As the police car vanished into the night, Secret Agent X saw a familiar figure skulking in the shadow of the apartment. He turned and strode over to the man. The watcher was tall, lean, and youthful. His face was wholesome without being handsome. A shock of red hair curled from beneath the hat pushed far back on his head. At the sight of X, his smile brightened.
“Mr. Martin! Gosh, it’s swell to see you. I’ve leaned against this building for so long I’ve begun to think I’m part of the foundation.”
“Hello, Hobart,” said X, for it was the redheaded chief of the Hobart Detective Agency.
“Just returned from reporting to the office, boss. Hoped some one would get hold of you.”
“Why?” The Agent’s eyes were watching a black sedan that had pulled up in front of the apartment. “Look!” he exclaimed. There was fear in those words.
“What’s the matter?” whispered Hobart.
“That car—the police car. The men are cops. They’re getting out.” The Agent’s fingers were like steel hooks digging into Jim Hobart’s arm. “Hobart, two squads of police arriving within three minutes at the same place. She’s gone! It was a trick. Betty’s gone! She’s in the hands of Killers, Incorporated!”
Chapter IX
CLAWS OF THE CHINA CAT
HOBART’S fingers closed on the Agent’s arm. “You telephoned for the police? You got hold of them?”
X shook his head. “No, Miss Dale phoned.” His mind was groping frantically in the darkness of despair and Hobart’s voice seemed far away in the distance.
“But the police were contacted by telephone?”
“Yes,” said X, his mind feverishly at work.
Hobart turned in his tracks. “Come on—but easy, boss. Somebody played me for a sucker. A while ago, I wandered back here and found some men climbing up a telephone post. Didn’t seem anything secret about it. They had a truck and flashlights, and they were talking freely enough. I asked them what they were doing and they said they were from the telephone company. The phones in this building were on the fritz, they said.”
Hobart, who had covered the length of the building at a dog trot, pulled up suddenly and pressed a finger to his lips. “Back by the alley,” he whispered. “Must be taking down their tapping outfit. See? Looks like just one man.”
X nodded grimly. The Leopard Lady, knowing of X’s association with Betty, would make every effort to intercept messages either going to or coming from Betty. But why only one man to take down the wire tapping equipment when Hobart had said several men had been required to attach it? Perhaps the two gang members who had taken Betty and Sandra Phelps from the apartment had guessed X’s true identity. Surprised at his being there, they had been unprepared to take him prisoner.
If this were true, then the one man at the wire tapping device might well be a decoy for the purpose of leading X into a hastily laid trap. The criminals knew certainly that X would have made a thorough investigation within the vicinity of the apartment building as soon as he learned that Betty had been taken by trickery.
With this in mind, X suddenly determined to proceed without caution. If trap it was, then he fully intended to fall into it. Only by being taken prisoner could he hope to get near enough to Betty to save her, for he had not the slightest idea where to look for the master criminal. But what of Jim Hobart? The redheaded detective must not be permitted to fall into the criminal’s hands also.
“Hobart,” X whispered, watching the shadowy figure of the man in the alley, “stay here. I’m handling this alone. But if things go haywire, you follow me—at a safe distance.”
But X had taken no more than three steps toward the man in the alley before Jim Hobart shouted: “Look out!”
X swung around to see Hobart at grips with two men who had appeared from nowhere. A third sprang from the shadow of the apartment wall as X hurried to Hobart’s assistance. A knife gleamed in the semi-darkness as the man hurled himself at the Agent. X leveled his gas gun and fired straight into the man’s yellow face. At the same instant, the man who had waited in the alley leaped upon the Agent’s back, throwing him to the ground.
X writhed and twisted until he could slash up at the man’s head with the barrel of his gun. The blow missed, X’s wrist striking the man across the face. Teeth sank into X’s wrist and locked there like the jaws of a vise. Twice, the criminal tried to get his knife into the Agent’s throat, and twice X’s left hand altered the course of that deadly weapon.
