But escape from the cell and escape from the building were two different things. With no make-up material, X knew that he could not hope to pass the throng that served the evil emperor.
Above the racket made by the besiegers outside the door, X heard a voice, excited and rising above the others:
“Hello! Hello, Zero! Dr. Nells calling. Hello!” Then a muffled oath.
The voice came from the direction of Dr. Nells’ laboratory. X darted across the room and looked into the laboratory. It was empty. But the door of a small side room was open, and through it, X saw the white-coated figure of the scientist.
X crossed the lab on tiptoe. Nells was cursing, working feverishly with something that looked like a rat cage. X leaned against the wall, peering around the door frame into the little side room. There were telephone switchboards and a radio transmitter. On a table in front of a switchboard, X saw an automatic. Nells was closer than X to the gun, but his hands were occupied with the cage which X saw contained a pigeon.
Nells suddenly whirled around, dropped the cage, and dove for the automatic. But X beat him by inches. His flying left arm swept Nells aside. His right hand brought up the automatic. “Not a word,” he cautioned, “or you’re a dead man.”
“You damned fool!” snarled Nells. “Think you can get away with this?”
“I have got away with it,” said X softly. “You found the telephone out of order, didn’t you? The radio, too, no doubt. I discovered the junction block of the whole system.”
Nells grinned evilly. “Don’t fool yourself. You’ve put this place out of touch with Zero, but you haven’t checked him. Why, even now, New York may be a city of crazy, gray-haired dancers—dancing straight to hell.”
“How much more time?” snapped X.
NELLS shrugged. “I’m sure I don’t know. Zero managed the extortion business himself. Though I knew the true motive was extortion, I have paid no attention to his part of the affair. We began this business together—started with small jobs. And now—a city fears us! You are a fool to think you can beat Emperor Zero.”
X glanced at the bird cage at the doctor’s feet. The pigeon had regained its perch and was looking about the room with its tiny, brilliant eyes. X’s eyes traveled up to Nells’ right hand. There was a slip of paper in it. X held out his hand. “Give that to me.”
With an insolent shrug, Nells obeyed. Then suddenly, X moved. He sprang straight at the doctor, driving the automatic into the man’s belly. Nells shrank back. He was visibly trembling. “Where are the things you took from my pockets?” demanded X.
Nells answered sullenly: “In the drawer of that table.”
And no sooner were the words out of his mouth than X swung his fist. Nells tried to duck, but he was seconds slow. The blow landed behind his ear. Nells dropped like a dead thing to the floor.
A crash and a splintering of timbers. Mad shouts from Zero’s men. X wheeled, sprang through the door of the little room into the laboratory. He threw himself against the laboratory door—one last frail wall between himself and Zero’s minions. A powerful body hurled itself against the panel, bulging it. X raised his voice in a mighty shout, but he had assumed the tone and the exact pronunciation of the unconscious Dr. Nells.
“It’s all right, men! I’ve knocked Agent X out!”
Angry shouts became a bewildered muttering. They had believed. He was safe for a moment. He returned to the room of the telephone switchboard and yanked open the drawer of the doctor’s table. His heart gave a joyful bound. Gas gun, tool kit, make-up material, and his case of drugs were all safe. He snapped open the leather-covered drug kit and took from a velvet lined compartment one of those fragile little capsules of anesthetizing vapor.
Then he looked at the scrap of paper he had taken from Nells. Nothing had been written on it; probably X’s sudden entrance had prevented Nells from writing the note. No matter. The paper would serve its purpose. He placed the glass capsule of gas in the center of the piece of paper and rolled it up. He tied the little package with a piece of thread he found on the floor.
Next he picked up the bird cage and removed the pigeon. He had recognized the bird at once as a carrier pigeon, probably reserved by Dr. Nells to communicate with Zero in case of emergency. X tied the roll of paper and the all important glass capsule it contained, to the pigeon’s leg.
