Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 6

by G. T. Fleming-Roberts

  “Why, to be sure! Ralph Pontius. I—I’ve found myself! What happened? Did anyone get the number of the car that struck me?”

  Bates whacked his thigh. “It’s happened, sir. He’s come back. Got his memory, sir!”

  “Hush,” X cautioned Bates. “Now, Dr. Pontius, we’re going to do everything we can to help you. But we want you to help us. The man who deliberately tried to run you down with his car is an unscrupulous killer, an enemy of every right-thinking man. You must know his name. Think back carefully. We are going to leave you alone a few minutes.”

  X took hold of Bates’ arm and guided him into the bathroom. But while talking to Bates, he kept the door slightly open so that he could watch Pontius.

  “Quickly, now, Bates,” said the Agent. “I know that Ghurst was murdered at the Columbine. You saw what happened?”

  “Saw everything, sir,” explained Bates crisply. “It’s confusing, but I’ve had a lot of time to think back.” Bates reached in his pocket and handed the note that he had taken from Ann Dryden to the Agent. X read it over thoroughly, his brow puzzled.

  “It was the girl with Ghurst who was trying to slip the note under my door,” Bates said. “Near as I can figure it, the note was intended for that faceless devil who’s been doing all the killing.

  X nodded vigorously. “And either Ghurst or his accomplice must have seen the bandaged head of our amnesia patient in the window and taken it for the head of the Faceless Man. It was Ghurst, who was trying to blackmail the killer. The killer must have been getting wise as to who his tormentor was, followed Ghurst, and murdered him. But the woman—did she escape?”

  BATES nodded slowly. “I’ve got an idea she did, She was clear of the door when I decided to move out. She was just a kid. Nice looking. A gray-eyed ash blonde.”

  “Good. If Dr. Pontius can’t give us anything definite, we’ll have to look up the ash blonde. Ghurst must have had something incriminating on the Faceless Man. The girl will probably know as much as Ghurst knew. This killer is scared to death. He’s in a bad way with the law and he’s retreating. But he’s killing everyone who might know something about him as he retreats and putting aside plenty from his forgery schemes as he goes along. We’ve got to check this murder march.”

  They returned to Dr. Pontius. The sick man rested easily on his pillows. Agent X seemed to have inspired him with complete confidence. He was eager to talk.

  “The slightest shock has always left me with this cursed loss of memory,” he explained. “Very annoying to a man in the medical profession, I assure you. But to get down to cases, I know the man who tried to run me down!”

  Bates sighed and placidly puffed his pipe. At last he was going to be in at the conclusion of the Agent’s most baffling case. There was no such optimism reflected on the face of Agent X. He watched the doctor closely. As far as he knew, Dr. Pontius’ character was above reproach. But there was that brother of his, Oliver Pontius, known to be a thief, though untouchable by the law because of his diabolical cleverness.

  “I have made but one enemy in my life, gentlemen. That enemy would not only delight in killing me, but would enjoy tormenting me even as much as I must have tormented him.

  “Many years ago, a man was wanted for murder. His picture was in every paper. His name on all lips in the country. I had a little practice on Water Street at the time. One night, when I was alone in my office, two men came to the door. The fog was heavy that night. I did not see their faces until they had come in. Then, to my terror, I saw that one of the men was this same murderer who was hunted by the police. His companion pressed a gun into my side and demanded that I alter the murderer’s features so that no one would recognize him.

  “What was I to do? I broke a law in complying with the man’s request. But I’d have lost my life if I refused,

  “I am a man of almost ungovernable temper once I have been aroused. These criminals were forcing me to do something outside the code of my profession. I was determined to be revenged on them even if it cost me my life. Murder was outside of the question, though I might have killed this man while he was under the anesthetic. No, I would change his face, but in such a manner that he would never dare show it in public again.”

