X shook his head, trying to keep his eyes from laughing. “I’m afraid Mr. X’s ability as a murderer is overestimated. That wasn’t an open and shut case by any means. Let’s get down to brass tacks.”
“Wish you would. Just wish you would,” said Farington curtly.
“Tell me something about Mr. Bunn.”
Farington’s eyes widened. “Chelsia Bunn? Couldn’t murder a flea! Get that out of your head. Can’t bite hot butter with those teeth of his—or that aren’t his.” Farington’s laugh had a lot of the lemon about it. “Why Chelsia Bunn used to manage a vaudeville outfit. That’s where he made his money. He’s trying to revive the game now. Wanted to buy some leopards that belonged to Felice Vincart. Maybe for this new show he’s planning.”
“By the way,” X asked, “how did you happen to have those leopards?”
“They were confiscated by the police,” explained Farington. “They didn’t know what to do with ’em. I picked up the lot cheap.” He looked at X shrewdly. “You being on the police force, I’d think you’d know about that.”
X coughed. Farington would have made a good lawyer. “Happened before my appointment,” he explained. “Now, speaking of hairs—”
“Who is? I thought you were coming to the point, man!”
X took his envelope from his pocket and produced the coarse, brownish hair. He held it beneath a lamp. Farington began to look interested. He picked up a reading glass and examined the hair more closely. “Eh—yes. Yes, yes.” His face beamed.
“Came from a Chinese cat, didn’t it, Swenson?” put in Stuart Gray. “A green Chinese cat, I think you said.”
“Cat?” snarled Farington, and he was very like one at that moment. He wheeled on Stuart Gray. “I’ll take my oath you become more thick headed every time I see you. Do you mean to sit there and tell me you don’t know where this hair came from?”
“Mr. Gray is a little confused,” explained X.
“He most certainly is!” exploded Farington. “This hair is from a cynocephalus porcarius. Sometimes called a chacma.”
“A what?” asked Gray.
Farington leered at the cosmetic manufacturer. “Same family as yours—cynocephalus, the baboons!”
It was the Agent’s turn to gasp. “You mean the hair’s from a baboon?”
“Exactly. Chacma, the great baboon of South Africa. Long hair but differs from the others of the family in that it has no name. That all you wanted to know, Mr. Detective?”
Agent X stood up. “That’s quite all. And thanks.”
Stuart Gray persisted in boring Farington with his company, and X was forced to drive back alone. En route, he opened the radio set in the dash and called the station operated by the Hobart Agency. A report was waiting for him—one that made the Agent press harder on the accelerator. Jim Hobart had seen a beautiful, auburn-haired young woman enter Betty Dale’s apartment.
“Sandra Phelps!” X muttered beneath his breath. And he pushed the super-charged motor under the hood to its limit.
Chapter VIII
BAST PROWLS
BETTY DALE was disturbed. All evening she had been unable to get her mind on her work for thinking about Secret Agent X, that strange man of mystery who had captured her devotion. She had not heard from him for ages, it seemed. So it was that a tap at her door sent her heart pounding with anticipation. She had quite forgot that X had told her she was in a very dangerous position. Opening the door hurriedly, she was surprised and disappointed to see the auburn-haired woman who had so calmly held up Ho-Pin’s shop, Sandra Phelps.
Beneath her rouge, Sandra was pale. Mascara could not hide the fact that her eyes had not known sleep for nights on end. She was pitifully weary and nervous.
“Miss Dale, mayn’t I come in?” she asked timidly. “I haven’t any right to ask a favor of you. But I—I must have some advice.”
Betty hesitated a moment. It seemed ridiculous to fear this pretty, young, and completely helpless-looking woman. She managed a smile. “Why, of course, Miss Phelps. Do come in.”
Sandra Phelps entered hurriedly. As Betty started to close the door, she detected a shadowy something that moved silently and swiftly along the hall. She was on the point of investigating, when she was seized with an almost hysterical fit of trembling. The shadow crouched. Narrow eyes that were like balefire glowed through the gloom. She tried to scream, couldn’t. In terror, she watched the thing gather itself for a spring. Then glowing green eyes rocketed toward her.
