Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 6
Page 4
“Kill anybody?” X asked.
The flyer shook his head. “I didn’t do a thing. But you see thish hand?” He held up his right hand, fingers wide spread. “Well, I got more fingersh—no, I got more G-men lookin’ for me than I got fingersh on that hand. And what’d I do? You ask me.”
“What did you do?” asked X.
“I went up in an airplane that nobody’d flew before. I wassh shuposhed to try it out. Then my ignition got fushy and the motor died on me. I made a forshed landing and a lot of guysh that thought they could fight jumped my collar. I showed them a thing or two!”
“Mopped up on them, eh?”
“On about four of ’em,” replied the airman. “Then they got too mush for me. An’ a guy they called Nero, or something like that, told somebody to busht me one. An’ shome one did. Now every G-man in the country’sh lookin’ for me on account they think I shtole their damn crate. That’sh why I’m shthayin’ here. A big guy put me wise to thish place. Rotten whishky!” He looked through the empty glass at Agent X. “Have a drink?”
“What’s your name, pal?” asked X.
“Kroger, with a ‘K’,” replied the man. Then he started scowling at the whisky puddle on the table.
X got up and turned back toward the room which he had first entered. Just as he was passing through the door, he saw Studsy Parker coming down the steps. X waited, peering through the gloom to see Parker go to the opposite end of the basement and open another door.
Parker had a beer bottle in one hand and a couple of sandwiches in the other. X followed the man and saw him pause in front of a door that was carefully padlocked. There was some one else in the hideout, and Agent X was certain that he knew who that person was. He knew that one habit of Vonicky’s was having beer and sandwiches at midnight. X stepped from the doorway and said:
“Studsy!”
Studsy Parker, who was on the point of fitting keys into the padlock, swung around quickly. “What’s the matter, Steve?” he asked nervously.
X didn’t say anything. He simply walked straight across the room toward the door which Parker had been about to open.
“They’re fryin’ you a steak big enough to choke an ostrich, Steve,” said Parker, forcing a grin. He sneaked the padlock keys back in his pocket.
X pointed at the locked door. “Who you got in there, Studsy?”
Parker paled. “Why, there ain’t nobody in there.” He looked at the bottle of beer as though he wondered how it had got in his hand. “I was just bringin’ you this grub, that’s all.”
“You got Vonicky in there,” said X softly.
“No, I ain’t!” Parker growled. But his growl hushed suddenly as Agent X flicked an innocent looking cigarette lighter under Parker’s nose. A wisp of gray vapor clouded the gangman’s face. His knees doubled under him and he sank to the floor.
X knelt beside Parker, hastily frisked his pockets and produced the key to the locked door. This he quickly inserted in the padlock, and in another moment swung into the room. X jerked his fountain pen flashlight from his pocket, sent its tiny beam darting through blackness to fall upon the broad back and shoulders—
The flashlight beam trembled slightly. Back and shoulders clad in coarse prison clothes. But the body that was propped up in the chair was headless.
Chapter IV
THE BAT-MEN STRIKE
X APPROACHED the ghastly, headless horror on tiptoe. The narrow finger of his flashlight passed up and down the body. Blood had nearly obliterated the identification numbers on the gray prison coat, but X was able to check them mentally with Leon Vonicky’s numbers. Also, he noticed that fingerprints had been erased by burning the finger tips with acid.
Here in the Squaw’s Place, where the dregs of humanity gathered, was a murder that was an exact counterpart of one committed in Paris some time ago. But in this case, the victim had been a gang chieftain. And in the other, the French gentleman and scientist, Reni Cartier. The arms of Emperor Zero bridged the extremes of humanity.
X wheeled his light around the walls, floor and ceiling. He turned the beam directly beneath the chair where the headless corpse was posed. No blood there. No blood anywhere but upon the clothes of the victim.
A raucous voice broke the heavy silence: “Studsy! A guy wants you on the phone!”
And outside the door, Studsy Parker lay unconscious, under the influence of the Agent’s anesthetizing vapor.