  DR. PONTIUS paused. His eyes roved uneasily about the room. “I am a little ashamed of what I did, but beneath my scalpel, I made that murderer inhumanly ugly.” Dr. Pontius shuddered. “I made him hideous! Shortly after the operation, the murderer’s companion turned on me and knocked me out. Undoubtedly, he thought he had killed me. Murder was in his eyes. I don’t know how long I was unconscious. But when I regained my senses, I found that the killer’s companion was stretched on the floor of my office, stabbed with one of my own instruments. He had evidently been killed so that there might be no chance of his carrying tales to the police.

  “Finding the man in my office, murdered, must have made me temporarily mad. I knew that the right thing to do was to take the matter to the police. But I feared that I would be implicated, if not accused of the crime. I waited for a chance, then took the body and dropped it into the river. But the man whose face I altered must be alive today. Imagine how he must hate me. Of course, seeing me crossing the street, he tried to run over me!”

  “But his name—tell us his name,” X insisted.

  “His name,” went on Pontius, “is Frash. Surely you recall Frash the Forger? It may have only been an alias, but by that name he was known to the police.”

  Agent X nodded slowly. Bates looked glum.

  Bates asked: “Where are we?”

  “We’ve accomplished something,” replied X. “We know why our killer wraps his face and head in bandages—to hide his ugliness. And I think I begin to see some connection between the murderer and Ghurst.” He turned to Dr. Pontius. “I must not attempt to hide from you the fact that you are in danger. I believe, however, if you will have implicit faith in this man—” indicating Bates—“you will be perfectly safe. He saved your life once tonight.”

  With a word of warning to Bates to keep both eyes open, X left the hotel and drove immediately to the studio of A.H. Ghurst. He had hoped to find the gray-eyed, ash blonde model in the studio, but he was disappointed on entering to find the place absolutely empty.

  The studio was filled with litter and luxury. Soiled smocks draped expensive chairs. Hardened clay and plaster was ground into soft rugs. Women’s apparel, cigarette butts, dirty glassware, half finished busts left little to the imagination as to the slovenly life of the man who occupied the place.

  In a curtained alcove off the main room X came upon some semblance of order. Heavy pasteboard boxes of uniform size were arranged on shelves. Many of the boxes bore penciled names. One in particular had been recently marked: “Dr. Leonard.”

  X removed this box from the shelf. Inside were jagged chunks of plaster, each piece carefully marked and saved. X understood that here was a mask which had been made from Dr. Leonard’s face in preparation for the bust that was to adorn the corridor of the Leonard Sanitarium. The plaster had not yet been reconstructed.

  Very quietly, X replaced the box on the shelf. Somewhere in the studio, a door opened. X turned. In the light of the only lamp in the studio, he made out the worry-hacked face, the furtive eyes, and bristling, white hair of Hans Haas. The man pushed through the door and was followed closely by Theodore Mulkin and pompous Dr. Leonard.

  “No one at home,” said Mulkin. Evidently no one had noticed X standing in the shadows of the alcove.

  “Oh yes,” X corrected softly. “I am here.” He stepped into the open.

  Dr. Leonard tugged at his beard. “Who the devil are you, sir, and what right have you here?”

  “I might ask the same question of you, Dr. Leonard. As a matter of fact, the three of you might well be taken for burglars. You didn’t even knock.”

  “That’s absurd,” said Mulkin haughtily. “We found the door unlocked. If anyone is a burglar, why not you?”

  “Simply because I am a member of
the police force and I have a search warrant,” declared X. He hoped fervently that no one would question that statement.

  “Police!” Hans Haas whispered.

  “Yes, and I’ve just about all I need to place the man who committed the Faceless Murders behind bars!” declared X.

  “Good!” exclaimed Dr. Leonard. “Perhaps I shall have a moment’s peace from that prying Inspector Burks when you’ve caught that fellow.”

  AGENT X indicated chairs. “Please sit down, gentlemen.”

  One by one they dropped into chairs, forming a half circle about Agent X. Three worried men—Leonard tugging his beard, Mulkin winking first with one eye then with the other, and Haas fidgeting.

  “I am going to tell you a little story,” said X. He was facing them, smiling confidently, his long fingers stuck in his hip pockets. “At the end of that story, I shall prove one of you guilty of the Faceless Murders.

  “Excellent!” exploded the doctor.

