Herron gave a startled look at the corpse at Inspector Burks’ feet. He gasped. Then he shrank away from the inspector’s angry eyes. Hands shoved in pockets, he moved off by himself and stared fixedly at the fire.
The man who had come with Monkford spoke quietly, but the Secret Agent’s keen ears caught his comment. “Herron’s the type who would set a blaze himself in order to collect. Our records show that he served a jail sentence on a stock fraud charge. Probably he shouldn’t have been given any policy. Before the company pays this premium, Mr. Monkford, there should be a thorough investigation.”
Monkford frowned and nodded, but his cautious answer was pitched so low that X didn’t get it.
Interns from another ambulance moved up with a stretcher to the bloated body sprawled at the inspector’s feet. Burks halted them. “We’ll take charge of this man,” he said. “He’s dead. We’re going to hold him for an autopsy.”
Through the lines which the police were again maintaining a group of excited reporters pushed. The Agent’s eyes turned toward them and gleamed with sudden interest. Among the keen-featured young men who had hurried to the scene of the fire was the slim figure of a girl.
The torchlight of the burning building played over her eager face. It tinged with copper the gleaming coils of golden hair that showed below the close-fitting brim of her stylish hat. It outlined the supple shapeliness of her body.
The Agent knew her. She was a girl reporter from the Herald. Betty Dale, who took her job so seriously that she was usually among the first to arrive where news was hottest. More than that—she was one of the few people in all the world who knew of the Agent’s daring, secret work. She was one of the few who had gone with him into the shadow of death during more than one grim battle with crime.
She and the young men with her crowded close to Burks. She did not wince at sight of the sprawling body. Her blue eyes darkened with horror, but held steady. Often before she had been a witness to the grisly aftermath of crime.
BURKS maintained a stony silence in the face of the questions the reporters fired at him. Even Betty Dale was unable to make him talk. She caught sight of Mathew Monkford, turned and ran toward him. And the other reporters, knowing that she had an unfailing “nose for news,” followed.
The Secret Agent, a faked press card in his own wallet, edged closer. He didn’t make himself known to Betty Dale. Even she had never seen his real face, did not know his name. He had appeared to her in a hundred different guises, identifying himself when he chose by signals with which she had grown familiar.
He listened as she spoke to Monkford, heard her questioning him about the messages he had received from the arson ring. The insurance man gave vehement answer.
“I co-operated with the police,” he said. “I gave them all the information I had. They knew in advance about the threat to this building. But even they were unable to stop the fire. If this keeps up my company will be bankrupt.”
“Do you think the criminals will get in touch with you again?” asked one of the reporters.
Monkford nodded. “They’ll call me up and gloat as they did before. They’ll make new demands, and name another property to be destroyed if I don’t pay up. They’ll be sure now that I’ll agree.”
“Will you?” put in Betty Dale.
Monkford passed a distracted hand across his face. He spoke hoarsely, nervously. “Perhaps. I’ve tried holding out against them. It hasn’t worked. If they don’t ask too much, perhaps I’ll pay—but only on condition that they promise thereafter to leave my company alone.”
“Can you trust their promise?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know!” said Monkford bitterly.
Jason Herron, who had been edging up, intruded himself into the conversation. “You’d better pay—whether you can trust them or not. You’ll lose every policy holder you’ve got, if you don’t. The men behind this thing are desperate criminals. It wouldn’t surprise me if the racketeer, Santos, was in on it.”
“What makes you say that?” Monkford snapped.
Herron’s eyes wavered a moment. Fear crossed his face. His answer was husky. “Because Santos gave me trouble a couple of times when I was building this factory. Labor trouble. He was the head of a racket. He made threats, and I had to meet his demands.”
A hand reached out and clutched Herron’s arm so sharply that he gave a gasp. He whirled around. Inspector Burks’ hard face was thrust forward close to his own. Burks had apparently overheard the conversation.
