“Right!” The Agent nodded. “Joe” meant Joe Reiss, the company’s treasurer. The name was printed on one of the letterheads in Monkford’s pocket. Purcell had accepted him as Monkford, and now he was going to call the company’s third official.
PURCELL dived into a telephone booth and made his call. The Agent opened the door of Monkford’s office and turned on the light He peeled off his coat and gloves. He looked about him. It was a handsome office as befitted the president of a company. A huge, flat-topped desk, a comfortable chair, a safe, a set of files. But the Agent did not attempt to go through the files just now. He was content to wait here until the arson ring called.
Purcell was back in a moment. “Joe’s coming right up,” he said.
They talked for ten minutes about the company’s finances, until Reiss, the treasurer entered. He was a tall dark man with a gloomy face. He sat down and lighted up a cigar.
X started to speak, but stopped and whirled. A faint, disturbing sound had reached his ears. He took two quick steps forward, paused. For the door of Monkford’s office flew open. Like actors in a sinister play, four masked men leaped into the room.
They spread, two on one side, two on the other. One of them held a sub-machine gun, its barrel pointed straight at Purcell, Reiss and the Agent. The other three had automatics. More arresting still, two of the masked invaders grasped small round objects in their left-hand fingers. The Agent recognized these, and caught his breath. They were the walnut missiles that had been dropped at the fire, causing the horrible bloating death.
Chapter V
CAR OF DEATH
COLD DREAD pressed at the Agent’s heart. The man with the machine gun spoke harshly from behind his mask. “None of you guys move! Here—take a look at this!”
Holding the deadly weapon in his right hand, its butt braced against his shoulder, the machine-gunner raised his left and opened the fingers. Clutched between them was a nut-like ball. His slitted eyes swiveled toward the Agent.
“You saw what these things can do a little while back, Mr. Monkford. Start anything, any of you—and we’ll use ’em. You haven’t paid up. We’d just as leave knock you off as not. These pills would make those mugs of yours look pretty.”
Horror tingled the Secret Agent’s spine. He recalled the bloated, hideous face of the dead fireman he had seen. In all his contact with vicious criminals he had never heard of a terrorist weapon more ghastly. The masked gunman seemed to sense the impression he was creating. A gloating laugh came from his lips.
“Tell ’em about those guys at the fire, Monkford! Tell ’em how they squalled and how their faces swelled up big as pumpkins. Tell ’em how they died, eatin’ the dirt. If we throw one of these you’ll all be beggin’ for bullets. Lead would be a cinch—after this!”
He shook the tiny, sinister missile, and some of the horrible meaning of his words reached to Purcell and Reiss. Both men turned deathly white. Reiss gasped: “What—what do you want us to do?”
“Get goin’,” said the man with the machine gun. “Scram out that door all of you. You’re leavin’ by the back way along with us.”
X measured the chances for a quick attack. He had won his way out of many desperate situations, won by sheer grit in the face of obstacles, a gambler’s courage. But he saw that at the moment any attempt to break free would spell suicide. Three automatics were pointed toward him. The machine gun’s snout was ready to spread a hail of death in the space of a split second. And the man behind it was holding the sinister missile poised to throw.
X broke the spell of tenseness by nodding and heading for the office’s rear door. Reiss and Purcell followed. They were like men dazed by a nightmare of fear. The stalking masked figures came close behind them, so close that once the machine gun’s barrel prodded X in the back.
The gunman had commandeered another elevator. It was the one in the rear of the building, used for freight and supplies. While Reiss and Purcell and the Agent crowded in a corner, one of the masked men operated it. The car sank slowly down the shaft.
At the main floor a harsh whisper spoken by the masked leader ordered them out. Gesturing, menacing guns pointed the way. They obeyed in silence, but close to the building’s rear exit Purcell gave a smothered cry. The Agent saw the cause of it and his jaw tensed in fury.
A guard and the building’s watchman lay on the floor. Under the glow of the single bulb that burned overhead their faces looked inhuman. They had the grayish pallor of death and they were hideously bloated; grotesque monsters that had once been men, their features almost obliterated by the swelling. The man with the machine gun laughed.