  “Perfectly agreeable with me,” said Mulkin calmly.

  Hans Haas said nothing.

  “Many years ago, there flourished in this city a group of persons who were banded together for the sole purpose of executing clever criminal plots. They were far above the average criminal in intelligence. So brilliant were they that though the police knew of the organization there is nothing on official records against the Ghosts.”

  X paused, looking from face to face. He was sparring mentally for an opening now, trying to force the killer’s hand. “The crimes of the Ghosts,” he continued, “were divided into three general classifications: blackmail, robbery and forgery.” X looked directly at Haas. The chemist paled perceptibly and moistened his rough lips.

  “It is interesting,” X continued, “to know how this group of criminals came about its name. Consider the first names of its principals. There were, among others, George Jerrico, Tom Warwick and Sam Horn.” X leaned forward dramatically, his eyes blazing with a fierce, accusing light. “Gentlemen, the name ‘Ghosts’ is composed of the first initials of the names of the chief criminals in the group, linked together!”

  Once again he paused. The three men leaned eagerly forward in their chairs.

  “Do you know what the ‘H’ in ‘Ghosts’ stands for?”

  “Henri Raybon who was killed the other morning,” said Haas gutturally.

  X shook his head. “The ‘H’ stands for ‘Hans’, Mr. Haas!”

  Haas, Mulkin and Leonard were on their feet in a moment, each clamoring loudly.

  “Down, gentlemen,” said X in a quiet, authoritative voice. “I have not finished. Haas cannot deny that he has a long criminal record as a forger. Nor can he deny that the acid with which he killed his fellow Ghosts came from his laboratory.”

  “Dot is a lie!” shouted Haas, his Teutonic accent becoming more pronounced as he became more agitated. “I haf neffer heard of Ghosts.”

  X’s stern eyes forced Haas to keep quiet. The Agent continued: “It has occurred to me that Haas and Frash the forger might well be one and the same persons. And to support this theory, is Mr. Haas’ visit to the studio today. The face of Frash the Forger was destroyed by Dr. Pontius. Frash came to Ghurst years ago to have the sculptor make a lifelike mask with which he could hide his hideousness. The original cast of the mask made for Frash the Forger is in this studio today. That is the material that Ghurst had for blackmailing Frash.”

  X backed to the alcove, his eyes never leaving the group of excited men. His arm reached to one of the shelves and seized one of the cardboard boxes containing a broken plaster mask. It made no difference to him which one he picked up. He sprang back, thrust the box beneath Haas’ nose. “This,” he cried, “is the original of the mask you wear for a face, Hans Haas. It is all the proof I need to send you to the chair!”

  With an oath, Haas sprang to his feet. His powerful shoulders struck the lamp, knocking it over to smash the bulb to atoms.

  In the dark, X grappled with a squirming figure. Something struck his head a terrific blow. His senses reeled. The man wriggled from his grasp. The studio door crashed open. Figures blotted across the lighted doorway—men coming in and going out. X leaped toward the door to encounter another man. He dealt a powerful blow that sent the man staggering into the hall. X followed, saw that the one he had struck was one of the Faceless Man’s underworld bodyguards.

  Men were clattering down the steps, but X had no chance to follow. The Faceless Man’s thugs were upon him all at once. He took blow after blow, giving twice as many as he received.

  Suddenly, a hoarse cry from the stairwell: “Lam! The bulls!”

  The Agent’s attackers melted before his flying fists. Two got by him and rushed for the front steps. The third sent a vicious kick to the Agent’s mid-section, pulled away, and made for the back steps.

  X did not pursue them. They were but tools in the hands of a fiendish murderer. He sprang back into the studio and beamed his flashlight about. Mulkin, Haas and Dr. Leonard had disappeared. He turned back into the hall, ran its length, and started down the stairs.

  Two policemen, loosening their pistols in their holsters, were coming up the steps.

