Recklow nodded his head. “Giant bats. Two of them,” he whispered.
“Bats?” echoed the detective. “Sounds like potent liquor to me!” He swung across the floor to the door now guarded by the two police. “One of you do what you can for the women,” he directed. “I’m phoning for Inspector Burks.” He passed through the door and caught the manager by the arm. The manager mopped at his pale forehead with his handkerchief and braved the detective’s furious gaze.
“Why didn’t you tell us it was something like this when you phoned? You said some one had forced a man to jump over the railing.”
“I—I didn’t have time to find out, sir,” said the manager. “Just what one of the waiters saw through the door.”
“Got a private phone around here?” asked the detective.
Eagerly, the manager pointed out his office. The detective entered to find the manager’s private phone. He did not notice the sudden appearance of a dark complexioned man in evening clothes who had just stepped from an elevator and whose keen eyes followed every move he made.
Inside the manager’s private office, the young detective faced the telephone. His back was toward the door. He rushed a call to headquarters and contacted the homicide department. “Inspector Burks there?” he demanded. “Well tell him he’d better bring a squad around to the Franconia Roof. It’s more than I can handle. Looks as though somebody had tried to poison the whole crowd. They’re all about half screwy!”
He pressed down on the receiver hook, breaking the connection. Then he raised it again and called a number that was listed in no telephone directory. The answer came directly. The detective, intent upon the important message he was about to deliver, did not notice that the door behind him was slowly opening. Mouth close to the transmitter, he spoke crisp words in a low-pitched voice.
“T.S. reporting, sir. Unusual affair on the Franconia Roof. About two score people victimized by some sort of crazy crime. Looks like something more than murder. Some sort of poison’s turned everyone’s hair white. A man was forced over the edge of the roof. Identified as ‘Easy’ Eastman, from contents of his pockets after he hit the street below. Details will follow as soon as I can get them.” And “T.S.” quietly hung up.
He shook a cigarette from a crumpled pack, wedged it between tight lips, and turned back toward the door. The cigarette dropped from his lips. His right hand started up toward his left shoulder and stopped halfway. A man stood in the doorway, a dark complexioned man who seemed to have been poured into his evening clothes. His lips were curved in a slight, not unpleasant smile, but his hand held a heavy pistol covering the detective.
“Don’t try anything humorous, Tim Scallot,” said the man in evening clothes. He stepped, quietly as a cat, straight toward the detective. The barrel of his pistol tilted sharply upward.
Tim Scallot had the agonizing impression of a man’s finger squeezing the trigger. There was a hiss like a serpent, and a gray mist puffed from the gun into his gaping mouth. Scallot wavered forward. His knees deserted him suddenly, and he fell into the arms of the man with the gun. And little did the detective know that the man who had so completely knocked him out with anesthetizing vapor from the pistol was none other than Secret Agent X.
Chapter II
MAN-TRAP
TWO hours before the appearance of the Secret Agent at the Franconia Roof, X had received a visit from an important Washington official who preferred that his identity should be kept secret under the name of K9. Agent X had been engaged in the past week in the investigation of the disappearance of Leon Vonicky, an ex-racket baron who had been a prisoner on the island of Alcatraz. The visit from K9 had been with the purpose of diverting the Agent’s talents in another direction.
Washington had received news of appalling crimes committed in Europe—crime trade-marked in each case by a slip of paper bearing a crimson circle and left on the scene of the atrocity. In important European capitals, keystone men in various war departments, had disappeared. These men were scientists, generally speaking, who had in their possession information and formulas of momentous importance to the war machinery of their respective governments.
Soviet Russia had been amazed to find that Dmitri Zosimoff, aeronautical engineer associated with the government, seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth. Berlin had lost her Dr. Gruse, famed radio and electrical engineer. Similarly, Dr. Pascal, a British chemist who was heading the empire’s movement toward better defense against poison gas, had apparently been snatched from his bed. Other nations had lost other important scientists.
