Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 6

by G. T. Fleming-Roberts

  Her search of the extensive suite gratified a perfectly natural curiosity but yielded no evidence that could possibly help her friend Secret Agent X. She would have left in another moment if the phone had not rung. Betty held her breath. Dare she answer it? Perhaps the voice at the other end of the line could give her information that would be extremely helpful.

  Had she not seen Mimi Clarice so many times on the stage, the idea would probably never have popped into her blonde head. Acting entirely on impulse, she picked up the phone and said in a voice that closely approached that of the actress: “This is Mimi Clarice speaking.”

  Then, as she realized what she had done, her heart began to thump so madly that she could scarcely comprehend the strange message that came over the wire.

  “Dearest,” a male voice whispered, “please try to control yourself. This can’t help but be a great shock to you.”

  “Wh-what’s that?” Betty stammered.

  “Mimi, this is Jerrico speaking. Your own Georgie.”

  AND if Betty’s heart had been pounding before, it threatened to jump out of her breast now. George Jerrico was dead—murdered, his face eaten away. Even Agent X had told her that Jerrico was dead. But X didn’t know that Jerrico was dead. No one knew. With the face nothing more than a bony skull, no one could have positively identified the corpse, even though it had come from Jerrico’s room. Here was information that Agent X would have given much to know. And Betty was determined to play the dangerous game to the limit in behalf of her friend.

  She forced a startled cry, took quick, panting breaths. “Oh, that can’t be,” she whispered, “Don’t—don’t drag me through that agony of hoping that George is alive when I know he is dead!” And she told herself that she was doing her job well.

  “Dearest,” came the low voice. “You will know everything as soon as I can see you. Don’t believe a thing you’ve read in the papers.”

  Read in the papers? Hadn’t she written up the account of the murder herself? It was all Betty could do to suppress an hysterical laugh.

  “I’m not dead, Mimi,” went on the voice. “It was all a hoax. I’ll explain everything as soon as you’ll let me come to see you. I’ll come up right away, if you’ll let me.”

  Betty hesitated a moment. Could she do it? She had seen all of Mimi Clarice’s expensive clothes hanging in the closets. She had wondered what she would have looked like in them. She had speculated upon how perfectly they would fit her, for her own trim figure was very similar to that of the actress.

  “Can you see me in five minutes?” begged the man.

  “Impossible,” breathed Betty. “But in an hour, come to my door and knock three times so that I will know that it is you. I am all alone tonight and I want to be disturbed by no one—no one but you, darling.” And breathing in short, sharp gasps, Betty hung up.

  She looked about the room a little dazedly. She passed a hand over her brow. What had she done? For a moment, she was tempted to run from the apartment. Perhaps it was because her long association with X had endowed her with a courage superior to that of other women, perhaps it was because of her great love for the Agent that she was willing to take the risk. At any rate, she found herself walking woodenly into Mimi Clarice’s bathroom, taking a package of henna-rinse from the mirror-fronted cabinet, and pouring it into the washbasin.

  Determinedly, she took down her golden hair, combed it, and rinsed it thoroughly in the dark liquid. It required but a few minutes to dry it with an electric drier. Then she set about selecting a dress from the actress’ wardrobe.

  It was not until she sat down in front of the dressing table and opened the Agent’s old make-up kit that she realized the task she had set for herself. She had dozens of pictures of the actress to use as models in molding her new features, but her fingers lacked the Agent’s practiced artistry, and there were many things in the make-up kit that she did not know how to use.

  She confined herself to the plastic material alone and with this, changed the shape of her nose and built up the contours of her brow and chin. She trusted to the actress’ powder, rouge, mascara and lipstick to procure the final effect.

  Her allotted hour was nearly gone. Hastily she changed to one of the actress’ evening gowns, and surveying herself in the glass she saw that she was not quite as pretty as Betty Dale and not nearly so stunning as Mimi Clarice. She would have to trust to soft lights to cover the defects in her make-up. She went into the living room and turned on a single rose-shaded lamp.

