discreet, Betty. I must find out what connection this man has with Tasha Merlo. We must hurry.”
He coached her for nearly ten minutes, both in what to say and how to say it. He had Betty alter her voice to several different pitches before he found the one that resembled Tasha Merlo’s. When Betty had mastered the art of sustaining it she walked toward the phone; but he restrained her.
“Not here, Betty, I wouldn’t have that. You must make the call far from this apartment.”
Something in his voice brought her up sharply, took away some of the bright color from her face.
“You mean—there is danger?”
“There might be, for you, if this call was traced.”
“Who is this man in Boston?”
“I don’t know, Betty—but I suspect he is one of a group of criminals now operating in many States. The same group that is the direct cause of the commissioners’ meeting tonight. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. They are seeking ways to suppress a mounting crime wave.”
BETTY looked searchingly at Agent “X” with worried eyes. Because of her hidden emotion for him she carried a secret dread in her heart.
“I’m not afraid if you aren’t,” she said. “I know about the commissioners’ meeting. I wanted to cover it for my paper. But even the press is barred. I won’t be able to tell you anything about it.”
“You won’t need to, Betty. I intend to be there.”
The Agent spoke calmly. Betty shot him a quick, frightened look. She did not doubt that he would accomplish the seemingly impossible and attend the commissioners’ conference, though how he would do it she had no idea. But she knew that he would be in danger.
She had met the Agent in a becoming lounging robe slipped over her pajamas. Now she retired to her room and dressed quickly, while the Secret Agent waited.
When Betty was ready he hurried her out to his waiting car. She drew in deep lungfuls of the fresh morning air, smiled into his face. “X” felt the contrast of her bright, fresh beauty to the evil forces he knew were in progress even at this moment.
They stopped at a drug store many blocks away.
“Now,” he said, “do your stuff, Betty.”
He waited at her elbow as she called the Boston number. He held a palmful of coins ready, and she deposited them in the box when the operator said, “Ready.”
The conversation was brief. When Betty hung up and turned toward him the Agent smiled his approval. “Good work,” he said. “What was it, Betty?”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “He merely asked me how the ‘paper’ was selling and I said well. He said he was sending me some more today.”
Agent “X” nodded. He was satisfied with the results of the telephone call. He knew that the “paper” the man in Boston was talking about was more issues of the sinister stock. Like slowly moving tentacles the man who went by that name was spreading his influence over the country. Tasha Merlo was probably one of many stock salesmen. Through dividends paid on crimes already committed he was reimbursing his stockholders, and was raising money to finance new crimes.
“X” touched Betty Dale’s arm lightly. “I’m sorry, Betty. I don’t think I even have time for breakfast—but perhaps we can have dinner tonight, if you will.”
“Of course—but what are you going to do now? Can’t I help you some other way?”
“No, Betty—I’ve got to take a little trip.”
“Where?” The question was on her lips before she could check it. She never tried to probe into the Agent’s mysterious comings and goings. But he smiled now, squeezed her hand quickly.
“Boston, if you must know,” he said quietly.
Chapter X
The New Commissioner
THERE was no humor in the Secret Agent’s eyes as he left Betty Dale. He changed his disguise again to that of A.J. Martin, headed his car toward the suburbs once more. His gaze was grimly, bleakly intent. There would be no rest for him now. Once he had committed himself to a life-and-death battle against criminals, Secret Agent “X” was as relentless as Fate itself.
The trail he was to follow lay straight before him. He had visited Quade and Tasha Merlo. Now he must learn the name and activities of this man in Boston.
He sent his roadster whizzing along smooth concrete roads. He passed suburban houses, their inmates still asleep; passed green fields, sweet with the scent of morning dew on grass. He turned down a long avenue, rolled up to a high wire gate.
Behind this, an open field showed with airplane hangars looming at its side. Agent “X” parked his car, strode quickly through the gate. A mechanic strolled out of a hangar door to meet him, nodded sleepily.
“Howdy, Mr. Martin. Off on an early start this morning!”
“Yes.”
“Another hot story broke some pla
ce, I guess?”
Agent “X” grunted noncommittally. Around this field he was known as A.J. Martin of the Associated Press. His mysterious comings and goings were put down to his newspaper work.
“Get my bus wheeled out there, Joe,” he said. “The open one.”
His quick, precise orders snapped the sleepy-eyed mechanic into action. The man walked along a row of hangars, unlocked a door and slid it back. He vanished into the dimness of the building. Presently the orange and blue nose of a plane appeared as the mechanic trundled it out, a dolly under the tail. This was one of the two ships that Agent “X” kept on this field. He called it the Blue Comet.
It was a small, single-seater biplane with staggered wings, low camber and plenty of sweep-back. It might have been an army pursuit job except for its bright coloring. There was a compact cowling of the latest design on the radial motor. Speed, power, beauty were in the plane’s lines. Graceful as a hawk, swift as an arrow, the Secret Agent had selected and purchased it after exhaustive tests of many others. He knew what it could do, knew it as a horseman might know all the habits and capabilities of a fine mount.
Each brace, strut and wire had drumlike tautness. The doped surface of the stout wings gleamed. The engine was always gassed, oiled, and tuned to the highest pitch of performance.
Agent “X” slipped into a soft suede jacket, adjusted goggles and helmet. The mechanic wound up the inertia starter. Its mounting whine sounded as the Agent climbed into the plane’s single cockpit with its heavy crash pad and military lines. A moment and he switched on the ignition. The motor broke instantly into a smooth-voiced rumble. The small, stout plane seemed crouching like a bird anxious to leap into the sky.
The Agent warmed the idling engine for a few minutes in the routine manner of an experienced airman, then raised his hand for the mechanic to draw the chocks.
The radial broke into a roar that awoke murmurs along the tops of the hangars and sent blasting echoes across the field. The plane leaped down the macadamized surface, gathering momentum each second.
Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2 Page 33