X turned out his light and walked to the door. From there, he could see that the trapdoor above the stairway was open. The Squaw’s head was outlined against the lighted kitchen. But X was certain that the woman could see neither the unconscious Parker nor himself because of the gloom in the basement. He had heard Studsy Parker’s voice only for a few minutes, yet it was indelibly fixed in his mind. Without a moment’s hesitation, he called back:
“You want me?” And his voice was an exact counterpart of the voice of Studsy Parker.
“Get on the phone down there,” directed the woman. “There’s a guy wants to speak with you.”
“Okeh,” replied X, but he waited until the trapdoor had closed before he ventured from the dark doorway. There was a wall phone in the central room of the basement. He went over to it, took down the receiver and said: “Yeah?”
The voice that came from the receiver was utterly void of inflection. “Parker, you will receive an order from Leon Vonicky. One moment.”
X waited, his eyes grimly fixed on the phone as if trying to see the speaker at the other end. The receiver popped as though a connection had been broken or established. Then X heard the voice of a dead man.
“Studsy?”
“Yeah. That you, Vonicky?”
“Me, Studsy. Now get this straight: Read book Louise loaned David. Under operation. Take rheumatism needs. Opera elevating addition. Great days annihilating song. All attend. The philosopher needs. Order altering addition. Patent all plans canceled Wednesday.”
“That’s all?” asked X, who had mentally recorded every word and every pause which indicated the ends of the strange sentences.
“That’s all. The big boss was scared that I’d get hold of the wrong guy. But I told him only you and I knew the code. So long, Studsy.” And the connection was broken.
X was about to hang up when the unemotional voice which had first spoken to him cut in.
“Parker, you will repeat the message that Vonicky gave you.”
“Say, who are you?” asked the Agent.
“I am Emperor Zero. Repeat the message at once.”
X repeated the nonsensical sentences that had constituted Vonicky’s message. When he had concluded, the voice of Zero commanded:
“Now, translate.”
X thought quickly. Though the message was firmly fixed in his mind, it would have required some time for him to decode it. Such an admission would probably brand him as an impostor.
“It wouldn’t be safe to translate, Mr. Zero,” X said. “The Squaw’s upstairs listenin’ in.”
“She can be trusted. I will be responsible, Parker.”
“It will take a little time,” X stalled.
A LOW chuckle sounded in the receiver. “How are you, Secret Agent X? Let me congratulate you on your excellent impersonation of Parker. We shall be meeting soon, I trust.” And Zero hung up.
X replaced the receiver. The man who called himself Zero had tried a long shot that had struck home.
There were, X believed, but two possible solutions to the phantom voice of the murdered Vonicky. Either some one was cleverly impersonating Vonicky, or else Vonicky was still alive. Another body, similar in build, might have been left in Vonicky’s hideout and dressed in Vonicky’s clothes. If such was the case, the purpose of the hoax was clear. The Squaw, when she discovered the headless corpse, would be forced to get it out of her establishment. Eventually, the body would be found by the police, who would have to depend upon the clothes for identification. Vonicky would then be pronounced dead and the search for him abandoned.
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Quickly entering the room where the flyer was still seated at the table, X went over and dragged him out of his chair. Kroger was too drunk to offer any resistance.
X slung the flier’s right arm over his own shoulders and carried him into the next room. There he suddenly released his grip and allowed Kroger to slump to the floor. He needed every finger on both hands for the job ahead of him, for at the foot of the stairway stood the Squaw, the bleary-eyed man she had called Joe, and a lean, flashily-dressed man with a mouse-tailed moustache. All three held automatics. There was no longer any doubt but that the Agent’s conversation had been heard on the phone upstairs.
“Steve Yoritz from Cleveland!” scoffed the Squaw. “That gives me a laugh!”
“Listen, you,” X blustered. “That guy was nuts. Sure, I answered the phone for Studsy. Studsy took sick or somethin’ an’ I thought I could pick up some easy coin by musclin’ in on Studsy’s private racket.”