  For the remaining few minutes, she practiced walking and talking as she had seen Mimi Clarice do on the stage. The vocal impersonation, at least, was good. Could she fool George Jerrico who was evidently very intimate with the actress?

  Three knocks at the door. Betty crossed to it. Twice her hand opened and closed upon the knob before she had the courage to open it. Then she drew it open quickly, and gasped: “George, darling!”

  Two men entered the room. Both had automatics. Neither was George Jerrico.

  Betty shrank back. One of the men held a black cloth sack. She knew its purpose and struggled madly against it. But the sack dropped over her head and when she drew breath to scream, the sweetish odor of chloroform choked her. She grew dizzy, felt like she was floating off into space, then gravelike blackness.

  IN his office, Police Commissioner Foster sagged limply into his chair. Mouth open, he regarded Agent X with staring eyes. He was quite as surprised and puzzled by the Agent’s announcement as X had been a moment before when he had learned of the murder of A.H. Ghurst.

  The great difference in the two men facing each other across the commissioner’s desk was that X, on finding his deductions concerning Ghurst crumbling to nothing, recovered instantly. At almost the same time that Foster had told him that Ghurst was dead, the Agent’s eyes had fallen upon something that started him off on another line of reasoning.

  That something stood in the commissioner’s bookcase among a miscellaneous collection of reading matter. It was a handsomely bound volume of Ibsen’s famous play, Ghosts.

  Not only did the word “ghosts” drop naturally into the Agent’s collection of alphabet blocks—the “O” and final “S” alone being missing— but it recalled a newspaper headline of ten years ago. Smiling down at the completely stunned Commissioner Foster, X repeated that old headline from memory:

  “Foster puzzled about Ghosts!”

  Foster sat up stiffly in his chair. “Just what do you mean?” he demanded.

  X smiled. “That was when you were in the less exalted position of inspector, wasn’t it, commissioner? The case of the Ghosts was about the only one that you failed to solve wasn’t it? Am I wrong in saying that you have never quite given up the search for the true identity of those most elusive criminals, the Ghosts?”

  Foster nodded slowly. “I know very little about them,” he admitted quietly. “Their exploits were too well covered to make official police records. As far as I know, the group has been inactive for years. All the information I got came from you.”

  “From me?” asked X.

  “I beg your pardon,” said Foster. “I meant from the real Sam Horn. I was willing to trade a pardon for further information from Horn. That is why you have been brought to this office.”

  “Go on, please, commissioner. And do not permit your fingers to crawl in the direction of that signal-bell button. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Foster cleared his throat and looked the picture of discomfort. He realized fully that X had the whip hand, for the moment. Only for the moment, he thought a little gloatingly.

  “Blackmail, forgery, and robbery,” went on the commissioner, “were the only crimes that might have been attributed to the group. Sam Horn, I believe, was a Ghost. He was something of a man-about-town in those days. Rather thick-headed to be a member of the exceedingly clever Ghosts. As a matter of fact, I believe that he was a hired fall guy, being paid to take the blame for Ghost crimes—a sort of safety valve in case any of the organizatio
n’s plans didn’t work out.

  “To my knowledge, those plans only failed once. Sam Horn was taken up on a robbery charge. He had the finest legal aid in the country, hired, no doubt, by fellow Ghosts. He received a light sentence, and no further information got out. That is all I can tell you.”

  X shook his head. “I am afraid not. Surely there has been some recent occurrence that has brought the matter to your mind again.”

  “True,” replied Foster. “Among a lot of old canceled checks belonging to the late Mr. Jerrico was one made out to the law firm which defended Sam Horn. Its date corresponded exactly with that of the end of the trial. I believe that Jerrico was a Ghost!”

  “Thank you, commissioner,” said X pleasantly. “Do you happen to know how the group got its name? Ghosts—it’s rather strange.”

  Foster shook his head.

  “Then think about that for a little while. It’s quite simple and should be of value to you. I suppose this just about ends our interview.”

  It was Foster’s turn to smile. “Just how do you expect to get out of this hornet nest, Mr. X?”

