A taunting smile on her lips, the Leopard Lady stepped in front of X. If she had changed any since he had last had a good look at her, she was more beautiful than before. Her voice was low, purring.
“Always a new face, Mr. X. But last night, I marked you. In the basement of Ho-Pin’s house you thought it was a gun I pressed to the back of your neck. To all appearance, it was. Actually, it was a compact version of an advanced type of violet ray which enabled me to sun-burn a mark on your skin. Washing won’t remove it. It may wear off in time. This is the rare opportunity I have been anticipating for so long a time. It was with the idea of finding you in a similar predicament, that I took the risk of marking you last night. I have carried that ray-gun with me ever since I realized that we must meet again.”
Felice Vincart nodded her head slightly at the Burmese. The scarred, brown-skinned man darted forward. Something gleamed in his right hand. His arm flashed up. A needle point pierced the Agent’s throat. He struggled, fighting with a strange numbing sensation.
“Let him go,” said Felice Vincart.
The men released X. He tried to take a step forward, tottered and fell. He seemed utterly incapable of controlling his own muscles. Even his mind was muddled.
“It would be better to kill this bird,” said one of the men.
The Leopard Lady’s acutely slanting brows drew close together. “Do not forget that I am in command here.” She turned to X and her smile was like poisoned honey. “We have strange drugs, too, Mr. X. You begin to notice a buzzing in the ears?”
X knew the buzzing sound. His senses were slipping. Now he saw only the cold green eyes of the Leopard Lady and her mocking lips that caressed every word she uttered.
“I could have loved a man like you madly,” she whispered. “But I am as easily turned to hate. Now you shall know the agonizing fear of the electric chair, even as I have known it because of you.” Her voice seemed very far away now. X could no longer see those tantalizing red lips. “Good bye, Agent X,” came the distant whisper. Then he knew no more.
Chapter VII
CANDIDATE FOR DEATH
MOVING quickly, Felice Vincart approached the body of Perry Atwood. Her fixed smile was a ghastly thing as she calmly pulled the knife from the wound in his breast. The knife was a narrow, needle-like thing. She wiped the blade coolly on a towel. Then she wrapped the towel around a small pistol. Stooping over, holding the pistol close to the body, she fired deliberately into the wound. The report was muffled in the towel. She wiped the gun carefully and dropped it on the floor.
Tossing the towel to the Burmese, she said: “Finish up as planned. How much time have we?”
The pock-marked man looked at his watch. “Fifteen minutes. That will be time enough to bring them here. You go to give the tip-off?”
Felice Vincart nodded, slipped from the room.
As she crossed the street that fronted the gloomy house where Perry Atwood had hidden himself, Felice Vincart signaled the driver of a small delivery truck. As the truck stopped, she climbed in beside the driver and purred an order: “Go three blocks west. There’s an all-night restaurant there and a phone booth. I want to make a call.”
Exactly thirteen and a half minutes later, Secret Agent X began to feel the strange drug drain from his body. He felt extremely weak but he could move his arms and legs a little. He crawled on hands and knees to a chair at the opposite end of the room and heaved himself into it. He sat there for a moment, trying to recall what had happened. The body of Atwood was on the floor, and beside it a gun.
Another minute ticked by. X felt much more like himself. He got up and walked over to the body. That gun? As near as he could remember, Atwood had been killed with a knife. Or was he thinking of the killing of Ho-Pin? He picked up the gun, looked it over, and slipped it into his pocket. X scowled. That was odd. That pocket was usually filled by his medical kit. He felt in another pocket. It was empty. He turned around, looked at the door.
The doorway of the room was filled with the burly figure of Inspector John Burks of the homicide department. Burks’ face was as stern as a prison wall. His gun was nosed straight at the Agent’s heart. Burks, followed by Detective Keegan and two uniformed police came into the room. The Agent’s hand had not left his pocket. His fingers rested on the butt of the Leopard Lady’s gun. He saw it all now. The gun in his pocket was his only weapon. Felice Vincart had used it to frame him. Gas gun and his special equipment had been removed from his pockets.