Looking about the room, he saw a small metal door six feet up on one wall. He reached up and opened it. The night’s dark sky was visible through a gently waving tree branch. Gently stroking the pigeon’s sleek head, he lifted it to the window, and released it. If the pigeon reached Zero, if it were not already too late, he might yet save the city. For he knew with what impatience Zero would open that note, little suspecting that it contained oblivion for him.
Then X’s fingers raced with time, molding plastic material on his cheeks, creating from his own face an exact likeness of the face of Dr. Nells. He did not bother to change his clothes. The doctor’s white laboratory smock would be too easily marked in the darkness. Taking one final glance in his mirror, he closed the makeup kit and put it into his pocket.
HE ran to the door of the laboratory and opened it. He was immediately confronted by Zero’s men.
“Where’s X?” they shouted together.
“He’s dead,” replied X. “But he managed to smash all the communicating system between this place and Zero’s office. I’ve got to get word to Zero and I’ll have to get outside to do it. One of you accompany me to the door, just in case there are any of X’s men lurking about here.”
One of the men, a vicious-faced underworld character, volunteered. X, who had wanted the man merely to act as a guide, followed him closely across the council room, through the wrecked door and into a corridor which led through the very center of the old Dewarren country house.
No sooner had he gained the front door than X jerked out his gas pistol, turned it into the man’s face, and fired the full charge. The man’s cry of terror died in his throat as he sank to the steps.
Then X was off, sprinting across the unkept lawn, dodging around overgrown shrubbery and untrimmed trees. A veritable forest surrounded the house and observatory. It was little wonder that it was visible only from the air. At length the Agent’s feet found a weed-choked gravel drive. He ran along it until he saw a sagging iron gate in front of him. Then he proceeded with more caution, listening intently.
Near the gate, a bush rustled. The Agent’s arm went up to his face. “That you, Hobart?” he whispered, and his voice had miraculously changed to that of A.J. Martin. “No lights.”
The redheaded detective stepped from the bed of shrubbery. “You, Boss? What’s the matter with your face. You hurt?”
“Just a scratch,” explained X. But he was careful not to lower his arm. It would never do for Hobart to hear the voice of Martin coming from the face of Dr. Nells! “Hobart, you’ve got to finish up here. Get to the nearest phone and get in touch with White Plains. Get a sheriff, state troopers—anybody, just so there’re enough of them and they’re well armed.
“Give any excuse to get them up here. When they get inside the old Dewarren house, they’ll see reason enough for coming. Somewhere in there, you’ll find Cartier, Vonicky, Pascal, Kruse, and the rest. They may be concealed in copper statues that Zero uses to torture them with.
“Most of Zero’s men must be back there. Be cautious, but I saw no Cartier-site gas cylinders lying around anywhere. Probably, Zero issues the gas to his men only on special occasions. Now get started. I’ll take the car back.”
“Back?” gasped Hobart. “You’re not going back to New York? You can’t!”
“Why?” X whispered hoarsely.
“The city is in a state of panic. I’ve been hanging around these parts for more than forty hours, waiting for you to show up. Part of the time, I used the radio in the car. I picked up news and police reports. Tonight, the rumors spread all over town that New York is going to be destroyed tonight. The roads are all jammed with c
ars, all trying to get out of town. The police—”
X suddenly left Hobart standing in the middle of the road and sprinted toward the streamlined, silvery sedan that Hobart had driven up.
Chapter IX
THE ZERO HOUR
THAT night, the Agent drove the silvery car with Satan at his shoulder. The powerful motor no longer purred its sweet content. Every molecule of steel in connecting rods, valves, and crank strained to the breaking point from the terrific pounding X gave them. The whirring super-charger crammed combustion chambers mercilessly. Rubber burned on every curve, but the hand that held the wheel was a living part of that throbbing mechanism and achieved the miracle that stabilized the speed-monster after every sickening lurch.
Millions of lives at stake, for Zero was Aladdin and Death was his genie. Somewhere out beyond the horizon created by the headlights of a car, a great city no longer slept, blissfully unconscious of the proximity of destruction. Hobart had said that the news had leaked out of the city offices and that the city was in the grip of panic.
