X was thoughtfully silent.
“But I didn’t see him,” Betty continued. “And I did see Countess Savinna—in Rubens’ office. Not in the flesh, and I don’t think anyone would have noticed the picture unless they had the discerning eyes of a reporter.” Betty turned to the range, looked over her shoulder at X.
“Interested?”
“The Countess Savinna’s picture in Sam Rubens’ office,” mused the Agent. “Go on.”
“The picture is that of a chorine, framed and standing on Rubens’ desk.”
X frowned. “I can’t picture the countess in a Broadway show.”
“She wasn’t,” Betty said. “The chorus girl’s picture had been neatly decapitated and the haughty head of the Countess Savinna substituted. In other words, Rubens is the countess’ ardent admirer, has her picture where he can always see it, and be pretty sure that no one would recognize it!”
“Good girl,” said X. Admiration glowed in his strange dark eyes. “A call on friend Rubens will be my next move. The countess is in love with Zero. She says she’s never seen him. Maybe so and maybe not. But she has been associated with Rubens, and he is in love with her. Hmm.”
“Yes?” Betty urged. Then the smile on her face slowly vanished.
The Agent held a warning finger in the air. He was listening intently. “Callers,” he whispered. “Stay where you are.”
X tiptoed to the kitchen door, his hand hovering over the pocket that held his gas pistol. His keen ears detected slight rustling sounds on the other side of the panel. Suddenly, he swung open the door and sprang into the room, gas gun drawn. Two shapeless, brown creatures, like giant bats with folded wings, were passing through the door, carrying between them the unconscious countess.
One of the monsters turned its head. Glassy, goggling eyes in a leather, beast-like mask stared at him. Then some sixth sense warned the Agent. He turned his head slightly to the left and detected a brown, monstrous shadow moving across the room. He whirled, then stood still as stone while a third bat-creature moved slowly toward him. In the black, talon-like hands of the monster was a gleaming cylinder that looked something like a fire extinguisher. A lever, mounted at an acute angle to the side of the cylinder was grasped in one black claw. And the gloved fingers were on the point of constricting.
IT was then that Agent X knew terror—not for himself, but for the loyal girl that was in the next room. Though he had never seen Zero’s deadly gas in action, he quickly guessed that the cylinder in the bat-thing’s hand was some sort of gun for handling the stuff. X knew that for the bat-men’s own protection against Cartier-site, they wore those odd, goggle-eyed masks that added considerable to their terrifying appearance. If the monster should release his cloud of hell in the apartment, Betty would be reduced in a few seconds to a gray-haired wrinkled old woman, who would die the horrible dancing death.
Six feet separated X from the pent-up horror within the bat-man’s gun. The Agent acted on the impulse of the moment. He half leaped and half fell toward his formidable foe. At the same instant, he drove out with his left fist, not at the bat-man, but at the creature’s gun. His balled fist wedged tightly between the gas cylinder and the lever just as the bat-man squeezed. X scarcely was aware of the agony as the lever gouged into his flesh. He knew only that not a single cubic centimeter of the gas could be released as long as the flesh and bone of his hand held together.
The bat-man’s left hand shot out to the Agent’s throat. The gloved fingers closed on his larynx. X sent a futile blow with the butt of his pistol to the head of the monster. The mask covered both head and face and offered sufficient protection. Ordinarily, X could have laid the bat-man out with a blow to any of the important nerve centers of the body. But the strange garb covered the would-be killer completely, and X had but one hand. As swirling red mist clouded his vision, as his heart drummed frantically at his temples, X did the only thing that could possibly have saved himself and Betty. He drove his pistol-barrel, with all his strength, straight at one of the monster’s goggled eyes. Glass shattered.
The creature shrieked as cutting fragments needled his flesh and eye. Then, as X pulled the trigger, the bat-man sank with an ominous, shroud-like rustle to the floor, dragging X with him. The fingers on X’s throat relaxed. There was no longer any pressure on the lever of the dangerous weapon. X pulled his bleeding fist from beneath the lever and gingerly removed the dangerous weapon from the bat-man’s grasp. He turned to the door and looked down the hall. Empty. The other bat-men and the countess were gone.