“This is one murder where we get our man on the spot,” growled Burks. “Get your mitts up in the air, guy.”
Slowly, X raised his hands. The gun in his pocket he dared not use; for in spite of the fact that Burks was his enemy, X would not have willingly inflicted serious injury upon the inspector. His only hope of escape seemed to be rushing the police and trust to his bullet-proof vest for protection.
Detective Keegan came forward and hastily frisked the Agent, removing the silenced gun in his pocket only after carefully covering his hands with a handkerchief. The gun he handed over to Burks.
“The weapon, the corpse, and the killer,” Burks said with considerable satisfaction. “Wonder who the dame was who tipped us off? You know, guy? Say, what’s your name?”
“Perkins,” replied X mechanically. There was a sickening sensation in his stomach. He had realized, as Keegan’s fingers had patted over his clothes, that his bullet-proof vest had been removed also.
“Well, Perkins, you know the woman who tipped us off?” Burks was asking.
“Felice Vincart,” said X slowly.
“Felice who?” roared Burks. “Say, take this bird down to headquarters, book him on murder, and examine his head! Felice Vincart is dead. Somebody fed her dismembered body to the animals out at Farington’s zoo.”
KEEGAN advanced to put handcuffs on his prisoner. X assumed the desperate attitude of a murderer caught red-handed. He struggled, shouted, and threatened. He all but went into hysterics. He was acting as he had never acted before. The greatest tragedian on the stage could not have more perfectly impersonated a man who sees the prison death house ahead of him. X knew that he was in one of the most dangerous positions of his entire career. Never had he felt so helpless.
When Keegan succeeded in coupling his left wrist to the Agent’s right, X’s struggles subsided. He was dragged from the house, a man ashamed, with head bowed. Night reporters were on hand with their photographers and flashlights blazed in the dark streets as X was photographed to be branded as a murderer in tomorrow’s paper. Limp and apparently utterly exhausted, X sank on the cushions of the police car beside Keegan. The two uniformed police got in the front seat. Burks had stayed behind to await the medical examiner.
As the car rolled off, X slumped in the seat, his face buried in his left hand. He was the picture of despondency. But under the cover of darkness, the fingers of his left hand were busy. There was a way out—one narrow way. If it failed, he faced the chair. Under his skillful fingers, the plastic material on his face took on a definite change.
With the delicate touch of an artist he was making his own features resemble those of Detective Keegan. Now and again as the car raced on, he emitted low sobbing sounds for the benefit of the detective beside him. The disguise, he knew, would be imperfect. Without new pigments, he could not match Keegan’s coloring. Nor were his clothes identical with Keegan’s. But he knew the detective’s features well, having impersonated him on several occasions.
X waited until the car had passed beneath the rays of a steel lamp before raising his head. His left hand rested easily in his lap, but the muscles of his arm were flexing. In the gloomy interior of the car, he marked a particular spot on Keegan’s temple. Suddenly, his fist balled. His left arm looped up with bullet speed. His knuckles pounded into Keegan’s temple. Perfectly timed and executed, the blow wilted Keegan without so much as a groan. X threw his entire weight against Keegan so that the detective’s head was pushed low against the seat.
“What�
��s going on back there?” one of the cops demanded.
“Stop the car, quick!” said Agent X, imitating Keegan’s voice. “This bird drew a gun on me. I’ve got him in hand, but one of you’d better get in here with me.”
The car pulled to a halt, and as the man beside the driver got out, X slipped Keegan’s gun from beneath Keegan’s left arm.
The policeman opened the door. They were near enough to a street lamp so that the rays found X’s face. X held his breath. The cop started to get in and stopped with a foot on the running board. He stared at the handcuffs that linked X and the detective.
“Say, Keegan, haven’t you read your police primer? Look how you’ve got that guy hitched. Wrong hand around. You got your right hand cuffed to his—” The cop’s eyes went down to the floor of the car and widened in stark amazement. A sliver of light came through the open door and fell upon the face of Detective Keegan. And the policeman saw twins.
