X was silent, and the voice at the other end of the wire asked coldly: “Do you agree?”
The words came in a tortured whisper from X’s lips. “I agree!”
“Right. I thought so. You’re not a fool. Go at once to the empty house at number forty-two Stillwell Avenue. You’ll find the basement door open. Walk through the kitchen to the large empty closet in the rear. Close the door behind you and press the electric button under the shelf in the center of the wall.”
Chapter XI
FIENDS’ BARGAIN
THE house, inside, was falling to pieces, filled with a smothering, tomblike silence that inspired dread. The Agent’s flash spread a wan light across the uncarpeted, sagging floor. He walked cautiously, warily, but at every step a loose board under his feet emitted a snap or a groan.
When he neared the closet at the end of the kitchen, glowing eyes, pinpoints of greenish fire, glared at him a moment from a corner. A gray rat, evil-looking as the house itself, turned and fled through the wall.
The closet door, like the door at the front of the house, was open. The Agent stooped to examine the boards at his feet. The only suspicious thing he had discovered, the only sign that there had recently been human beings here, was the absence of dust on the floor. He touched the boards, and his suspicion was upheld. The floor had been swept clean.
For that reason there were no footprints showing. The closet had been dusted recently also. Peer as he would he could find no marks of foot or fingers.
At first he could see no electric button. There was a shelf ahead of him, but nothing on it, and nothing on the wall above. He knelt, turned his light upward—and found the signal disc.
It had been cunningly fastened to the underside of the shelf. A slender wire led from it, straight into the old wall beyond. A person who hadn’t been told of its presence would never guess it was there.
For almost a minute the Agent continued his investigations. He ran his light along the walls of the closet, looked at the plaster in the corners. It was cracked in spots, but there were no signs of a hidden door. He turned his light upward, saw that the closet’s ceiling was made of grooved, matched boards.
For seconds he studied these, filled with a sense that there the secret of the closet lay. But the ceiling was far above his head. He had come here, not to tamper, not to pry too deeply into what he was not supposed to know, but to fulfill a bargain. A grim thought possessed him. Perhaps he had come here to die.
There was no saying what would happen when he touched that electric disc. A bomb might explode. The whole building might fall down upon him. Yet it did not seem likely that the criminals would take such pains to destroy him now. It could be done more simply. Already they had him in their power through their grip on Betty Dale.
Mindful that hidden eyes might somewhere be watching, the Agent obeyed instructions to the letter. He closed the closet door behind him. Shut in the grave-like, stuffy silence of its interior his fingers slipped under the shelf and touched the button. He paused a moment with throbbing pulses, gave it a forceful punch.
For a brief second nothing happened. Then a smothering, soft cloud seemed to descend on the Agent’s shoulders. Something cold and sweet and cloying entered his mouth and nostrils, touched his face. He gasped, choked, turned in instinctive panic.
Gas. That soft cloud was some kind of dense bromine vapor. He was being smothered alive like a rat in a lethal cage. He found the door handle, gripped it, cried out. The door was locked. A catch had sprung behind him.
His fingers flew to his pockets for his kit of chromium tools. But his knees gave way. With a roaring in his brain, a tightness along his scalp, an increasing pressure in his lungs, he slipped to the floor. Another moment and he had lost consciousness in a black, sweetish void.
HE awoke, he did not know how long after, manacled hand and foot. He could tell he was a prisoner by the instant, sensory response of his muscles and flesh. Metal links, tight, but not uncomfortable, held his legs and wrists. There was a whiff of something in his nostrils that he identified as an ammonia restorative. But all about him was impenetrable gloom.
He stirred, and one of the links that held him gave off a faint rattle. A voice instantly spoke in the darkness close at hand. “Welcome to our meeting, Secret Agent X.”
The Agent struggled mentally, clearing the gas fumes from his brain. He was deadly, calculatingly calm. It wasn’t the first time hideous criminals had won a point by making him prisoner. He had expected something like this when he had answered the arson-ring’s call. He said quietly: “Good evening.”