The Squaw stepped back a pace and kicked at the sprawled form of Studsy Parker. “He never had a sick day in his life. He’s out because you knocked him out. And we’re keepin’ you here till the big boss comes.”
“Sure,” said X carelessly. “Only, you’re playin’ with fire. See what I done to your old friend Vonicky?” He nodded toward the door of the next room. “Take a look.”
The Squaw turned around, opened the door, and looked in. It was dark as when X had entered. The Agent could hear her groping for the light. She found it, switched it on—and immediately uttered a horrified scream.
X had been counting on that scream. It took something to get a cry from the Squaw. Joe and the other gunman involuntarily turned their heads for a split-second. Enough time for X to get his hand into his pocket and draw out one of those little glass capsules containing concentrated anesthetizing gas.
The thin, mustached man noted the movement out of the corner of his eye. But before he could take aim, X had hurled the glass capsule against the wall. It shattered to fragments, discharging its gray cloud in all directions. The thin man hit the floor.
A shot from Joe’s gun dug splinters from a wooden partition before Joe collapsed from the effects of the gas. The Squaw turned into the room, gun raised. But the gas had spread quickly. Her ordinarily wooden face registered surprise, and she sagged across the sill to fall over one of her allies.
X, immune to his own powerful weapon by virtue of his ability to hold his breath for a considerable length of time, went into action as soon as the capsule struck the wall. He swung around, seized the unconscious Kroger about the middle, lifted him, and swung him over his shoulder. He made for the steps, and in spite of his burden, ran to the top where he entered the kitchen through the trapdoor.
There he paused only long enough for breath before carrying Kroger through the back door and into a filthy court. Never more than a few blocks from one of his many hideouts located throughout the city, X entered the alley and turned north. Passing three doors in that direction, he turned into a yard behind a lodging house.
Entering the back door, he creaked up steps to the third floor where he had one of his hideouts. There he kept a complete wardrobe and make-up material as well as a sizable arsenal of his special, non-lethal weapons.
X DROPPED the unconscious Kroger on the bed, went to the closet and removed a suit of neutral gray and a satchel containing make-up supplies. It required but a few minutes for him to assume the commonplace features and the sandy toupee which identified him as A.J. Martin, ace news reporter.
Having completed his disguise and supplied himself with a gas gun and extra cartridges, X left the house, carrying Kroger with him. A small garage at the back housed one of the Agent’s special cars. In another moment, he was speeding down the street.
He set a furious pace over the comparatively deserted streets. But as he turned into a street occupied chiefly by modern apartment houses, he slammed on the brakes and pulled the car over to the curb. As he had flashed by one particular apartment house, he had sighted a light in a certain window on the fourth floor. He threw the transmission into reverse and backed the car until he was directly opposite the building in question.
It was the house where Betty Dale lived, and the light was coming from her window. X looked at the clock on his instrument board. The dial registered three A.M.
Before he left the car, he made slight alterations in his disguise—changes that he could easily and quickly repair when it became necessary for him to return to the character of A.J. Martin.
Kroger was still unconscious in the back seat of the car. X covered him with a light robe.
Leaving the car, he entered the building and ascended the steps quietly. Outside of Betty’s door, he stopped and pressed his ear against the panel. Inside the room, someone was talking. He caught a few words, which by reason of emphasis, were audible. “Unless…. I will press this—the palms of your hands. You will wish you were dead, Miss Dale!”
X’s right hand went into his pocket and he jerked out a bunch of master keys. The correct one located, he thrust it into the keyhole, twisted it, and flung open the door. A stabbing motion of his hand and he held his gas pistol. Its barrel swung menacingly and centered on the insolently beautiful face of Countess Savinna.
In her hand was a three-tined fork which she had heated red-hot on the range in Betty’s kitchenette. For a moment, Agent X allowed his eyes to leave the countess and turn to Betty Dale. The girl was bound in a chair.