“We bumped them that way because it didn’t make no noise. It’s what you mugs will get if you make any trouble.”
Purcell, trembling with fear, spoke in a stricken voice. “This is horrible! What—where are we going?”
“You’ll find out!” growled the masked leader. “You kept a tight hold on your pocketbooks. You wouldn’t pay. But with you gone maybe the stockholders will think different.”
“You mean you’re going to keep us prisoners?”
A mocking laugh was his only answer. The Agent’s brain seemed to be on fire. He got the drift of things now. They were being kidnaped. They would be held somewhere, or perhaps slaughtered later in some secret place. Neither of these things must happen. The real Monkford would come to in a few hours. He would escape from the house where the Agent held him. The criminals would learn that they had the wrong man, that Agent X wasn’t Monkford. And this would spell certain, horrible death for the Agent. They would destroy him ruthlessly for a meddler, as they had the firemen at the burning factory.
Again the Agent weighed his chances, and again remained quiet. He was a hopeless prisoner at the moment. An attempted break now would only jeopardize the lives of Purcell and Reiss.
They were conducted along a rear court and through a side alley that led to another street. Here a closed seven-passenger car was waiting. It was long and low, blackly sinister as a hearse. It might well become a death car for all of them. The masked leader motioned them in with a jerk of his gun, and all three entered.
THE machine gunner and another man with an automatic lowered the two folding seats in the rear. They seated themselves, facing their prisoners. The other two armed men got up front. With a low purr of gears the big car moved forward.
Purcell and Reiss had lapsed into frozen silence. X sat at the end of the seat silent also. No one of the masked criminals spoke. But there was deadly precision in all their actions. Whatever plan they had in mind had been prearranged. The car drove as X had driven previously that evening. It followed dark streets, rolling at an unhurried pace, almost without noise. Somewhere ahead in the night a prison chamber or a torture chamber awaited them.
Muscles in the Secret Agent’s face knotted beneath his make-up. His disguise of Monkford had brought results that he had not reckoned with. It threatened to take him entirely out of the fight.
His eyes, sharp as a questing hawk’s, took note of everything in the car’s interior. His mind once again grappled with the idea of escape. He still had his gas gun with him. But any attempt to reach inside his coat would be stopped with a stream of bullets. Any quick movement now would bring instant death.
He made none, but the fingers of his left hand reached slowly out. Inches away a cigarette lighter dangled on a flexible cord. It was a small thing upon which to pin hope of life in the presence of death. A small thing, but the Agent was a gambler.
His face betrayed no hint that he was making a play with doom. His eyes were still now, staring straight before him, staring almost into the wicked muzzle of the masked leader’s gun. But his fingers still inched forward, slowly as the uncoiling tentacles of a jungle plant. They touched the lighter, caressed it, closed around it. They came back with the same measured caution.
A jounce of the car covered the soft click that came when the Agent pressed the lighter on. He thrust it far down between the seat cushion
and the padded side of the car. His hand came up. He waited.
Seconds passed, and from the corner of his eye he caught the first faint plume of smoke. A moment more and his nostrils detected a rank burning odor. Criss-cross shadows, passing the windows, made the interior of the car confusing. The masks, covering the noses of the killers, deadened their sense of smell. All this the Agent had taken into account.
It wasn’t till they passed a corner light that the head of one of the masked men turned. He gave a startled gasp. Smoke was pouring up from the limousine’s cushion. His gasp attracted the attention of the leader. The Agent had been waiting for this.
In the fraction of a second that the masked machine gunner’s head moved sidewise, the Agent made his play. His hand flashed out like a striking snake. He caught the barrel of the gun and pulled it forward, twisting his body sidewise as he did so. The gun exploded with a clattering, shattering roar, lashing bullets into the back of the seat. The machine gunner, keeping a clutch on his weapon, was jerked forward with it. The Agent crashed a hard-knuckled fist straight into his face. He swept his right hand out and forward and caught the man who held the automatic on the chin. The stream of bullets that his contracting finger fired hissed in a hot swath of death close to the Agent’s temple.