THE night was rent by a shrill whistle that could have but one meaning. The police who had entered the apartment had been attracted either by Hobart’s shout or the sound of the struggle. X’s legs doubled. With an upward thrust of his knees, he threw the stabbing, biting crook head over heels. X bounded to his feet. A police flashlight sliced along the side of the building, its rays catching X squarely in the face and momentarily blinding him.
There were hoarse cries to halt and the soft shuffling of padded, running feet. Where was Hobart? The criminals, with the exception of the Chinese X had gassed, had bolted. But where was Jim Hobart?
From the alley came the deep-throated roar of a powerful motor. X pivoted in spite of the police order to halt. As he broke into a run toward the alley, a police positive barked its leaden warning into the air. The next shot was not a warning; it tagged at the leg of the Agent’s trousers. Still he ran, weaving from side to side. He vaulted a fence and dropped into a small yard back of the apartment building.
That put walls of brick between him and the police slugs. X nearly took the backyard gate off its hinges getting through, only to stand helplessly and watch gloom swallow at the light of the speeding car. The criminals had made their getaway.
Betty gone. Now Hobart. The two whom X held dearer than any others in the world. And X had exhausted every lead to the solution of the mystery maze that revolved around cats. As he ran in a futile attempt to catch the speeding car, the Agent’s heart was like cold lead though his feet had wings. The criminals, the police, even fate, had blocked his every move. Only one hope, and that as frail as a cobweb, remained to him—Mr. Chelsia Bunn, the eccentric organizer of vaudeville troupes. Sandra Phelps had said that Bunn’s name was in the killer’s Book of Doom.
As he gained the mouth of the alley, X’s fingers were hastily working over the plastic features that identified him as Martin. His gait and attitude changed as he hurried to his car so that had the police intercepted him, they could not have known that he was the same man who had taken part in the brawl beside the apartment. The Agent gained his car without difficulty and was soon rolling down the street in the direction of Chelsia Bunn’s bachelor apartment.
TEN minutes later found Agent X hurrying up the hall of the fourth floor of a fashionable apartment building, looking right and left for the door marked D-15. As he neared Bunn’s apartment, he saw a uniformed messenger standing in front of Bunn’s door. The messenger handed a small package through the door then came down the hall toward X. When the man entered the elevator, X whipped out his master keys, made a rapid selection, and thrust the proper one into the lock of Bunn’s door. A small vestibule was then open to him, and directly beyond was the living room in which X could see Chelsia Bunn.
Gray-haired, was Mr. Bunn, but his whole body radiated indefatigable energy. He was dressed in evening kit, but it fitted him none too well and his bow tie was decidedly mussy. His slight fingers were busy with the opening of the package the messenger had just brought. Mr. Bunn was decidedly nervous. His ill-fitting false teeth chattered around in his mouth as he muttered inaudibly to himself.
X swung the vestibule door suddenly open. Mr. Bunn’s head popped up, eyes glued on the gas pistol which had suddenly appeared in X’s hand.
“What’s the meaning of this?” asked Bunn sharply. There was not the slightest trace of fear in his dark eyes.
X smiled slightly. “I have come for that box in your hand, Mr. Bunn. Give it to me.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort,” replied Bunn
coolly. “It’s mine.”
“It’s your death,” corrected X. “I want it. I want to save you.”
Bunn sneered. “What generosity! I advise you to put that gun down, my man. Crime does not pay!” He lectured with his forefinger.
“Crime pays,” contradicted X, “when it is carried out as it is by Achmet, Incorporated.”
A strange, uneasy expression stole into Bunn’s face. “Rubbish!” he snapped. And he removed the paper wrapping of the box.
X sprang forward. His left hand swept the box from Bunn’s hand.
Bunn scrambled for it, but the muzzle of the Agent’s gas gun coughed its cloud of oblivion. Bunn flattened against the floor, his right hand extended toward the box. Then he lay still as death.