“All right, Betty,” called X. “We’ve caught something.”
Betty entered the room, sent only a passing glance at the bat-man. Her face had suddenly gone pale. “You’re hurt!” she gasped. “Your hand.”
X wiggled his bleeding fingers to ascertain that no bones were broken. “I’ll patch it up in no time.” He knelt beside his captive. “It’s one of those new Russian flying suits he’s wearing. Supposed to displace parachutes, and much handier, because the folding wings enable the bat-man to steer himself. That’s how the devils got on the Franconia Roof. Jumped from a plane. The roof, lighted as it was, made an easy mark for them. Now they’ve carried off the countess. Two alternatives there—either they were a bodyguard rescuing her; or else Zero thought to kidnap you and forgot to tell his men about the color of your hair. I’ll have to get this fellow out of here. He needs medical attention.” And X lifted the bat-man bodily.
Betty seized his coat sleeve. “You’ll do nothing of the sort! You’re the one who needs medical attention. And I’m going to see that you get it.”
X shook his head. “No time now. You’ll hear from me right away. Take care of yourself. They may—” As he passed the window going to the door with his strange burden, something in the street caught his eye. A car with powerful headlights. Shadowy forms getting into it—bat-men carrying the unconscious Countess Savinna.
Suddenly, two figures sprang from the shadowy court of the apartment building. Pale light from the early morning sky gleamed on the visor of a policeman’s cap. A revolver flashed into prominence and spat splinters of orange-red flame. Three wild shots—as the car lurched from the curb. Then a hideous, masked head appeared at the car window and a blunt cylinder was thrust through the opening. A cloud of pinkish vapor rushed from the cylinder, enveloping the two men who had tried to stop the car.
The car hustled down the street. The two new victims danced and twisted their helpless, aging bodies in the grip of deadly Cartier-site. Then they dropped exhausted and dying to the pavement. The policeman was huddled against the curb and the other victim was stretched out in the full light of a street light.
Even from where he stood, X recognized the wrinkled face, the white moustache, and the square shoulders of the man. Robert Recklow, who had evidently been on the countess’ trail. And a few moments later, when X had descended into the street, he knew that Britain’s greatest secret agent was dead.
Chapter V
DEATH AT DEWARREN’S
THE interval between the discovery of the death of Robert Recklow and dawn was a busy one for Secret Agent X and Jim Hobart as well. The redheaded chief of the Hobart Agency was completely bewildered when “Mr. Martin” appeared at the agency office with the still unconscious Lieutenant Kroger, and the captured bat-man. Kroger, X ordered, was to use the agency as a sanctuary until such a time as his difficulties could be ironed out.
The man who wore the bat-like flying suit, received medical attention for the wounds on his face. Then X left the gun containing the Cartier-gas. A cipher expert in the Hobart organization was to get to work immediately on the message which X had received in the Squaw’s Place.
Then followed a period of apparent inactivity for Agent X. All that day there was a certain hush over the city that foreboded evil. Police investigation of the tragedy that had wiped out the inhabitants of an entire tenement came to naught. Nor was there a single leading clue as to the identity of the murderers of Robert Recklow
and the policeman who had attempted to aid him in stopping the bat-man’s car.
A report from Timothy Scallot to Harvey Bates was a vaguely ominous prophesy. Bates relayed Scallot’s own words to Agent X: “Something big hatching at headquarters. Commissioner Foster’s office as silent as a tomb. Everybody looks as though they were trying to sit tight on the top of a rumbling volcano.”
Afternoon came and Agent X, in the office which he leased in the name of Martin, received a report from Hobart.
“The bat-man is either crazy or scared to death, Mr. Martin,” said Hobart. “He claims he doesn’t know who Emperor Zero is.”
“Probably he’s speaking the truth,” X said. “Anything from that cipher?”