PURCELL and Reiss were screaming, swearing. One of the men up front swung in his seat with a shout. He tried to bring the muzzle of his weapon down on the Agent’s head. Instead it struck the head of the masked leader whom X shoved forcibly back. Smoke from the burning cushion and the gun muzzles filled the whole interior of the car. In the blinding, thundering confusion X struck right and left. He was choking himself, eyes smarting and streaming with the fumes. His fist glanced off the back of the driver’s head and the man jerked the wheel.
The limousine slewed toward the curb. Brakes halted it with a piercing squeal, but its front fender struck a hydrant and made a tinny crash.
As it stopped X turned the handle of the door and lashed out with his foot. Glass broke as the door flew open. Cold night air swept in. X clutched two human bodies, Purcell and Reiss, and dragged them with him. They hit the pavement together, went down in a heap, bounced up. Behind them an automatic cracked savagely and bullets slapped and screamed at their feet.
X, running low, led the way into the shadows. He ducked toward a doorway, yanking the two men after him while the guns of the killers in the car sought them out. He broke for more distant cover as soon as the fusillade had lessened. Purcell and Reiss ran with streaming faces and whistling breaths. When he finally turned a corner they were close to collapse.
But the Agent didn’t let them rest. Not till he’d led them deep into a driveway between two empty houses did he pause. Then the siren of a police radio cruiser was screaming a dozen blocks away. The shots had aroused the whole neighborhood and some one had sent in a call.
Purcell spoke in a shaking voice. “We owe our lives to you, Monk. That—that was the closest shave—”
“You had your nerve with you!” put in Reiss heavily. “We’d have been murdered if it hadn’t been for you.”
X spoke hoarsely, playing the role of Monkford. His actions in the past few minutes had hardly been those of a staid insurance man. He must make up for it now. “I lost my head,” he said. “I—it drove me crazy to sit there and have them take us away. You fellows didn’t see those murders at the fire. I did. They’d have made bloated corpses of us all.”
Purcell clutched his arm. “We’ve got to do something. We’d better notify the police. Did either of you get the license number of that car?”
“No,” growled Reiss savagely. “There wasn’t a chance to see it. And we can’t depend on the police now. Our lives won’t be safe a minute till those criminals are caught. They may try to kidnap us again.”
“Let’s go to my place and talk it over,” said Purcell hoarsely. “We all need a drink. I do, anyway. And I’ve got guns there. We won’t take any chances from now on.”
THE Secret Agent’s thoughts were racing. He could slip away into the darkness. He had lines of investigation to pursue. But it would be better not to stir up the suspicions of these men now. The arson ring might try to get in touch with one of them. “Good,” he said. “We’ll try to figure some way out.”
They walked to a lighted avenue, where Purcell hailed a passing taxi, and they were driven to his apartment. It was a bachelor set-up, X saw at once. No signs of anything feminine were in evidence. A bowing Japanese servant ushered them in.
“Get us some brandy, Shima,” Purcell snapped. While the yellow-skinned man hurried off for the liquor, Purcell went to a cabinet and pulled out a box. He raised the cover, displaying a dozen automatics and revolvers of various types. There were also rifles, shotguns and shooting trophies in the cabinet.
Purcell selected three automatics, snapped them open and loaded each with a clip of shells. Then he passed the weapons around. “Never mind if you haven’t got permits,” he said grimly. “Keep these—and shoot to kill if those fiends come back. I’d rather die by bullets than—” He left the sentence unfinished, shuddered. Agent X pocketed Purcell’s weapon, a sardonic gleam in his eye.
The Japanese returned with glasses, a siphon of soda and a decanter. He put them on a table.
“See that all the doors and windows are locked, Shima,” said Purcell warningly. “Don’t let anybody in. And here—you’d better take one of these.” He handed the servant a small revolver, which the yellow man took with a frightened grimace. “We might have visitors,” Purcell added.
Shima bobbed his sleek, black head. “Shima understands,” he said. “The devil men who set big fires may try to harm the honorable master.”
The Japanese poured brandy in the glasses, passed one to each man and lifted the siphon. Then suddenly he stood stock still. X saw that he was being stared at. Shima was looking not at his face, but at his hand.