“If you think Santos is back of these fires why didn’t you mention it to the police?”
HERRON quailed. “I shouldn’t have said it. I don’t know that he is. I only know—”
Burks shook him off as fiercely as a terrier letting go of a rat. He turned to one of his men, snapped a quick order. “Send out word to bring in Boss Santos. Have it put on the air. See that every cop and every cruiser in town is on the job.”
A police ambulance drew up and men from it lifted the body over which the assistant medical examiner had been bending. Burks and his squad of detectives moved away. Jason Herron slunk off by himself with fear in his eyes. He got back into the yellow taxi which had been waiting and was whirled out of sight. Monkford ended the interview with the reporters and drew aside with the man who had come with him, evidently an adjuster. Even X could not hear what passed between them.
The Agent reached down under his coat to the left side of his body. Fastened to his belt there, close against his side, was a fine-grained leather case not much larger than a small-size camera. But it contained delicate, complex radio apparatus and chemical batteries with a voltage as high as any in the world in units of the same size. There was a tiny receiver in the Secret Agent’s vest pocket with a flexible insulated wire not much bigger than a thread. He plugged this into a terminal in the leather case.
Stepping back a little into the shadows, the first finger of his right hand moved. It pressed a button key at the top of the radio case. He sent out short-wave signals that had a range of twenty miles, signals that Harvey Bates would pick up on another instrument similar to his own. Wherever Bates might be those signals would reach him.
In a moment the receiver in the Secret Agent’s pocket reeled off a faint series of dots and dashes. That was Bates’ ready call. The Agent’s expert finger tapped out a message.
“Get all information possible on racketeer Santos. Have other operatives shadow Jason Herron, owner of burned factory. Get data on him. Report immediately.”
The Agent’s second finger flicked a small control lever in the side of the radio case. It pitched the instrument to an entirely different wavelength. Bates could no longer hear him. The Agent got in touch with another crime-fighting organization which he maintained.
He repeated his request for information on Herron and Santos in staccato dots and dashes. These two detective agencies were the backbone of the Secret Agent’s investigation activities.
And while his finger sent off instructions to his operatives, his brain was busy planning his own actions. In a moment he had chosen a course for himself that was filled with danger.
He lingered at the scene of the fire, watching Mathew Monkford. There was a strange expression in the Secret Agent’s eyes. He noted every gesture that Monkford made. He edged close enough to listen again to Monkford’s accents. He carefully stored these impressions in his memory.
The adjuster left Monkford’s side in a moment and went off to begin the routine questioning of many witnesses. The Great Eastern Company would obviously not pay Herron until all facts were known. Monkford turned back toward his limousine, and the Secret Agent followed.
This was what he had been waiting for. He edged through the tense crowd ahead of Monkford. He passed the insurance man’s limousine, noted the uniformed chauffeur up front, and moved on almost to the end of the block. Here he stood close to the curb and casually lighted a cigarette. In a moment Monkford’s big limousine came nosing along. It was just beginning to
gather speed after the congestion in the street.
The Agent moved so quickly, so deftly, that neither Monkford nor his chauffeur guessed what he was about. He stepped to the car’s running board, jerked the door open and plunged inside. While Monkford gasped and stiffened the Agent crouched. He lifted the blue-steel muzzle of a gun and pointed it at Monkford’s chest.
Chapter IV
DOOM’S DISGUISE
THE SECRET AGENT’S disguised face looked impassive, but his voice had the brittle staccato of a crackling whip. “Keep quiet, Monkford. Look pleasant. Have your man drive on!”
In spite of the implied threat in the Agent’s voice and gun, Mathew Monkford opened his mouth to yell. He never made it. The Agent’s forefinger tensed in the trigger guard. He raised the gun muzzle slightly and a jet of vapor spurted out. It passed between Monkford’s open lips.