“Yeah. It’s not an unusual type, our expert says. It belongs to the sentence-for-a-word classification and employs the one-two-three key. A sentence with five words means a word of five letters. The first letter of the message is the initial letter of the first word in the cryptogram. The second letter of the second word is the second letter in the cryptogram. Here’s the way it worked: First sentence of the cipher was: ‘Read book Louise loaned David.’ Employing the key, we use the first letter of ‘read, the second of ‘book,’ the third of ‘Louise,’ the fourth of ‘loaned,’ and so on. First sentence works out the word ‘Round.’ Continuing on through the message, we get: ‘Round up the old gang at the old place.’ And that still means less than nothing.”
X could not agree with Hobart on that point. Vonicky was obviously alive and working with Zero. The message, had it been received by Studsy Parker, would have meant the mobilization of Vonicky’s old crowd of gunmen. Where the ‘old place’ could be, X had no idea. At any rate, since the message had not gone through, X believed the efforts of Vonicky to bring the old henchmen together were of secondary importance at the moment.
A meeting with Betty Dale that afternoon had found the girl obviously disturbed. She was more than solicitous for the Agent’s safety. “There’s something wrong,” she told X. “It’s like when you’re expecting a big story to break, only you don’t know where the break is going to come.”
Later, having affected a complete change of disguise and equipped himself with the proper credentials, Agent X left the Martin office. He appeared to be a heavier man than Martin, thanks to the artful padding of the suit he wore. The sandy complexion that went with the Martin disguise had been darkened and a black toupee was substituted for the light one. The credentials in his pocket claimed that he was a federal agent. Forgeries, they were, for Washington had never heard of a man in the G-men ranks known as Jack Archer.
X ARRIVED at Sam Rubens’ Gay Mill in time for an early supper. He entered that portion of the café which was divided into small booths. In passing one of these stalls, X noticed a face familiar to him and to nearly everyone in the city. Bushy black eyebrows jutted fiercely above discerning black eyes. The man’s hair was fine and pure white, and his face was deeply furrowed. Though nearly seventy years old, Grover Mace—philanthropist, who had made his millions as a pioneer in the electrical communications industry—was as erect and square shouldered as a man of thirty.
Though Mace scorned politics, as politics, he never neglected to publicly voice his opinion on any question, and it was often an opinion that carried considerable weight. He had many enemies and many friends. X, certain that Grover Mace was not in the Gay Mill without some purpose, other than dining, slid into the booth next to the one occupied by the millionaire. Sam Rubens had not yet arrived and X was curious about Grover Mace’s presence.
“I tell you, sir, I’d much rather you’d go home,” said a vaguely familiar voice from the next booth.
“Home!” snorted Mace. “You may be able to tell Clyde Dewarren when to go home, but just because you happen to run into me here and I ask you to eat with me is no reason for you to think you can take the helm of my ship!”
And Agent X knew that the man with Grover Mace was Smith, Clyde Dewarren’s perpetually worried secretary.
“But you amaze me, sir!” exclaimed Smith, aghast. “This Rubens, from what I’ve heard, is a very unscrupulous person, and there is no telling—”
“I amaze you, do I?” snapped Mace. “Well, I’ll amaze Sam Rubens, too.” He banged his plate with the handle of his knife.
“But what occasions such a resolution on your part?” asked Smith. It was obvious, from his tone, that he doubted the old man’s sanity.
Mace chuckled. “State secret, Smith. You’ll never know. And if everything goes well, the whole of New York will never know. But there, I’ve said more than I should right now. I only know that a certain woman of your employer’s acquaintance has been here to see Rubens and—Hello. There’s the little rat now.” Mace’s voice dropped to a whisper.
Leaning slightly to the right, Agent X saw a small, wasp-waisted man with smooth cheeks of an unpleasant, jaundiced yellow. His clothes were extremely modish and he walked with an exaggerated swagger, nodding curtly to cashier and head-waiter as he crossed the room to open a walnut door that led to his office.
Grover Mace stood up. X could see the mop of fine white hair over the top of the partition. Mace stepped out of the stall, buttoning his coat, squaring his shoulders and snorting like an impatient war horse.
Smith, too, left the table. Blue eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses were particularly anxious. The wrinkles in his forehead had doubled. His hands rested pleadingly on Mace’s coat sleeve. “If—if you go in there, I’ll—I’ll call the police.”
Mace’s fierce eyes rested on Smith’s worried face. “You’ll do nothing of the sort!”