X did not tense or look startled, but a quick awareness of danger filled him. He held the glass of brandy in his right hand. This seemed for some reason to excite Shima. The yellow man’s eyes were bright as he pushed the siphon forward. “You will take soda, Mr. Monkford?”
The Agent nodded, and for a moment his gaze clashed with the slant-eyed servant’s. Shima’s fingers were taut as claws around the siphon. He was trembling violently. When he had finished distributing the soda, he quietly left the room. Moments later he returned, and said:
“Shima would like to speak to honorable master.”
“What is it, Shima?” Purcell asked.
“Shima would prefer to talk in private.”
Purcell shrugged. He set his glass down and rose. He and the Japanese withdrew to another chamber. Reiss looked uneasy. “What the devil!” he said.
The Agent made no comment. His pulses hammered and the skin along his neck felt tight. The inner voice, warning of desperate danger was insistent. He could hear Shima’s whispers faintly in the other room.
Purcell returned in a moment, his lips tightly set. Holding one hand behind him, he fixed a burning gaze on the Secret Agent. “I—I can’t believe it!” he gasped. “But Shima says you aren’t Monkford!” He licked his lips, peered downward. “Monkford’s left-handed. He never holds a glass like that!”
“What!” Reiss leaped to his feet, spilling his brandy.
“I didn’t notice it myself,” said Purcell, “but Shima—” He stopped, and the Agent could plainly hear both men’s quick breathing.
“You’re nervous tonight,” X said easily. “I’m left-handed certainly, but my right hand isn’t crippled. Once in awhile I change over. I bruised my left a little in that scrap.”
He still saw doubt in their eyes. Purcell said thickly: “Of course—maybe you’re right. But after what happened I’m not taking any chances. I’m afraid to. You won’t mind giving me the numbers of those policies you put in the safe this afternoon. You know the ones I mean—on the Bulkley and Sessions properties. You asked me not to forget them. And I know you never let nu
mbers slip your mind.”
The Agent was silent, blood pounding like a hammer in his temples. He was trapped. Each second he remained silent counted against him. He fixed his eyes on Purcell, tried bluffing. “Get hold of yourself, Bill! You must be wrought up to suspect any such thing. Can’t you see I’m Monkford?”
“The numbers!” persisted Purcell.
X drew a hand across his face. “All this excitement!” he said. “I’m only human. I can’t remember!”
“It’s true then!” screamed Purcell suddenly. “You’re an impostor. You’re not Monkford! You’re—” His right hand whipped from behind his back. He swung it toward X. The black automatic gripped tightly in his fingers pointed straight at the Agent’s chest.
Reiss lifted his voice.
“He isn’t Monkford. He’s in with those murderers! I thought there was something funny about that business in the car—and now I understand. That rescue was a put-up job! This man’s a criminal!”
Chapter VI
X UNDER FIRE!
“DON’T MOVE!” warned Purcell. “Don’t move—or I’ll shoot! You must have murdered Monkford. I won’t hesitate to kill!”
The Agent looked from one glaring, contorted face to the other and knew his danger. Reiss, too, had drawn his gun. X made no attempt to stir. He sat deathly still, the brandy glass still balanced in his hand.
“Shima has telephoned the police,” said Purcell. “They’ll be here any minute now. And they’ll know how to make you confess what you’ve done with Monkford. They’ll find out who you are!”
“It’s incredible!” gasped Reiss. “I’d swear it was Monkford. If we’re wrong, it’s going to be embarrassing.”
“We’re not wrong, Joe! This man couldn’t give me those numbers. If it was Monkford he surely would.”
The Agent screwed his face into a patient smile. “It is going to be embarrassing. You’re right. But I’ll do my best to explain things to the police. You’ve both of you been through enough tonight to shake any man.”
The eyes of Joe Reiss seemed to waver in doubt, but Purcell’s were steady. “Bluffing won’t help you!” he snarled. “I’ve been associated with Monkford for more than ten years. He always uses his left hand for everything. And he’s got a memory like a hawk. He could give me the number of every policy in the office if I asked him.”
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 6 Page 24