As X drove with one hand, he manipulated the dials of the short wave radio transmitter and receiver of the car. In another moment, loud and clear above the thunder of the hundred-and-twenty horse-power beneath the hood, came the voice of Harvey Bates.
“Calling Station X. Calling Station X.”
Into the microphone supported on his chest, X replied: “Report activities within the city.”
“Yes, sir. Report as follows: Subways blocked as frantic passengers all seek escape at once. People demanding protection the police cannot give. Streets jammed with cars trying to leave the city. National guard called out to try and control the crowds. May ask assistance from Washington.”
The Agent’s heart sank as Bates continued his grim monologue. He muttered a hardly audible, “Signing off,” and snapped over the switch of the radio. The needle of his speedometer had cleared a hundred by several notches, yet he yearned for more and more speed. The droning monster swallowed mile after mile of ribbon-like road.
Then straight ahead, he saw the left-hand turning that marked a side road leading to his own private airport, maintained in the name of Martin. He trod down on the brake pedal with such force that the hydraulic tubes leading to each wheel threatened to burst. He deliberately threw the car into a skid—the only possible way for him to round that corner at such speed. Then he accelerated along the straight away to send the car crashing through a wooden gate across the drive that led to the hangar.
He saw that the hangar door was open; that another car was drawn up to the side of the building. He paused only long enough to scribble a note on a piece of paper—a note which he signed with the signature of A.J. Martin. Across to the hangar door he ran to seize the overalled arm of the mechanic who was constantly on duty.
“Ship ready? I’m going up. Note here from Mr. Martin.” And he thrust a scrap of paper into the mechanic’s hand.
An anxious, gray-headed man thrust in between X and the mechanic. “You’ll take us out of here? Far away from New York?” he demanded.
“Away from New York? That’s where I’m going.”
“Haven’t you heard?” the man gasped. “The city will be destroyed tonight. Poison gas will spread all over the city and outlying parts. You’ve got to get us out of here. My wife and children. Take them if you haven’t room for me!”
“This guy’s been trying to buy the plane and everything else,” explained the mechanic. “I thought I was going to have to take a club to him to keep him off the plane.”
X swung into the hangar and came out again with helmet, goggles, and parachute pack. “Help me into this,” he barked to the mechanic. To the anxious, gray-haired man, he said: “Go back to your home. There’s a fighting chance that the city will not be destroyed.”
“You mean Zero has been paid?” gasped the gray-haired man.
“Zero shall be paid!” And X ground each word between his teeth. He sprang again into the hangar to help the mechanic wheel out the low-winged Lockheed. Then, while the mechanic cranked the starter, X crawled into the cockpit. In another minute, the prop was spinning and the motor roaring. X jazzed the throttle, let the motor warm a bit, then taxied to midfield.
Nosing the plane into the wind, he gave it the gun. Across the field it bounded to lift smoothly into the air, to ride on the wings of the typhoon created by the spinning propeller.
Soon, out of the darkness, came the glow of the city, and far below the moon-silvered ribbon of the Hudson. He followed the river, estimating, as best he could, the location of his destination. He pushed the nose of the ship down into a power drive that ate up the distance between himself and the ground.
Then as he flattened out, a brilliant knife of white light swept through the night. A searchlight. The city was expecting a plane to spread the poison gas. Emergency measures were being taken. The roar of the Agent’s plane had been heard. That silver eye in the night was looking for him.
THE beam flashed across the plane’s wing, pointing out to those below their supposed destroyer. Leaning over the edge of the cockpit, X saw a flash of orange-red flame. An anti-aircraft gun had been hastily mustered into action. The Agent turned his ship straight west, heedless of the death that was flaming up at him from below. Then he wheeled around, setting the automatic controls of the plane so that it would be carried seaward.
He pushed the throttle wide, stood up in the cockpit, and got over the edge. Then he leaped out into dark, cold space, mechanically counting as he turned over and over. He yanked on the rip-cord, to feel the sickening jerk as the chute opened a moment later.