But nothing could have been more shocking than the murder of Reni Cartier in Paris, a crime marked by the crimson circle. It was Cartier, and Cartier alone, who was in possession of the most envied chemical poison formula in militaristic Europe—the formula for the destructive poison gas which bore his name, the deadly Cartier-site.
K9 had briefly recalled the details of the crime. The body of Reni Cartier had been found in his study. The body, K9 had emphasized that point. For Reni Cartier had been as neatly decapitated as if he had gone to the guillotine. And once again the lurid mark of the red circle had been found.
The ever alert Secret Agent X was not entirely ignorant of these crimes. On the contrary, he had been extremely interested in the scope of the society which marked its deeds in red. But Europe had been the hatching place of so many terrorist groups that he had refused to take seriously this new menace apparently remote from his own country. But the visit from K9 had brought home suddenly the fact that the crimson circle had not confined its nefarious schemes to Europe alone.
Lieutenant Kroger, K9 informed X, one of the army’s most trusted test pilots had taken the government’s most jealously guarded mystery ship up for a trial flight. This plane, a small, swift bomber, had been rendered virtually invisible at night even in the beams of searchlights, by means of a totally different camouflaging material. Plane and pilot had vanished into the sky and had never been heard of thereafter.
A few days later, an envelope opened in the office of K9 had contained a piece of paper upon which had been drawn a crimson circle—a letter “O” perhaps, or perhaps it was a zero. And Agent X knew that the strange organization had extended its powerful arm to America.
Consulting the records of his staff of secret operatives, X learned that coincidental with the advent of the society in the United States was the arrival of the ever beautiful, ever dangerous Countess Savinna. And the countess seemed to be an excellent starting point for his investigation. In the past decade no European plot had been complete without the scheming of the countess, and X thought it not unlikely that she was in some way involved with the activity of the group which K9 had mentioned.
Accordingly, X had located the present whereabouts of the countess—the Franconia Roof—had adopted one of his many stock disguises, and had gone to the roof-garden immediately, only to arrive a few minutes after the occurrence of the strange tragedy….
NO sooner had Agent X knocked out Timothy Scallot by means of the powerful gas gun, which he greatly preferred to lethal weapons, than he swung across to the manager’s office and carefully locked the door. He was confident that none had seen him enter, and in perfect secrecy he would be able to carry out the daring plan that had occurred to him upon the spur of the moment.
He set out on the café manager’s desk the equipment that had aided him to attain the name of “The Man of a Thousand Faces.” His make-up kit contained tubes of plastic material of his own formula, which when applied to his skin enabled him to assume any facial contour. Also, there were various pigments with which the Agent could assume any color of complexion. Toupees kept in readiness in the pockets of the kit would enable him to match Tim Scallot’s dark hair to perfection.
These accessories, together with X’s unequaled power to impersonate voices and mannerisms would enable him to create another miracle masquerade. So zealously guarded by the police was the entrance to the roof-garden, that only through
the impersonation of Detective Scallot could he hope to gain admittance.
For seven minutes, Secret Agent X was a sculptor with the unconscious Timothy Scallot as a model. His long tapering fingers molded, in plastic material, on his own face, the high cheek bones, lean jaw, and straight nose that belonged to Scallot. He then duplicated the color of Scallot’s complexion and concluded the facial disguise with the addition of a dark-brown toupee. A change of clothes was necessary, and the Agent found that Scallot’s gray suit fitted him quite well. A test of his vocal powers convinced him that he was able to imitate the detective’s somewhat harsh voice.
Having concealed the unconscious Scallot in a small coat closet, he pocketed his make-up kit, went to the door and unlocked it. Six wide steps led to the roof-garden proper and upon the steps several police were on guard. One of them hailed X cheerfully and announced that Inspector Burks would be along shortly. As X would have passed through the door, an elevator bobbed to the floor and discharged two men who hurried toward the short flight of steps leading to the roof.