With a shuddering gasp, the insurance company head fought for breath. But the battle lasted only a second. His indrawn breath had sucked the vapor deep in his lungs. His eyes began to glaze. His head fell forward. In a moment he was swaying inertly as a sack of grain.
The Agent turned his attention to the chauffeur up front. With a quick movement he shoved back the sliding window that separated the driving compartment from the rear. The chauffeur had turned his head and had glimpsed what had happened to his master. His mouth hung slack, his eyes were bulging and his hands began to wobble on the wheel. The big car gave a dangerous lurch toward the curb.
X steadied the man’s trembling with the whiplash of fear. “Keep going! Straight ahead! Pretend you haven’t noticed anything or—” The Agent brought his gun around till its black muzzle centered on the chauffeur’s temple. The chauffeur froze into rigidity and the car rolled on. X knew the man guessed that he had shot Monkford with a silenced gun. The chauffeur believed that his own murder impended if he didn’t obey. This was what X wanted.
Keeping his gun hand thrust through the partition window he opened another at the limousine’s side to let the gas escape. He had held his breath to keep from being overcome himself. The air inside was stifling. Night wind flicked the vapor out.
He breathed deeply, held Monkford’s swaying body with his arm. His quick mind had counted on psychology to help him. The people who passed would be interested in the fire, not in a speeding limousine. No one along the street had witnessed the drama that had taken place.
Four blocks went by before the Agent said: “Turn right.” The chauffeur obeyed and the big car slid down a side street where the lights were dimmer. The Agent waited until they were in the center of the block where shadows were heavy. He spoke again. “Stop here.”
As the car stopped, X pressed the trigger of his gas gun a second time. He slammed the partition window shut, saw the chauffeur choke and fall forward over the wheel. X leaped to the running board. When he opened the driver’s door the chauffeur also was inert.
X pulled him over to the vacant side of the seat. He grabbed the man’s hat, set it on his own head, and climbed in under the wheel. He thrust the man’s body down out of sight, then threw in the clutch and sent the car forward.
The limousine gathered speed. In five minutes the scene of the fire and ruthless murders was far behind. X threaded his way through the darkest streets. He crossed a wide avenue, turned left, and drove till he had almost reached the city limits. Suddenly he slowed the big car and turned it into a drive. He stopped when the doors of a garage barred the way. A small, round lens like a single eye gleamed in their center. The Agent flashed the car’s headlights on and off four times in measured, but uneven timing. The doors rolled back as a selenium cell, acting on automatic mechanism, operated their hinges. They closed again as X drove the big car inside.
HE shut off the motor, climbed out. As easily as though they were sleeping children, he carried the two unconscious men, one after another, through a long, covered passage at the back of the garage and into a shuttered house. There was a chamber here in which no light from the street ever entered. The Agent had used it many times before in his daring work.
He laid the chauffeur on a sofa, propped Monkford up in a comfortable chair. But there was a head brace on the back of it like that in a dentist’s office. X clamped this on the insurance man, studied his face. He switched on a mercury vapor lamp, focused its rays on Monkford’s still features. He had already noted that Monkford was close to his own size and build. The man’s clothes, X believed, would fit him. Quickly, deftly, the Agent set to work.
First he stripped his own disguise off, removing the plastic material that he had worn at the scene of the fire. Now for a minute or two he appeared as he really was—as not even his few closest friends had ever seen him. And the face exposed in the weird glow of the mercury vapor lamp was remarkably youthful for a man who had been through so many strange experiences. It held character, understanding, power.
The wide-set eyes had the clarity and brilliance of a forceful, penetrating mind. Hawk-like strength dwelt in the curving line of the nose, fighting ruggedness in the chin. And there was a combination of kindness, humor and unflinching determination in the mobile lips.
When the Agent turned to lift a tube of make-up from a table, light struck his face at a slant, and he looked suddenly older. Faint lines were revealed across his glowing skin. These were the etched and indelible markings of his many odd adventures. It was a young-old, strangely dynamic face, a face that once seen could never be forgotten.