The same harsh chuckle that he had heard in the phone booth sounded.
Somewhere in the room a tiny light went on. Beneath its eerie, candle-dim glow three figures appeared like pictures developing out of the blackness of a film. They sat facing him in a semi-circle. All three were masked. Black garments draped from their shoulders, covering their bodies. He could get no faint impression of size or build. Black, bulky caps covered the hair of their heads. Only their eyes were visible, glittering coals of fire behind their masks.
If the stage had been set to impress him, the Agent was not impressed. Only two things concerned him—the capture of these criminals and the fate of Betty Dale. He made his voice slightly scornful. “I have come. Just exactly what is it you want?”
“You have come!” one of the masked men mocked him. “You have come because we had you brought here unconscious. You have come only because we chose to let you live.”
“This isn’t getting down to business.”
“No, Agent X.” The speaker paused a moment. He seemed to crouch forward in the posture of a feasting vulture. “You’ve heard of poetic justice—you’ve heard of irony. We’re going to give you nice examples of both now. You spoiled our collection the other night from Norton King. By doing so you spoiled our entire plan. We have brought you here to suggest another—and to put it into practice. You, Agent X, are to be our new collector.”
The Agent breathed a moment quickly. “The girl!” he said. “Where’s Betty Dale?”
“Where you can’t find her. But she is safe—safe so long as you do what we tell you?”
“How did you get her out of the fire?”
“Silence! You’re not here to ask questions. You’re here to obey.”
“I’ll do nothing till I know the girl’s alive.”
“Of course. We expected that. Look beside you.”
THE Agent turned his head. A panel in the black wall was opening. Behind it a girl in a tweed suit was standing. Her face was pale, troubled, but tinged with the glow of life. Gold gleams touched her yellow hair. Her arms were bound to the slim lines of her figure. Betty Dale!
“Speak!” said one of the black figures. “We have your friend here, the Secret Agent!”
Her eyes fastened on X. “You!” she breathed. Her voice was tremulous, throbbing like the note of a muted violin.
The Agent spoke to the foremost black figure. “If you want me to help you, I must have a few words with Betty Dale—alone.”
“Must?” asked the black figure. He chuckled. “Your choice of words is amusing, Mr. X.”
The Secret Agent shrugged. “You have everything to gain by my services. And everything to lose, without them. Do you find that amusing, too?”
Turning to his cohorts, the first black figure stared at them in silent consultation. Then he faced back to X. “You know, of course, that we can kill both you and the girl.”
“Still,” said X, “you need a collector—or you wouldn’t have brought me here.”
Tense, anxious moments dragged by. Finally, the spokesman in black nodded. “All right. Talk to the girl. No harm can come from it.” He waved to the others, and drifted from the room like a sinister black cloud.
X moved swiftly to Betty’s side, pressed his lips to her ear, whispered: “Have you been to the Jacoby Department store?”
Betty shook her head slowly. “I—I don’t think so.”
> “You are not certain, Betty. Were you drugged?”
“Yes—when I was first brought here. I don’t remember it very well. They made me keep my coat on. And—I think—I threw something—”
The girl’s words were cut short by X’s hand over her mouth, for a solitary black figure had noiselessly slipped into the room. The voice behind the ebon mask said:
“You have been allowed to talk to Betty Dale, Mr. X. Now, stand clear.” And as X moved, the panel shot back into place. Betty Dale had disappeared again.
X asked: “If I keep my part of the bargain, what explanation can you give that will clear her from implication in the fire?”
“It will be for you to clear her, Agent X. You were told that on the phone.”
“You have forgotten,” said X, “that Betty Dale was seen by a hundred people. The police are after her now. I know she isn’t guilty. But who would believe it, unless I have proof?”
“We’ll give you proof—when your task is done.”