One of these, a man with reddish hair, a freckled face, and not unpleasant features advanced toward the police guard. His worried blue eyes were magnified by an enormous pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. He would have been considered tall, had it not been for his habitual stoop. His lean, capable fingers were knotted in front of him.
The man who accompanied him had a head remarkably broad across the jowls and tapering to a narrow forehead. Oxford glasses, fitted with a broad black ribbon pinched the bridge of his button nose. This man X recognized immediately as Dr. Malcolm Balmer, a physician held in high esteem by other members of his profession. His worried looking companion, however, X had never seen before.
DR. BALMER looked at X, and then at the police guards. He set his Oxfords more firmly upon his diminutive nose and cleared his throat so violently that his flabby cheeks trembled. He started to say something, but his stooped, worried companion interrupted.
“Smith is my name, sir,” the stooped man addressed one of the police.
“And lots of other guy’s names,” growled the cop, spreading his legs as though to more effectively block off the entrance to the roof-garden.
Smith wrung his hands. His brow became even more furrowed. “You don’t understand, captain. I’m Mr. Clyde Dewarren’s private secretary. Mr. Dewarren was seized with a nervous attack or something, and some one phoned for his doctor. Mr. Dewarren’s being held here, is he not, in regard to this suicide or whatever it was. Dear me, but I can’t imagine why anyone would want to jump off a roof, can you?” Smith laughed nervously. “I—that is—you see I’ve brought Dr. Balmer.” His left hand released its mate, and Smith waved limply at Dr. Balmer.
The cop teetered to his toes and nodded knowingly. “So you’re Clyde Dewarren’s doctor?”
“I’m Dr. Balmer.” The reply rumbled from Balmer’s big mouth.
“Okeh, you can go in. But there wasn’t anything said about any secretary.”
Smith was wringing his hands again. “You don’t understand. Why, Mr. Dewarren is like a son to me!”
The police guffawed. The worried secretary looked no more than twenty-five years of age.
“Well, then—hrrruff—it’s all right that I go in?” asked Balmer.
A cop nodded and asked: “How about the secretary, Scallot?”
“Let him in,” replied X. Then following the nervous Smith, X entered the roof.
It required all of the Agent’s self control to master the shock he received on looking about him. Women, once young and beautiful, seemed to have lived through years of hell in a few minutes. Soft, fair skin was dry and shriveled as if exposed to the heat of a blast furnace. Gray-haired, tearful old women in silks and satins! As for the men—they looked as though they had discarded the linen wrappings of Egyptian sarcophaguses for modern dinner coats. Two physicians, hastily recruited, were hurrying among the victims, administering sedatives to calm dangerously palpitating hearts. Cartier-site, war’s newest hell, had been at work.
Agent X knew that the minutes of his unrestricted action on the Franconia roof were measured. Time enough for surmises and deductions later. He swung around and saw Clyde Dewarren. The munitions millionaire looked old and haggard, but he showed none of the effects of the deadly gas. Either the dye on his hair had been proof against the bleaching properties of the Cartier-site, or he had not been on the roof when the attack occurred.
Dewarren was in a chair with Dr. Balmer crouching in front of him with a stethoscope to his ears. Smith, Dewarren’s lanky secretary, was hovering over his employer like an anxious hen over a brood of chicks. The beautiful Countess Savinna sat proud and erect on the edge of her chair, her red lips pouting, her deep blue eyes looking scornfully about her at the old women that the gas had made of women younger than she.
X WOULD have joined the group about Clyde Dewarren at once had it not been that on the other side of the roof he sighted a trim little figure whose sweet, appealing face and bright golden hair sent the Agent’s heart beating a little faster. The girl was Betty Dale, ace reporter on the Herald and the Agent’s chief ally and confidante. The girl was seated at a table, busily scribbling in her notebook.