Betty moved all in a panic, but with a speed that would have done credit to her friend, the Secret Agent. She slammed the door, leaning full weight against the panel. Fortunately, the door had latched, for she felt the panel actually bulge with the thudding impact of that dark prowler.
A terrified scream ripped from Sandra’s throat. Betty, pale but firm, leaned against the door and double locked it. Claws raked the wood; small, animal sounds made the night hideous with the blood-hunger they foretold. Betty crossed swiftly to her desk. She opened a drawer and took out a pearl mounted automatic that X had given her.
Sandra Phelps whispered: “What was that?”
Betty shook her head and mounted guard in front of the door, a badly frightened but absolutely steadfast little figure. The sounds in the hall had subsided. Only Sandra’s rapid breathing was audible within the room. The auburn-haired beauty came over to Betty and dropped an arm over her shoulders. “Can you ever forgive me?” she pleaded. “It was all my fault. I’m marked as the prey for that thing out there. I should never have come, endangering you this way.”
“Never mind,” Betty whispered. “We’re all right now.”
“Do you know who I am?” asked Sandra Phelps.
Betty nodded. “Yes. Your brother married Felice Vincart.”
“Yes.” She prolonged the word and her voice was cold with hate. “She killed him. She must have. I have always hated her. I’ve tried to strike back, but she is much too crafty and strong. Oh, I don’t blame you for not trusting me. I’ve acted strangely, but, believe me, I’ve acted in the cause of justice—or tried to. When Felice Vincart escaped the police I began my effort to avenge my brother’s death. I’ve followed her everywhere.”
Betty’s eyes were frankly wide with disbelief. “Why didn’t you go to the police if you knew where she was?”
Sandra shook her head. “Perhaps I envied the law its vengeance. I discovered that she had fallen in with a new criminal partner—an Eurasian whom she calls Achmet. I had seen Felice go to the shop of Karahmud in Chinatown. One evening, I went there, gained a secret entrance, and heard part of what I suppose has turned out to be the most damnable plot man ever conceived. They—they sell stock in some company, and murder the investors.
“The sums they have realized are immense. I learned that all the stock holders, and consequently the proposed victims of murder, are listed in a certain Book of Doom. Ho-Pin kept that book. The night I saw you in his shop, I was after the book. I wanted to learn the names of the stockholders and warn them.
“That was foolish of me. I should have gone to the police. I also learned that in each case, the death of a stockholder was heralded by the appearance of a green china cat—the symbol of Bast or Pasht, the ancient cat-goddess worshiped in the Orient.
“That is why I came here tonight. You are a newspaper woman. Your experience is wide. I’m not a stockholder, but I have received one of those green china cats. I don’t want to die—not while Felice lives!”
“You poor dear!” Betty cried compassionately. “Of course you’re not going to die.” She stepped to her desk, picked up the telephone, and said: “Give me police headquarters.”
THE agent drove toward Betty’s apartment. He made hasty but complete alterations in his make up so that when he left his car he appeared as A.J. Martin, newspaperman. Entering the building, he hurried up the steps to come to a frozen stop at the top. The dim hall light revealed a slender, crouching form and reflected in greenish-yellow eyes. X snatched out his gas
pistol at the same time that the black shape launched itself in a mighty spring.
X raised his gun, fired the puff of vapor while the creature was in midair. He side-stepped with remarkable speed to avoid saberlike claws as the stricken creature thrashed the air in a hopeless effort to fight off the gas. But the struggle was not long lasting. X played the brilliant beam of his flashlight on the most beautiful specimen of black leopard he had ever seen. The bared claws, he noted, were gummy with some substance, probably a compound of some deadly poison. A collar about the creature’s throat was etched with the name: Bast.
As X bent over the captive panther, the weird, wailing call sounded faintly in the distance: “Kwa-a-a-oo-wee.”
“Call, Leopard Lady,” X whispered. “This time your killer won’t obey.” X dragged the leopard to an open window at the end of the hall—obviously the entrance through which the leopard had been introduced inasmuch as the window opened onto a fire escape. Peering down into the alley, he saw a light sedan delivery truck near the bottom of the fire escape. Evidently the truck was the means by which the big cats were carted around.