“The nature of it? You must put your cards on the table if you expect me to work with you.”
The black-masked figure chuckled.
“You will have to take our word. You have no other choice.”
“All right,” said X harshly. “I’m ready to work for the price you offer.” He had no intention of submitting meekly, becoming a slave of this devil’s trio. He had learned what he wanted to know. Betty Dale was still alive. But he doubted that these men would keep their word—any longer than it served their purposes to do so. He listened tensely as the man who had first addressed him went on speaking.
“Tomorrow we are going to contact L.L. Slater again. A protection fee of five hundred thousand dollars will be asked. After the incident of Jacoby & Sons department store, we feel certain he will see the light—and pay. In the event that he does, have you any suggestions to offer as to the best means of collection?”
THE Agent was thoughtful for a moment. Then: “There’re dozens of ways that it could be arranged. I could approach Slater in any one of a score of different impersonations. If necessary, I could visit him and pick up the money as a city official—say the commissioner of police.”
There was silence in the room for a moment, then the masked speaker went on grimly: “We have faith in you, Agent X. When the time comes to collect the money, you will put into operation whatever scheme seems most practical. Until then, you will be our prisoner.”
The Agent spoke with deliberate scathing fury. “Fool! I’m not a magician! You ask me to do what few men in the world would dare attempt. And you expect me to succeed without studying the ground beforehand. I must have full opportunity to make appraisals and plans, or I can’t undertake the work. Slater isn’t like Norton. He may pay, but he will use every power at his command to set a trap. Without my help there is little possibility that you would collect.”
The masked man stared at X. “You think too highly of your abilities. But there’s something in what you say. Slater has proved himself to be stubborn. He’ll probably ask the cooperation of the police. We must positively collect his payment. For that reason we’ll give you full freedom to make your plans. Find out everything you can about him. See how the ground lies. If he agrees to our next demand, you’ll receive another note in Marsedon’s box with full details. You’ll be instructed what to do with the money.”
The Agent nodded. “That’s much better,” he said.
The masked figure leaned toward him with shoulders hunched like a roosting buzzard. A grating, sinister laugh stirred echoes in the room. “Naturally we shall take steps to protect ourselves amply from you. If you make any attempt to double-cross us or try to steal the money—”
“You have Betty Dale to turn over to the police,” said X quietly.
“More than that! We have the girl right here with us, to act as hostage for your conduct. If it doesn’t please us—she will die! One of our grenades, with its formic acid crystals, will make an amusing burlesque of the girl’s beauty—before it kills her. She will not be so pretty with her face and body swollen up as though a million bees had stung her. So, consider carefully—before you try a double-cross!”
Ice seemed to press along the Agent’s spine. Dread too deep for fury filled him. He knew the masked man wasn’t joking. He said quietly, huskily: “I understand.”
The black figures reached out and touched something on the wall. The Agent heard a faint sound of movement directly above him. He lifted his head. A dark, cone-shaped object like a monstrous bell was descending from the ceiling on cable pulleys. It came down over his head and shoulders, covered him like a mantle. Again he smelted the sweetish fumes of bromine gas. In less than a minute, his head fell forward on his chest.
Chapter XII
THE DEATH FLOWER
THE tap-tap of Thaddeus Penny’s cane came slowly nearer. The Agent leaned against a lamp post, hiding the tense expectation that he felt. It was day again. He was free for a while to carry on his desperate undercover battle with crime. Free, after being left in another vacant house, and coming to with no one around and no notion of where he’d been taken.
Betty Dale’s peril lay like a chill weight across his brain. He must act quickly if he hoped to save her. She was a pawn being used in a vast game of crime, a pawn to be snatched from the board at his opponents’ slightest whim. The heads of the arson ring would destroy her as mercilessly as they had those others.
The Agent had formulated several desperate plans. None gave assured promise of success. Before putting any of them into operation he wanted to hear what Thaddeus Penny had to say.