  Chapter VIII

  ALIAS THE DOCTOR

  X  DID not hesitate a moment. His gas gun flashed into his hand and spat its charge of vapor straight into the oncoming policeman’s face. X sprang into midair. His body hurtled into the falling cop and knocked him into his companion. The toe of the Agent’s right foot seemed to touch only the edge of the step before he leaped over both of the sprawling policemen.

  Another jump landed him in the hall of the ground floor. He gained the street, looking right and left. Except for a few stragglers returning to lodgings after carousals, the street was empty.

  X gained his car, spun the motor, and shot off down the street. While he drove like a madman with one hand, his other hand manipulated the two-way radio concealed under the dash. He called the short wave station operated by the Hobart Detective Agency.

  “Put every available man on guard at the studio of A.H. Ghurst. Prevent anyone but the police from going in or out of the place. I believe it holds evidence of greatest importance to the apprehension of the faceless killer.” And X signed off.

  Much of the case he had built up against Haas was guesswork. He had hoped to throw the chemist off his guard. However, certain parts of the case against Haas were the result of logical reasoning, the only flaw being that they were applicable to almost any of the Agent’s suspects. Whatever the murderer called himself now, his name had been Frash. That much X had obtained from Dr. Pontius.

  It was also perfectly logical deduction that had told X that it had been Ghurst who had made a mask to hide Frash’s hideousness after Dr. Pontius had got through with him. X believed that somewhere in that debris of plaster masks, the original of the mask that Frash now wore might be found. But it would take hours and hours of work to patch together that mask, even if they were able to find it.

  As to the origin of the name “Ghosts,” X had simply noted that the toy blocks left at the scene of each crime bore the first initial of the victim. If Hans Haas was one of the original Ghosts, he might well have killed Henri Raybon, leaving the “H” block in Raybon’s hand simply to divert suspicion of any investigator who might have considered Haas as the man whose initial constituted the second letter of the word “Ghosts.”

  Yes, the Agent’s case against Haas had been good enough to break the chemist’s nerve, but it was not proof. The Agent’s next best bet was to find some living member of the old society of Ghosts. Such a member would surely be able to tell him something that would enable him to check the terrible murder march of the Faceless Man.

  Mimi Clarice—was it possible that her acquaintance with Jerrico, Warwick, and Sam Horn was an indication of some association with the Ghosts? At any rate, there seemed no other opening through which X might strike at the criminal.

  X drove immediately to the apartment of Betty Dale. He had seldom asked the girl re
porter to get him information that she had not proved helpful. Perhaps at the very moment she had unearthed some important clue.

  When he reached her apartment, X was surprised to find that his knock brought no answer. It was long past time for Betty to have been relieved from her reportorial duties. He knocked once again, then fitted one of his master keys into the lock and entered the living room.

  The place was as black as tar. X twitched on a light, went to the bedroom and called softly: “Betty.”

  No answer. He opened the door and turned the beam of his flashlight into the room. The bed had not been disturbed. He turned into the living room and saw Betty’s typewriter standing open on the desk. There was some unfinished work on the platen. He went over to the machine and read what she had written:

  “Ten years ago, the actress Mimi Clarice was known on the stage as Sara Clara. Why did Sara Clara retire at the height of her career only to reappear a few months later, having dyed her hair dark red, to become famous as Mimi Clarice?”

  And there Betty’s report ended.

  X SNAPPED his fingers. That information was stimulating. Mimi Clarice’s real name was Sara Clara. Her first initial might well be the final “S” in “Ghosts.” Also, her retirement must have come in the same year that the organization of Ghosts had ceased to be—or at least passed out of the newspapers.

  The Agent’s course was perfectly clear. He must see Mimi Clarice and compel her to give all the information she could about the Ghosts—who the remaining members were, what enemies they might have who would be willing to risk the chair by killing the Ghosts one at a time.

  The Agent went into the bedroom and sat down in front of Betty’s dressing table. He opened his make-up kit. The best disguise he could effect and the one most likely to frighten information from Mimi Clarice was that of a police detective. And the man he chose to impersonate was Inspector Burks’ capable Sergeant Keegan.

  As soon as he had completed his make-up, he was on his way, to arrive at the apartment occupied by Mimi Clarice, about half an hour later.