X lifted the unconscious beast to the railing and tumbled it to the pavement three stories below. Instantly, the headlights of the truck sliced the night, picking out the black blot on the pavement. The motor roared, and the truck accelerated along the alley, wheels bounding over the body of the panther.
Agent X went back through the window and hurried to Betty’s door. The gouges made by the beast’s claws were reassuring; the panther had not entered. X rapped lightly, puckered his lips, and uttered a peculiar minor whistle. This was one of the signals which X used to identify himself to the girl reporter. The door opened at once and Betty’s face, bright with the smile of welcome, appeared in the opening.
“You!” she exclaimed. “Thought you would never come!”
At the Agent’s entrance, Sandra Phelps got quickly from her chair. Her large eyes stared from X to Betty. “From police headquarters?” she asked.
Betty shook her head. “This is Mr. Martin, an old friend of mine.” And when she had introduced Sandra, Betty told of the green-eyed creature that had hurled itself at her door.
X nodded. “A black leopard. It won’t disturb you again.”
“A leopard!” the two girls gasped together.
“Yes, one of the Leopard Lady’s pets—claws poisoned and ready for action.”
The auburn-haired beauty passed a trembling hand over tired eyes. “Perhaps you’d better tell Mr. Martin what I’ve told you,” she said to Betty. “Perhaps that will explain this attempt on my life.”
Betty agreed, and for the next few minutes, X listened to Sandra’s story. The Agent was not entirely satisfied. How easily this might be a trap to snare Betty Dale. The Leopard Lady knew of Betty’s association with X, and would be capable of trying to strike at him through Betty.
“This Book of Doom you took from Ho-Pin—did you have any opportunity to look into it, Miss Phelps?” X asked.
SANDRA nodded. “I wanted to be sure the Chinese had not tricked me. I had picked up the book when Ho-Pin was killed and as I ran from the shop, I paused beneath a street lamp and glanced into the book. It was a list of the stockholders, I believe. But even as I was looking at the book, a man running along the street bumped into me. He was Chinese. I was frightened. He tried to take me in his arms. I screamed. A policeman appeared at the corner and the Chinese fled. But he took the book with him.”
“Then you can’t tell the names of any of the stockholders?”
Sandra hesitated. “One impressed me because of its singularity. A name of Bunn.”
“Chelsia Bunn, no doubt.” X turned to Betty. “Now what?”
“I called the police and asked for an escort to take Miss Phelps to headquarters,” explained Betty. “She will not only be safe, but she can also tell them her story, if you think that’s all right.”
“You used your head,” X commended. “You’ll go with her.”
“Me? Why? The gang isn’t after me. I’ve none of their stock.”
“You’ll still go with the police. You know too much for the health of Killers, Incorporated. I—”
There was a knock at the door. X pressed his finger on his lips, turned, and opened the door a crack. Outside were two uniformed policemen. One of them grinned affably. “Miss Dale asked for protection? We’re it!”
X opened the door wide and permitted the police to enter.
“We want to go to the police headquarters,” declared Betty.
The spokesman for the pair of cops looked around the room. “All of you? Say, what is this?”
“Just the two ladies,” X explained. “Miss Phelps and Miss Dale have had a harrowing experience. An attempt has been made on Miss Phelps’ life and she has reason to believe that it may be repeated. Furthermore, she has information exclusively for Inspector Burks in regard to these gruesome murders that the newspapers have called “blood-lust killings.”
“Holy cow!” grumbled the policeman. “A girl like that mixed up in an affair of that sort? Well, we’ve a squad car waiting at the door. But if this is any kind of a shenanigan, you’ll go to jail for a longer time than you’ll care about.” He offered his arm to Betty Dale and his companion took charge of Sandra.
Agent X, troubled with an inexplicable apprehension, followed them downstairs and watched the police help them into the car. As he got into the car, the pleasant-spoken cop turned to X. “Sure you don’t want to join the party?”
X shook his head. “No, I’ll be too busy.”