Roaring out to sea, its progress marked by the shifting ray of the searchlight, the pilotless plane winged its way. And X, floating beneath the chute watched the ground come closer. Housetops, trees, streets, and a myriad of scurrying people.
The chute cleared a roof by a few yards to settle in the very center of a street. Agent X had his knife out and was ripping at the cords even before the people began to crowd about.
“It’s Zero!” a man shouted. “He dropped from a plane. Zero, the destroyer!”
X had expected something of the sort. While he slashed with his knife, he drew out his gas gun with his left hand. Panic-stricken men and women surged toward him, shouting: “Death to Zero!”
But above the shouting of a score of throats, the Agent’s warning cry rang out. “Back! I’ll shoot the first man who touches me!” No use denying that he was Zero. His best bet was to bluff them off.
“Look out! He’s got a gun!” And those foremost in the crowd pressed fearfully back, while those in the rear shouted, “Forward!”
One man, more courageous than his fellows, flung himself upon the Agent. The gas gun spurted. The man dropped in his tracks, doubtless believing himself to be a martyr. But the shot had its effect. The very silence of the gun and its cloud of gray vapor was enough to terrify the crowd. Doubtless they thought the gas was deadly Cartier-site.
X, free from the chute and the throng of people, dashed to the sidewalk and then ran behind a house. He had judged his position well when he had made the jump. He was about three blocks from his destination. Across yards, alleys, streets and through hedges, X sprinted until he came to the palatial home of Clyde Dewarren.
Not a light shone in the house. With the stealth of a cat, X hurried across the lawn to the side door. A master key found the lock and turned quietly in X’s fingers. He opened the door and stepped inside. Silent darkness within. Had he made a mistake in his deductions? He dared not think of mistakes—their cost in human life was incalculable.
Pen-light beaming ahead of him, he quickly covered every room of the ground floor. All was deserted. He climbed the broad, winding staircase. Darkness and silence on the second floor. From room to room, he hurried. All in perfect order. Still no sound.
Then a faint creaking. Behind him? He swung around. The room was empty. Again the slight sound, and this time he marked its source. It came from above. With fev
erish haste, he continued his search until at last he opened a door to reveal a narrow flight of steps. He turned out his light and crept cautiously up. At the top, a small landing; beyond, a sliver of yellow light shone beneath a door. He stepped toward the door, groping for the knob.
Suddenly, something hard and cold jammed against the base of his brain. The barrel of an automatic.
“If you are going to save the city, go on in,” came a coldly mocking voice. “The switch is ready. And this is the Zero hour.”
THE gun at the base of his brain never shifted as X turned the knob, pushed back the door, and entered the room. He was in the attic of the Dewarren house. There were a few choice pieces of furniture. Along the walls were two telephone switchboards as well as another panel that held the controls of a radio outfit.
Standing in front of a large armchair, was a man wearing one of the brown leather gas masks which X had learned to associate with Zero’s bat-men. He, too, had an automatic, and it was trained upon the Agent’s forehead.
The man removed a small plug from the lower part of the mask so that he could speak. “Step into my parlor, Agent X,” invited the masked man in the chilling voice that X recognized as Zero’s. “Your clever impersonation of Dr. Nells cannot fool me. Some of my men discovered the real doctor had been knocked out, and, inasmuch as there were other carrier pigeons beside the one you used, I was informed of your escape.
“You see, we were prepared for you. An alarm sounds as soon as anyone opens the door at the foot of the stairs. I was still a bit groggy from the effects of your little gas bomb, so Countess Savinna had to make up the reception committee.”
The masked man pointed across to a sloping ceiling. A skylight was open and on the floor beneath lay the body of a carrier pigeon. “Your gas was much too strong for the poor bird,” he went on, “but not quite strong enough to keep me unconscious until you arrived, though I must admit it delayed my action precisely ten minutes. Fortunately, I shall be able to watch Rome burn, so to speak. For this poverty-stricken city has failed to answer my appeal for a paltry three million dollars. Countess, invite the gentleman to sit down.” Zero motioned to the chair behind which he stood.
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 6 Page 9