X picked up the box that had been sent to Bunn and cautiously lifted the lid. A green china cat rested on the cotton within, but X did not remove it. Dropping in front of a mirror, X laid out his make-up material. Fortunately, Bunn was very nearly as tall as the Agent and his clothes fitted perfectly. Nor did X experience any difficulty in shaping the contours of his face to resemble those of Bunn. Proper coloring was achieved by the use of pigments and a toupee simulated Bunn’s gray hair. But the formation of the mouth required extreme care.
X fitted thin enameled plates that resembled Bunn’s false teeth for his own front teeth, but that clicking sound made by the ill-fitting plates in Bunn’s mouth could not be achieved without long practice. Before X could accomplish this characteristic clicking sound, the telephone burred insistently.
X picked up the instrument. “Yes, yes,” he said in the transmitter, bringing his teeth together in a sharp click.
“Chelsia,” came a whispered, purring voice, “are you nearly ready to go to the theatre? Your poor Jean has waited ten minutes already.”
Jean? X would have known that voice anywhere. It belonged to Felice Vincart. Yet it was not surprising. Bunn and the Leopard Lady had much in common. Bunn had been interested in the variety stage where Felice Vincart and her trained leopards had enacted a barbaric dance.
“I apologize deeply,” replied X. “Have been unavoidably detained. Please come up to my apartment and I will try and be ready.”
“Very well,” the woman agreed, and hung up.
X dropped the phone into its cradle, got up, and made a hasty check of his make-up. Then he picked up the unconscious Bunn and carried him into the bedroom. Returning to the living room, X deliberately took his life in his hands. He picked up the green china cat.
At first, nothing happened. Then as he turned the cat over and over, he noticed that a portion of the glaze melted against his warm palms. The flesh of his hands became unpleasantly moist with a colorless liquid that came from the china cat. The substance had no odor that he could detect. He thrust the cat into his pocket, slowly nodding his head. Now he knew where danger lurked—now he knew the claws of the china cats.
Soft rapping at the door. X drew a deep breath and took a final inventory of his pockets to make sure that he had all his special equipment. Imitating Bunn’s bobbing walk to perfection, he crossed the room and opened the door. The Leopard Lady stood there, a light cape with a high collar of soft white fur thrown over her shoulders. Never had the Agent seen more allure in a smile. But the woman’s long green eyes were as cold and inhuman as those of a cat.
X bowed gallantly. “My dear lady, I am humbly sorry.”
THE Leopard Lady shrugged slightly. “No matter. It was only that I was impatient to show you what I have prepared for my act. They are beautiful, these leopards I have obtained. Better than those used by my unfortunate sister.”
So that was it. Felice Vincart was posing as her own and probably mythical sister. She had evidently been obtained by Bunn to take part in his newly organized variety show. Agent X offered his arm and together they left the apartment, murderess and hunter of murderers arm in arm.
Felice Vincart proposed that they take her car which was waiting at the door. This was a stroke of good fortune in as much as X had no idea where they were bound. When they were seated in the rear of the car, Felice Vincart ordered the chauffeur to take them to the Bennit Theatre—an old playhouse that had been closed for some time. Perhaps Dunn had hired the place for the launching of his new show.
“Think, Chelsia,” the Leopard Lady dropped a warm hand on the Agent’s wrist, “how wonderful it will be to see the name Vincart in lights again. Poor Felice would have loved it.”
X took the lovely hand that had killed in his own fingers and leaned closer to the woman. He was playing his part as he knew Bunn would have played it. Few men could have resisted the charm of this lovely, evil creature. “She would not have loved it,” X whispered. “She would have been insanely jealous.”
Felice Vincart drew back slightly, her eyebrows slightly raised. “Jealous? And why, pray?”
“Jealous of your beauty, it so far eclipses hers.”
Felice Vincart laughed softly and relaxed, leaning against the Agent’s shoulder. “You tell such nice lies, Chelsia.” She sighed gently and remained silent for the remainder of the drive to the theatre.
The car turned into an alley behind the theatre and stopped at the stage door. Agent X was completely alert, impatiently awaiting the moment to act.