Smith watched Mace walk toward the door through which Rubens had passed. He was wringing his hands as if in utter despair.
Mace’s noisy, fire-eating words had attracted the attention of the handful of patrons in the café and they were regarding Mace and Dewarren’s secretary with amusement. Smith hesitatingly approached the door through which Mace had passed. Twice, his hand neared the knob and dropped from it before he actually brought himself to open the door. And as he mustered courage to enter, X saw that there was a look of determination on his thin, freckled face.
The moment of Smith’s disappearance, the diners seemed to forget the incident entirely. And X, slipping noiselessly from his booth, followed Smith through the walnut door.
HE found himself in a sumptuously furnished ante-chamber, Rubens’ office evidently lying just beyond a door with a frosted glass. Smith, hovering anxiously in front of this door, started when X entered. His hands, clasped in front of him, began making knots of themselves.
“What’s eatin’ you, buddy?” asked X softly.
“Why—why I’m afraid there’s going to be trouble. I don’t know just what sort. It’s Mr. Grover Mace. Know him, sir?”
X nodded. “Trouble, eh?”
“You—you’re not a gangster?” asked Smith timidly.
X shook his head and flashed a badge that neatly counterfeited the symbol of the Department of Justice.
Smith muttered a fervent thanks and immediately bent his ear to the door of Ruben’s office.
Mace, who had confined his words to a whisper, suddenly could contain himself no longer. “You know what I’m going to do with you, you dirty little rat? I’m going to slam the daylights out of you until you start talking. This isn’t a matter for police. It’s for you and me alone. You’re in that damned plot and you know it. I’ve seen the woman come here and—well, damn my eyes, if that don’t look like her picture!” Mace could be heard tramping across the room.
“Now slow down a little, Mr. Mace.” Sam Rubens’ voice was high pitched and wheedling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. A plot? Why, how could I be in any plot? You won’t tell me what this plot of yours is. Are you sure you haven’t been sampling a little too much of my liquor?”
Mace snorted. “Never touch the poisonous stuff. You mean to say you’ve never heard of a man who calls himself Emperor Zero?”
“Never he
ard of the chap in my life,” replied Rubens easily.
Smith looked at X. “Whatever are they talking about?”
X shook his head. He tried the knob of the door. Locked.
Again Mace’s leonine roar sounded. “Then I’m going to knock the living daylights out of you, old as I am. And you’ll talk!”
There was the thud of knuckles striking somebody’s jaw. Teeth clashed together. A body hit the floor. Smith had his handkerchief out. It was wadded over his right fist. He looked quizzically at X, saw the Agent nod, and drove his protected fist at the pane of frosted glass. It shattered with a resounding din.
X’s hand shot through the opening, twisting the catch. The toe of Smith’s shoe kicked the panel open. X and the secretary were through the door at the same time. Sam Rubens was on the floor. Mace was stooping over him, the sleeves of his coat tight with the powerful muscles that bulged beneath them.
But there were three others in the room—husky plug-uglies who constituted Rubens’ bodyguard. One of them had an automatic which swung toward the door as Smith and X entered.
X launched himself straight at the armed man. Though his gas pistol was in his hand, he dared not use it except at extremely close range for fear of the spreading gas laying out Mace and Smith as well as the criminals. The bodyguard’s gun roared. A slug walloped X’s chest, the terrific impact checking him for a split second.
The Agent’s right fist closed over his gas pistol, swung straight toward the pug’s jaw, and landed with pile-driver force that sent the man reeling across the room to strike the wall. On his feet, Sam Rubens made the mistake of attacking X from the rear. He sprang upon the Agent’s back where he remained for an incalculable fraction of a second before a jiu-jitsu grip dashed him across the room to fall over his unconscious bodyguard.
IN the meantime, Smith had pitched in. His flying tackle had taken one of the mobsters completely by surprise and the two were rolling on the floor. X saw that old Mace, fire-eater that he was, was staggering under the effects of a blow from the third mobster. As the pug launched a haymaker that would surely have floored the old man, X drove up his arm checking the blow. Then his fist came rocketing, and the third pug melted to the floor.
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 6 Page 5