X knew immediately that his trick was discovered. The policeman started for his gun, but he made the grave mistake of not taking his foot off the running board. X’s right leg shot out, the toe of his shoe connecting at a point just below the cop’s knee cap. It was a kick that took most of the life out of the policeman’s leg at the very moment when most of his weight depended upon the foot on the running board. The cop collapsed. At the same moment, X jammed Keegan’s gun into the driver’s neck. “Get going!” he rasped.
THE startled driver gave gas. The car bounded forward, the swinging door knocking the other policeman clear of the moving car.
X moved his right arm toward him, dragging the unconscious Keegan with it. Then shooting his right arm forward, he tumbled Keegan to the floor. In that way, he was able to effect a lightning transfer, getting the gun into his right hand. Stretching out his right arm to the fullest, he was still able to keep the gun on the driver while he explored Keegan’s pockets with his left hand. At last he located the key to the cuffs. Fitting it to the lock on the bracelets was no easy task with the car bounding over every possible bump, but he managed it—his hands were free. He shouted to the driver to stop. The man trod the accelerator and threw out his clutch for a long coast. It was a move that required a good deal of courage and X saw its purpose now. Directly ahead was a precinct police station. The cop at the wheel was trying to stop in front of it. X jammed the gun into the man’s neck threateningly.
“The brake, you idiot!” he roared.
The policeman applied the brake gingerly at the same time giving an ear-splitting blast on his whistle. That would have been the last sound he heard on this earth had the man in the back seat been anyone but X. The Agent simply sprang through the door of the rolling car. As he zig-zagged across the street, a tracer of screaming lead followed him.
But X ran only a short way in the clear. Then ducking between two buildings, he laid a jagged course that only blood hounds could have followed. Three minutes later, he had gained an apartment house in which he leased an apartment as one of his many hideouts throughout the city.
Agent X consulted his watch. It was nearly nine o’clock, still early enough for him to follow up the second lead that Betty Dale had given him. The Perry Atwood angle of the case was definitely closed.
There remained Stuart Gray, the wealthy cosmetic manufacturer. The hairs that Betty Dale had found in Gray’s office might mean much or little. X believed that Gray might actually be in danger. Whether or not he had purchased any of the fraudulent stock that meant death, X did not know. That was one of the things he intended to find out. He called Gray’s residence, and caught Gray just as the latter was leaving the house. Gray professed much delight at hearing the voice of “Detective Swenson” again, and agreed to let him have a few minutes that evening.
X then took out an elaborate make-up kit and quickly went about building up his features to resemble those of the character of Swenson, a fictitious person who had visited the shop of Karahmud. Having changed to a suit that fitted the part he played, X left the apartment and went to a garage where he kept one of his many cars.
The trip to Gray’s place necessitated his driving downtown to stop at the office he maintained in the name of A.J. Martin. He had stopped there before going to Perry Atwood’s hideout to file away the envelope containing the odd hair Betty believed had come from Gray’s office. Taking the envelope from the drawer, he slipped it into his pocket and returned to the car.
SOME time later, he arrived at Stuart Gray’s West End Avenue residence. A manservant ushered him into what Gray informed X was his “den.”
“Old fashioned about such things,” said Gray, laughing. “Modern architects have driven out the good old den to make room for a thing they call a study. Not that anybody ever studies in one of those things.” Then to the point: “Just what is the question before the house, Mr. Swenson?” He offered X cigars. “A fellow in Havana makes them for me.”
X accepted the cigar and dropped into the proffered chair. He lighted the cigar with great deliberation before saying: “You have stock in a certain company claiming to control most of the business of Chinatown and points west—a certain Achmet, Incorporated.”
Gray’s mouth opened, displaying his gleaming gold teeth. “I—well—my goodness, no! Never heard of it. Chinatown?” Gray uttered a laugh that was certainly forced.
The Agent shrugged. “We’ll try another tack. I happened to visit your office the other day when you weren’t there. I noticed a few hairs lying about the place.”
“Possibly.” Gray scratched his own sandy hair. “My secretary is supposed to tidy things up a bit, but she spends most of her time on her fingernails. I am losing some hair, too.”