FELICE VINCART produced keys and unlocked the stage entrance. At the same time, she slipped a small flashlight from her purse. “We will have to go into the basement,” she whispered. “You will understand why I wanted you to give me the keys to this place. Oh, the darling pets! You will love my kittens!”
Soft purring laughter picked up a scornful note as she led X across a littered room to dark stairs leading into the basement. At the bottom of the steps, Felice Vincart turned sharply to the right and entered a small room lighted by a dim carbon element bulb.
“Kwa-a-a-oo-wee.” The weird, wailing sound came from directly behind X. He turned swiftly, saw the lacquered lips of Felice Vincart parted. The strange cry had come from her throat—the song of death.
“Here, here!” he cried excitedly. “What are you doing, my dear?”
The Leopard Lady sprang backwards through a door that closed with the clank of steel. Her soft, derisive laughter rippled through the cellars. Then a silence that was pregnant with disaster descended upon the entire building.
X turned around slowly. Directly opposite the door was an opening like the mouth of a tunnel. Beyond was blackness dotted with two spots of baleful light—the eyes of the killer. Eyes crept nearer and nearer. X watched as one fascinated. Eyes of death. Perhaps already they had looked upon Betty Dale.
He took a step forward toward the moving eyes. Then at the mouth of the passage, he saw a black shape—a snarling leopard gathering itself for a spring. The Agent’s lips puckered. He uttered a soft, musical whistle that had never before failed to subdue a savage beast. Yet in another moment, the animal had launched itself in a spring.
Its poisoned claws bared, its lips snarling back to expose gleaming teeth, the living projectile hurtled straight toward the Agent. His gas pistol came out. Breath locked, he squeezed the trigger while the brute was in midair. At the same time, he sprang to the left with an agility that equaled that of the mighty cat. The leopard received the full charge of the gas. As it struck the floor, it turned in its tracks, tail twitching, only to fall to its side, unconscious.
Agent X took a step toward the animal, but at that moment, something struck him sharply at the base of the brain.
“Do not move, Secret Agent X. This is a machine gun!”
It was the deep rumbling voice of the man in the tarboosh.
Agent X straightened slowly, his hands crawling above his head. Two men advanced from behind him and seized both of the Agent’s wrists.
“I am afraid you gave yourself away,” went on Achmet. “Chelsia Bunn would have been on the floor by now with his throat torn open. Too bad you did not carry the impersonation that far. However, you are in time for my farewell party. Tonight, I conclude the busi
ness of Achmet, Incorporated. With a million dollars’ profit, I seek well earned repose.”
“In hell!” X cut in. “You’ve planned well. Your killings have been carried out largely with animals so that police could not trace human agency in the crimes. But do not forget the green china cats. I know that they are impregnated with a substance that clings to the victim’s hands and clothing. This substance infuriates the Leopard Lady’s cats as a red flag enrages a bull. Do not suppose that I am the only one who could have followed that clue. The police are in possession of many of the facts relating to the murder of Samuels, the zoo keeper. They probably have deducted the purpose of the green china cat placed near his body.”
Achmet chuckled. “Very good. Go on.”
“On regaining consciousness after the blow that made it possible for your gang to pass the gates of the zoo, Samuels must have started back toward the house; perhaps a strange sound attracted him to the leopard den. Investigating, he saw the green china cat where it had been thrown just inside the cage. He opened the cage door to get the china cat. Picking it up, the glaze coating melted.
“Strange essence came from the china cat and got on his hands. Ordinarily manageable by an experienced man like Samuels, the leopards were enraged by that substance on Samuels’ hands. They sprang upon him. He backed to the door, was killed by the cats. Then lured by the call of the Leopard Lady, the cats ran from the den to be taken captive by their original mistress, Felice Vincart. The purpose of Samuels’ murder was to get more killer cats for your murderous work. Up to that time, the Leopard Lady had only Bast to do her work.”
“Poor Bast!” sighed the man in the tarboosh. “I obtained the beast at great personal expense.”
“And do you think the police will be long in tracing down that purchase?”
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 6 Page 19