  X SAT down on the commissioner’s desk. “I am sure I have no idea. But you’ll probably help me.”

  A phone on the commissioner’s desk rang. X switched the gun to his left hand, picked up the phone, and answered. His voice imitated Foster’s perfectly: “Commissioner Foster speaking.”

  Foster flushed with rage. “Colossal nerve!” he hushed.

  X nudged him into silence with the nose of the gun. To the transmitter, he said: “Mulkin will have to wait. I am very busy at the present time.” He put down the phone. “Theodore Mulkin waiting to see you, Foster. The forger has victimized him among others. I’m afraid you’re in for a long and bitter tirade on the subject.”

  Foster wriggled uneasily in his chair. “This, I suppose, is to be an endurance contest. Whichever of us goes to sleep first—”

  X snapped his fingers. “That, Commissioner Foster, is an idea!” And before Foster could have known the Agent’s intention, the barrel of the .38 came up quickly. One decisive tap to the temple and Foster slumped down into his chair, unconscious.

  The Agent’s resources were slim. Furthermore, he feared that the police who had arrested him might make a more careful examination of the material he had had in his pockets and deduce his true identity from the contents of his make-up kit.

  In a small compartment in the heel of his right shoe, he carried a tiny tube of make-up material. It was enough to alter his features, but not enough to permit him to disguise himself as the commissioner. Nor had he the necessary toupee and pigments with which to imitate Foster’s hair and complexion.

  But the brain of Agent X works even more swiftly at a critical moment. He sprang across the office, opened a small wash room to find it empty. He nodded his head, slipped the tube of plastic material from the heel of his shoe, and went back to the commissioner. As he worked, he was fabricating an exceedingly daring hoax. He applied the plastic material not to his own face—but to that of Commissioner Foster.

  He covered the commissioner’s features completely without attempting any particular disguise. When he had done this, he made marks in the plastic with his finger nails so that though Foster’s features were still hidden it was obvious that he wore make-up. Next he lifted Foster from the chair and placed him gently on the floor. Then knocked papers, telephone, and cigar humidor from the desk, making a good deal of noise about it.

  “Help!” shouted Agent X at the top of his lungs and in the voice of the dead Sam Horn, or Lew Mots, as he had been called. “Help, somebody. I’ve got him red handed!”

  It was not necessary for him to repeat the cry. Foster’s secretary, three plain-clothes men and Theodore Mulkin all tried to get through the office door at once. And they were closely followed by other police officials.

  AGENT X stood over Foster, breathing heavily, his hands balled into fists. “Handed him a hot one!” he panted. “This bird went into the washroom a moment. I squinted through the key hole, and damned if he wasn’t doing something to his face.”

  Mulkin winked nervously with one eye. “Who-who is he?” he gasped. “This—this is impossible!”

  “Who is he?” exploded X. “He’s the guy you fellows have been thinking is Commissioner Foster. Fact is, he can’t be anybody but Mr. Agent X. Look at that stuff he’s got on his face! Soon as I saw what he was doing, I busted into him.”

  Mulkin and the police officials rimmed Foster, pushing X into the background.

  “Secret Agent X!” gasped one of the detectives. “Can’t be anybody else. And he’s been sitting here giving orders just like the commissioner.”

  “I’d have sworn it was Foster talking over the phone a moment ago,” said the secretary. “No wonder he was too busy to see Mr. Mulkin.”

  A detective near X shouldered forward. “Let me scrape some of that stuff off his face. Now that we’ve got him red-handed, let’s have a look at his real pan.”

  X checked the detective. “I want my dough. There’s a reward out for that guy. And with the whole police force looking for him, it took me to get him.”

  “You’ll get the reward, okeh. Only we’ve got to find the real commissioner. You don’t suppose he’s been murdered?”

  The Agent shrugged.

  “They’ve got Agent X!”

  “Caught impersonating Foster!”

  “Found him putting on make-up.”

  “Foster’s really been Agent X!”