X took out the envelope and brought out the brownish hair. “Not like this one.”
Gray stood up, dropped cigar ash into a tray, and sat down again. “I’ll swan, but I’m glad you brought that up. I have noticed those hairs, also. One evening last week when I dropped into the office after dark, I thought I saw some strange, slinking figure moving about one of the rooms. I went in, turned on a light, and then about decided to change my liquor. There wasn’t a thing there. But later I found a window open. Since then, I’ve noticed the hairs. What the devil could they have come from?”
X leaned forward and regarded Gray with deadly earnest eyes. “Mr. Gray, I’m not trying to pry into your affairs. I’m here because I believe you’re in deadly danger.”
Gray’s eyes popped. “My goodness!”
“Have you, by any chance, received through the mail or otherwise, a green cat?”
“A green—but did I hear right? What kind of an animal is that? That hair come from one?”
X shook his head. “I don’t know what kind of an animal it was you saw prowling around your office. Perhaps it wasn’t an animal at all. We’ll find out later. Now, I repeat my question about the stock. It’s a matter of utmost importance. It may determine the exact number of breaths you draw from now on.”
Gray held up his hand. “That’s enough. I don’t care if it is earning me five hundred a month. Yes, I’ve got some shares of Achmet stock. Best investment I’ve ever seen. Five per cent of the investment returned every month, mind you! I’ve cashed in twice—”
“And in doing so, you’ve made yourself a candidate for death, Mr. Gray.”
Gray looked puzzled. “You’re not joking?”
“Not at all. Do you happen to have your certificate on hand?”
Gray nodded. He got up and went to a large wall safe. As he spun the combination, he said: “When I bought the stuff, I was told to keep quiet about it. That was the only thing that worried me at first, but Mr. McQuey explained that they didn’t want to let too many in on a good deal.”
“McQuey,” muttered X. “The slickest confidence man in the racket.”
“Confidence man!” gasped Gray. “Seemed decent enough to me.”
“They always do.” X advanced and took the certificate from Gray’s hand. He picked up a paper knife from Gray’s desk and inserte
d it beneath the seal.
“I—I was told not to open that,” Gray ventured.
X paid no attention. He slit the seal. Instantly, the certificate burst into flame. He tossed it on the hearth and watched it burn to ashes. He pointed mutely at the charred remains. In the very center was a silvery seal—the death’s head engraved in metallic ink. “The mark of Killers, Incorporated,” he said.
GRAY dropped into a chair and mopped his brow with his handkerchief. “Not often I see ten thousand dollars go up in smoke. But I’ll swan, if you’re serious about this—why I’m put in a spot, eh?”
X nodded. “Exactly. Watch your step from here out. As to the hair, I intend to see a friend of yours, Henry Farington by name. I’m going there at once.”
“To Farington’s? Good!” Gray got up. “I’ll go along, if I may.”
All the way to the millionaire zoologist’s estate, Stuart Gray kept up a veritable effervescence of monologue that extended all the way from his own danger to the encounter he had had with the auburn-haired Sandra Phelps.
“Tell me something about this Karahmud,” X cut in, after a while.
“Oh, Karahmud!” Gray echoed scornfully. “I guess he’s got a pretty good business. One of my best customers.”
“Not any more,” X corrected. “I’m afraid his shop’s closed. And if I see his whiskered mug around, I’ll close that for him, too.”
“What on earth has Karahmud done?” demanded Gray.
“I just don’t like his looks. But here’s Farington’s gate. Now, maybe we’ll find out something.”
Farington’s sour temper was by no means improved by the appearance of Gray. Gray’s introduction of “Detective Swenson” was acknowledged with even less cordiality. X sat down without waiting for an invitation and looked around the walls of the room from whence mounted trophies of the hunt glared back with glassy eyes.
“I’m here on the Samuels job,” X explained.
Farington pushed long gray hair out of his eyes and glared with a ferocity that was reminiscent of any of the mounted animals about the room. “Can’t you lay hands on that Mr. X yet?” he demanded.
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 6 Page 17