THE moment that X’s eyes left Countess Savinna’s face, the treacherous woman raised the heated fork and flung it straight at the Agent’s head. X saw it coming, ducked, and felt the heat of the steel as it passed his cheeks. Then he sprang across the room in time to seize the countess’ wrist just as she reached for a small automatic that lay upon a little table.
Still gripping her wrist, X twisted the countess around. “Particularly anxious to die young, aren’t you, countess?” he said with cold menace in his voice. He picked up the woman’s gun and shoved it into his pocket. The countess’ eyes were nearly closed. Her petulant lower lip was trembling slightly.
“Please let go of my wrist. You’re hurting me.”
X released the woman, but kept his gun trained on her. To Betty, he said:
“Why is this woman here?”
“I was working late,” explained Betty, looking closely at X, “and she knocked at the door. I opened the door a little and found myself looking into the barrel of a gun. She compelled me to admit her, tied me in this chair, and wanted me to tell where I could find—” Betty’s blue eyes stared at this man she had never seen before, and she left the sentence unfinished.
X looked at the countess. The woman’s eyes were appealing, tearful. “So when you want an address,” said X, “you find it easier to torture the information from somebody than to look in the directory.”
The countess’ eyes flamed. “This address isn’t in any directory, Secret Agent X! Oh, I know you. Who else could have entered so opportunely? I know that this girl is your friend. Last night I saw—what the police did not see. I saw Betty Dale save you from the police. She acted so innocent that she fooled Burks. But being a woman, I know women. I would do much more for a man I loved. That is why I came here tonight. I know that above everything else, Emperor Zero wants Secret Agent X. I thought perhaps that if I knew where X might be found, Zero would permit me to serve him.”
“Then you are not a member of Zero’s society?” X asked dubiously.
“I am not. I have never seen him. Yet I love him for his power and for his principles.”
X raised his eyebrows. “Oh, the emperor has principles?” he asked mockingly.
“Greater, truer principles than any living man. He has discovered the ideal method of progress by selection.”
“I understand,” said X softly. “He believes in selecting a few persons whom he considers valuable to himself. Then he intends to destroy everyone else. A large order, my friend.” And without a word of warning, he pulled the tri
gger of his gas-gun. The powerful gas swirled into the countess’ face. Her lips parted in a cry that was never uttered. She fell forward into the Agent’s arms. He carried her to the davenport, then returned to Betty.
“Poor child!” he whispered as he cut the cords that bound her to the chair. “This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t put over that trick on the Franconia Roof last night.”
“Nothing’s happened, really,” said Betty with a smile. “The things that nearly happen never count.”
“Don’t think me ungrateful for what you did for me, Betty. But it was a rash thing for you to do.”
“You should have seen Inspector Burks’ face!” Betty exclaimed. X knew that she intended to pay absolutely no attention to his gentle chiding. She shook off the last strand of rope that had confined her to the chair and stood up. Looking around at the davenport, her eyes encountered Countess Savinna. “Beautiful, isn’t she?” Betty murmured. “But I believe she’s more than half mad.”
“A fanatic, at any rate,” replied X.
“Come into the kitchen and I’ll show you all I’ve been able to find out about her. Right after I wrote up the roof-garden tragedy, I went through our morgue. I’ve learned lots about her, and there’s something that might interest you.” And Betty led the way into the kitchenette, usually so tidy, now strewn with record sheets and clippings. “I was just fixing a bite to eat and looking these things over. Trying to do two things at once,” she explained.
BETTY shuffled through her notes and turned up a small item from the Herald. “Of course, you know that the countess had a finger in European politics. This clipping tells of her arrest just before King Alphonso was forced to leave Spain. She was released as soon as the form of government changed. But the thing that interested me in this item is that she had been convicted, together with a man named Rubens, of plotting a revolution in Spain. It was possible, I thought, that Samuel Rubens, present owner of that supper club known as the Gay Mill, might be the same Rubens who was associated with the countess in Spain. So I went to see Mr. Rubens.”