  “Got that X guy! Caught in Foster’s office.”

  So from mouth to mouth the news spread throughout headquarters. The hall outside the office was jammed with men eager to see the real face of Agent X. In the office, Theodore Mulkin and a plain-clothes man knelt beside Foster. Bit by bit the plastic material was picked from the commissioner’s face.

  Mulkin looked worried. “Why, he must put one make-up on over the other. That looks like Foster to me.”

  “Oh, the guy’s clever, all right,” said a detective. He dug finger nails into Foster’s cheek. Blood spurted. The detective looked at Mulkin. He stammered something.

  “Good Lord!” breathed Mulkin. He stood up, his handsome face void of all expression. “Why—why that is Foster. Then—then that other person—Get him! That other man must be Agent X!”

  But at the very moment the discovery had been made, Secret Agent X was committing larceny. A police squad car, one man beneath the wheel, was warming up in front of the headquarters building. X simply nudged the driver from beneath the wheel with the nuzzle of the commissioner’s gun. Unhurried, he meshed the gears, gave gas, and sent the car rocketing down the street.

  Chapter VII

  MYSTERY MAN

  AGENT X had driven the police car but a few blocks when he knew that it would be suicide to continue with it. A stolen squad car was too easily traced and already the streets were screaming with the siren voices of pursuers.

  X skidded into an alley, set the car’s hand brake and was out before it had come to a stop. A vegetable wholesaler’s truck was leaving the rear door of a restaurant just ahead of the Agent. He sprinted, caught up with the truck, and climbed in under the tarpaulin. Whatever its destination, the truck could not fail to take X near one of his hideouts, so widely were they spread through the city. In his present disguise, he was a marked man. It was imperative that he get under cover at once.

  The truck driver, out on a special night delivery, took the truck to his own home, a clean-looking lodging house. X waited until the man had entered the house. Then he got out of the truck, hurried across the street, up alleys, and through backyards until he came to a tenement where he leased a fourth-floor room under a fictitious name.

  Within the humble walls of this room, X kept a complete wardrobe, make-up materials, and a portable radio transmitter. He first turned his attention to the radio transmitter, communicating with Bates’ headquarters. The report came through that Bates and his charge were perfectly safe and were at pre
sent hiding in a squalid hotel not far from where the Agent was at the present moment.

  X signed off hurriedly. The disguise he adopted was that of a redheaded, shovel-jawed person with an inconspicuous nose. He changed his clothes, replenished his pockets with make-up kit and the other special equipment he required. He charged a gas pistol and thrust it into his under-arm holster in place of the lethal weapon he had taken from Foster’s desk.

  Though it was only a short distance to the hotel, X took one of his special cars from a nearby garage. Ten minutes later X found himself in a small bedroom with Harvey Bates and the mystery man.

  Harvey Bates, for once in his life, was excited and showed it. He teetered up and down on his toes and puffed furious clouds of smoke from his square-bowled pipe. He had not yet become accustomed to his chief’s ability to change his face and for several moments stared at his redheaded visitor whose voice had those well-known pleasing qualities that he had so frequently heard over phone and radio.

  As soon as awe permitted him to speak, Bates pointed with the stem of his pipe to the patient in the bed. “One of our medical men, sir, just left. Reset the fractured leg, removed some of the bandages on the head, and dressed some of the lacerations. Looks almost like a human being now.”

  The patient’s eyes and a portion of his Roman nose were visible. The eyes, X saw, were troubled and questioning. In weight, size and color of hair, the man answered the description of Dr. Ralph Pontius, a man who had been reported as missing for a long time.

  Agent X smiled his most winning smile as he approached the bed. “Good evening, Dr. Pontius,” he said cheerfully. “You’re feeling a great deal better, aren’t you?”

  The dull, worried eyes suddenly brightened. “Dr. Pontius,” came muttering from the bandages. “You—you’re Dr. Pontius?”

  X shook his head, still smiling. “You’ve been sick. You’re just a little mixed up. You’re Dr. Pontius, aren’t you?”