The Agent squeezed fresh volatile plastic substance from a tube. He spread the stuff out with the tips of his powerful fingers that had the strength and delicacy of a sculptor’s. He began creating Monkford’s features on his own.
He transformed himself quickly, as though his hands had the uncanny power of a magician’s. He made every smallest movement tell. He added coloring pigment under the last plastic layer, until his complexion matched the brick-red of Monkford’s. He selected a gray toupee, the exact shade of Monkford’s, and slipped it over his head. He did not stop until he had duplicated every blemish and wrinkle of the older man’s.
When he ceased his work finally he was Monkford’s double. And now, in the silence of the shuttered room, he practiced for a few moments the characteristic accents of Monkford, as he remembered them. The effect was uncanny. The newly-created Monkford seemed to be talking in Monkford’s own voice.
X changed clothes with the insurance man next, taking all his pocket belongings. Thoroughness when possible was one of the Agent’s undeviating principles. When all was ready he gave both Monkford and his chauffeur a subcutaneous injection of another anesthetic that would keep them unconscious for at least five hours. They must not wake until he returned. The secrets of this room must never be discovered.
The Agent left Monkford’s limousine in the secret garage. No key would open its doors. Their mechanism would only move when the one set of flashing signals was given.
He followed dark side streets, walking swiftly for many blocks before he finally hailed a taxi. He gave the address of Monkford’s office and told the driver to hurry.
The building that housed the Great Eastern Insurance Company was a massive affair. One of several new downtown office buildings, it towered above the block. But, with the exception of two uniformed guards, the great vestibule was deserted. The offices had long since closed for the day. The huge edifice was dark.
The guards nodded respectfully to the man they thought was Monkford. A single elevator was still running, and this took the Agent up to the fifteenth floor. He saw the lights of the Great Eastern Insurance Company down a long hall, and paused. There was a glow behind the frosted windows. Some one was inside.
THE AGENT had looked over Monkford’s wallet and papers found in his pocket in the cab. He knew that the company which Monkford headed had a secretary and a treasurer as well as a president. Either one of the other two might be inside. And there was risk in meeting them—risk always in any disguise the Agent might assume—the risk of discovery. Yet in a moment
he strode resolutely toward the lighted office.
He had assumed Monkford’s disguise for one main purpose—to hear a member of the arsonist group speak on the telephone, to make personal contact with the criminals. They would call up Monkford surely, to gloat, as he had said, and to make new demands. And besides hearing one of the incendiaries speak, X hoped to have a chance to look through Monkford’s private papers, and see what other big properties the Great Eastern Company had insured. By doing so, getting a line on where the arson ring might strike next, there was a possibility he could forestall them.
He opened the front door of the office and stepped inside. A light was burning here, but no one was in evidence. Behind the frosted glass of a door marked, Secretary, a restless shadow moved. In small letters were the words: Wm. Purcell. The Agent stared toward this door, then toward the door of Monkford’s own office straight ahead. That door was dark. His heart increased its beat. He was inwardly tense as always when he was about to test a new disguise. There had not been time to get a complete line-up on Monkford. He would have to be careful of his speech. He would cover up any slips by acting as if the fire had unnerved him.
He trod heavily, and the door of Purcell’s office flew open. The company’s treasurer stood in the threshold wild-eyed.
“Great heavens, Monkford, I just got the report! I’m glad you came here so we can talk.”
The Agent looked at Purcell closely. The man showed no signs of doubting his disguise. He was broad-shouldered, red-haired. His gray eyes were not even looking at the Agent. The Agent spoke carefully in Monkford’s voice, weighing each word.
“I’ve just come from the fire. Herron, the owner was there, cursing us.” He sat on the edge of a desk toying with a pencil.
Purcell ran a hand through his stiff red hair. He cursed harshly under his breath. “I’m going to get Joe up here. Let’s talk the thing over and decide what we ought to do.”
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 6 Page 23