As the blind man came close the Agent spoke in a casual tone. “I’ll take a package of that gum.”
Except for a faint brightening of his face Thaddeus Penny betrayed no sign of recognition. He walked up to the post where X was standing and pushed out his tray of wares. The Agent dropped a nickel into the cigar-box tray and selected a package. Thaddeus Penny spoke softly so that no one passing might hear. “Rumors only reach a blind man’s ears. Of Santos there is no word. It is said that he has not been seen for months. But there is a woman, a moll, he once fancied, and of her there are whispers spoken.”
“Blossom O’Shean,” said the Agent tensely.
Penny’s head bobbed. “That was her name. She dropped out of sight at the same time Santos vanished. It was thought they’d skipped the country together. But catty female tongues are saying that Blossom is still in the city, that she has gone high-hat, and is living uptown under the name of Madam Colemont. She was seen and recognized in a beautician parlor by a former underworld friend. This friend told a hat-check girl. The hat-check girl whispered it to an acquaintance. And a blind man’s ears overheard.”
X clasped Penny’s hand for a brief moment. “You have done well,” he said.
“One thing more,” said Penny softly. “Madam Colemont is said to be basking in riches; a limousine with a chauffeur, a fine apartment, servants. And where sudden riches are there often evil dwells.”
“Right,” said the Agent. “You may have helped me, Thaddeus, more than you know.” He thanked Penny earnestly, promised to look him up soon, and moved off along the street.
In one of his hideouts, he tapped a swift order to Bates. “Get information on wealthy Madam Colemont living in uptown area. Pose as credit investigator and question tradespeople in her neighborhood. Get all data possible. Report back at once.”
The Agent studied again some photographs he had of Boss Santos. They had been taken by a press cameraman and they were not entirely satisfactory. A daring thought had occurred to X; but he shook his head. These pictures would never do.
A message from Bates came in just an hour over the radio in the Agent’s hideout. “Madam Colemont located. Rich divorcee. Lives alone except for servants. Nineteen Morningside Square. Credit unlimited. Extravagant spender, but no social contacts. Friends few. Only men. Await further orders.”
The Agent thought a moment tensely, then tapped another
command. “Believe newsreel films were taken of Santos at time of political graft trial two years ago. Visit film distributors and obtain film giving clear pictures of Santos. Signal immediately if successful.”
Shortly before noon Bates reported that he had been able to secure the desired films. The Agent picked them up at Bates’ office. He returned to his hideout and set up a movie projector facing a clear white wall with a chemically treated surface. For nearly an hour he studied the Santos films and listened to his voice as recorded in the talkie. The racketeer was a big man with a hard, brutal face. His speech was a purring drawl.
The Agent, with his masterly command of phonetics, imitated each syllable. In a few minutes, Santos seemed to be talking in the room. X stopped the motor of his projector and left on the wall-screen a full-face “still” of the mobman. He took out his make-up kit. Swiftly, carefully, he built up Santos’ features on his own. The question of pigment bothered him, but, judging by the darkness of Santos’ skin, he was deep complexioned. There was no doubt that he had jet-black hair.
The Agent turned on other stills, giving profiles and three quarter views, till he had duplicated every plane of Santos’ face. He straightened, satisfied—the living image of Boss Santos.
He had noticed the elaborate sportiness of the racketman’s clothes. From a hidden wardrobe that contained almost a hundred suits, he selected one that would do. It was made of reddish-brown material with loud, blue checks. He chose a pair of tan shoes, a fedora hat. Yellow gloves with black inseams and a straight cane completed his costume.
HE passed through a passage at the rear of his hideout, down to a basement garage. Four cars were stored here.
He got into a glistening coupé, with a low-slung body and special, tinted sun-glass windows. These gave good protection against prying eyes. He didn’t forget that the police everywhere were searching for Boss Santos. He was risking instant capture to go abroad in such a disguise.
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 6 Page 29