X strode briskly across the roof-garden and stopped at the table where Betty sat. He stood there, silently watching and admiring the girl for a moment. She looked up, blue eyes inquiring.
“No reporters were to be admitted, Miss Dale,” said X sternly.
The brilliant, unaffected smile that was evidently responsible for Betty’s success in getting through the police guard, flashed at Agent X. “I’m really not in the way at all, am I?” she asked.
“This won’t do at all, young lady.” And X gently disengaged the girl’s pencil from her fingers.
“Oh, please—” Betty checked her words. She was watching, fascinated by what her pencil, in the Agent’s fingers, was doing. With incredible speed, the pencil traced a faint X on the page of Betty’s notebook. The light of recognition shone in her eyes.
“Betty,” X whispered, “will you do me a favor?”
“Thousands of ’em!”
“Then watch the woman with the blue-black hair—the one with Clyde Dewarren. Find out all about her you can—past activities and just what she’s doing in this country.”
“Countess Savinna, you mean?”
“Countess Savinna,” X echoed softly.
“Right,” said Betty. “And there’s another foreigner here tonight. About the only survivor of this awful business who can control his nerves and talk sense. His name’s Recklow. His Oxford accent is fourteen carat.”
“Bob Recklow?” X mused. “Now what do you suppose—”
Betty pointed with her pencil. “Over there, leaning against the rail. That old man. See?”
X knew Robert Recklow of old, for when X had been an intelligence officer in the American forces during the war, Recklow had held a similar position in the British army. Recklow, his hair now completely white, his tanned cheeks looking like grained leather, was still virile and determined looking.
X nodded farewell to Betty and hurriedly joined Recklow at the rail. “Mr. Recklow, I believe?”
Recklow turned slowly, his keen eyes meeting the Agent’s unflinchingly. “Yes,” he replied. “You are a representative of the law?”
X nodded. “And I’d like a word with you in private.” He took the Britisher by the arm and guided him across the roof to a little penthouse that had been turned into a pavilion for private dinners. Opening one of the French windows in the pavilion, X found the place deserted. He led Recklow in and closed the door behind them.
“Sit down,” X invited. Recklow accepted the offered chair courteously. “And now,” said X gently, “why have you come to America, Mr. Recklow?”
RECKLOW shrugged. “No particular reason. I had been nearly everywhere else. Why not America this time?”
X smiled. “You needn’t be reticent with me, Recklow. Your past record has my frank admirati
on. You were sent here to look into the mysterious disappearance of Dr. Pascal who was doing such clever scientific work for your government. You were sent here because not only did you hope to find traces of Pascal, but also because you wanted to solve the mystery of a certain mark—a crimson circle, perhaps?”
“Amazing, my dear sir!” declared Recklow. “But the mark, you know, isn’t a circle. It is a zero, a naught, you understand?” Recklow put a thin cigar between his firm teeth. His keen eyes were fastened on X’s face. “But I say, you’re really not a policeman at all!”
Smiling, X shook his head. “You’re right. Of course the business of this red circle, or zero, has not got out among members of the police force yet. I happen to be a federal agent.”
Recklow raised an eyebrow at this statement, but made no comment.
“Just how far have you gone in this business, Recklow. What can you tell me of this strange society?”
“Weird society,” Recklow corrected. “A better term. This affair tonight—this strange gas attack, was the work of Emperor Zero. Its purpose was to wipe out an informer of mine by the name of Eastman. That others felt the effects of the poison gas, seemed to make little difference to those monsters who dropped from the sky. When you first entered the roof-garden, you asked me something about the criminals. Remember? I told you they were like giant bats. Believe me,” and the iron Recklow shuddered slightly, “I have no other means of describing them.”
X drew up a chair facing Recklow. “Suppose,” he said, “you tell me all that you’ve learned in regard to this Emperor Zero. That’s what you called him?”
Recklow nodded. “That is what I said. But look here, you really haven’t shown me your credentials yet.”
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 6 Page 2