The cop shrugged and got into the car beside Betty. After the car had rolled along for about three blocks, he turned to Betty. “Guess you run into some queer things in the newspaper business.”
Betty nodded. She didn’t feel in the mood for conversation. Her mind was back there with the lonely man who watched them from the curb. What dangerous step would he take next in his unrelenting warfare?
The cop was fumbling with something on the floor. Betty watched him dully. “Getting cold, baby?” asked the cop insolently.
Betty’s heart leaped. There was something queer about the man beside her. That familiar way he addressed her, so unlike the police she knew so well. “Cold?” she echoed. “Just what are you doing?”
“Getting something to put around you, baby,” the cop chuckled. And suddenly both of his arms came up. His hands grasped a thing of shapeless black. Betty’s scream dinned in her own ears as a thick cloth bag was dropped over her head. Powerful arms held her in a crushing embrace as the car suddenly doubled its speed, rocketing madly through the night.
BETTY DALE lost all conception of time and distance in that mad ride in stifling blackness. Her pulse boomed at her temples like a drum of doom. Endless minutes later, Betty lurched forward as the car came to a sudden stop. She struggled and screamed futilely. Somewhere a voice snarled:
“Shut up, baby, or I’ll have to conk you!” She was lifted from the car. Doors opened and closed behind her. They jogged down steps. Then she was dropped on a cold, hard floor. The sack was removed from her head, and she found herself in a small, cement-walled room.
The man who had no right to the uniform he wore was bending over her. His once affable grin was a leer. There, too, was the man who wore a tarboosh and watched her through slits in a black mask.
“How unfortunate,” the voice of the man in the tarboosh rumbled, “that so fair a rose must live her last moments among so many thorns. You have forced me to execute you with the remaining stockholders of Achmet, Incorporated, through your association with Sandra Phelps, who knows too much.”
Betty got to her feet and stamped the floor indignantly. “What does this mean?” She knew well enough. Here was Death himself. She could see murder in the man’s eyes.
The man in the tarboosh shrugged bullock shoulders. “It means that I am retiring from business. I have earned something over a million dollars. I shall enjoy spending it.”
“A million dollars f
or murders!” Betty cried.
The man in the tarboosh raised his hands, fingers wide spread. “Not so harsh, my dear. It was largely a matter of sound business. To satisfy your reportorial curiosity, I don’t mind explaining. This is not for publication, though, in this world or the next,” he chuckled.
“Life is a gamble,” he began, “but not all people are good gamblers. Because of my knowledge of human nature, I was readily able to determine the real gamblers about me. Men and women who plunge heavily in the stock market; those who play roulette, fan-tan, poker, and similar games of chance; wealthy widows who have implicit faith in their own business judgment—with these persons in mind, I issued my stock.
“For salesmen, I employed the smoothest confidence men in the game. But instead of selling fraudulent stock, they sold stock that proved itself of such value that my victims could not resist. My salesmen pointed out many businesses associated with my firm. True, most of these connections were mythical, but remember my chosen victims were eager to gamble. My men did not urge too heavy investments at first. That was to inspire confidence. The stock promised to pay five per cent on the principle each month, sixty per cent a year. And oddly enough, the investors found that it did just that.
“In other words, I returned one twentieth of the stockholders’ own money the first month. In every case, that single dividend was enough to encourage greater investments. I did not have to beg men to buy. They begged me to sell. My salesmen seemed reluctant, saying that I didn’t want to split all my profits. But gradually, they weakened, selling more and more of the stock.
“Once again, dividends were paid—funeral expenses, you understand. When a stockholder died, ninety per cent of his principal remained intact. This was my profit. You see?”
Betty nodded. “And so you retire. You’re beginning to feel the pinch of justice, aren’t you?”
Achmet chuckled. “Perhaps. So tonight, the remaining stockholders have been brought here on some trumped-up excuse. They shall be wiped out at a single blow. It is a crime that defies detection. Even Agent X has not pierced the web I have woven. And speaking of Mr. X, you’ll be glad to know I expect him shortly. Tonight, I make the world safe for crime. Agent X must die!” Achmet’s eyes glowed….
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 6 Page 18