Two of the many cars in front of the building were police cars. Nearby was a coupé which X thought he recognized as belonging to Betty Dale. Perhaps he was too late. Perhaps the Faceless Man had murdered the beautiful actress. X hurried inside and took an elevator to the actress’ suite.
The hall was swarming with police, all of whom seemed to know Agent X. He congratulated himself on his good fortune in having chosen to identify himself as Keegan. It seemed that every one of his acquaintances on the police force was there with the exception of Keegan and Burks.
“What’s going on here?” X asked of a nearby detective.
“Why, it’s Miss Clarice, sergeant,” replied the man. “Haven’t you been called? She’s been kidnaped. Elevator boy saw her taken out by a couple of pugs.”
“Publicity stunt, probably,” said X carelessly. He sauntered into the living room. Detectives were grilling a maid, a laundryman, and an elevator boy. X went through the room unnoticed and entered the bedroom beyond. Bath and dressing room adjoined the bedroom. He looked into the lavatory and saw that it was filled with some dark fluid he took to be henna. He remembered what Betty had said about the actress dying her hair. He looked into the dressing room. And his heart stood still.
Lying open on the dressing table was the Agent’s own make-up kit. The make-up kit and the henna—they told him a story of grit and sacrifice and love. And they predicted something so horrible that the Agent’s blood seemed to turn to ice water.
Betty Dale had impersonated the actress. Mimi Clarice had been a member of the Ghosts who were being killed one by one in the most horrible manner imaginable. It wasn’t Mimi Clarice who had been kidnaped. It was Betty Dale!
NO sooner had X fully realized what had happened than he went back through the apartment like a typhoon. Two august members of the police force were swept off their feet because they happened to be standing in the particular doorway that was the Agent’s nearest exit. Coming up the approach walk to the apartment building, the real Sergeant Keegan saw a madman who closely resembled the sergeant himself dashing across the court. Afterwards, Keegan knew that he must have been Agent X, but at the moment he could only stare and wonder.
X sprang into his car and had it started before he took time to shut the door. He wheeled at the next intersection and drove as he had never driven before. Cars came at him out of the night like fiery-eyed dragons and were gone in a twinkling. A traffic policeman blew his whistle; it sounded like the scream of a bullet passing X’s car.
A car that disputed his right-of-way lost its fender. None could have caught the Agent that night. All the driving, dynamic power of the man seemed to have been added to the super-charged motor. Half a block before he came to the entrance of the shabby little hotel where Harvey Bates was watching Dr. Pontius, X slammed on his brakes.
But it was not until his car reached the entrance of the hotel that scorching rubber won in the battle between locked wheels and smooth pavement.
X was out of the car and across the lobby. The elevator was too slow. He ran up the steps and crashed the door of Bates’ room with his shoulder. Bates was waiting for him with an automatic in his hand.
“Drop that, Bates,” X ordered.
The big man dropped his gun and his pipe, too, when he heard the well-known voice of the Agent coming from the lips of Detective Sergeant Keegan. “You?” he gulped.
X swung around Bates’ powerful form and glanced at the bed. Dr. Pontius was sleeping easily. “You gave him a sleeping powder?” X demanded.
Bates bobbed his head. “Doctor’s order.”
“Good! Now go downstairs to the desk. Find me the telephone number of the police radio station. Get the street address of Dr. Pontius. Also look up the telephone number of William H. Wise, the radio mogul who is so chummy with the mayor. Got that? Then wait in the lobby until I come down. Don’t be surprised if I look like Dr. Pontius.”
X faced his own reflection in the cracked dresser mirror. He opened his make-up kit in front of him. One chance. One thread leading to the killer. It was as slender as a cobweb. And even though the plan succeeded, how was he to know that Betty Dale was not already a faceless corpse?
X bent over the sleeping doctor and for a moment studied the contours of his face. Then he went to work, plastering make-up material on his own face. He simulated the doctor’s sagging lower lip. He took gray artificial eyebrows from his kit and fastened them above his eyes. Drops of a special dye gave his naturally gray irises a jetlike appearance. Then he added bits of adhesive plaster to his nose and chin in exactly the same spots where Pontius had been wounded. As he worked, he practiced imitating Dr. Pontius’ voice, but all he could say was: “Betty Dale. Betty Dale….”
As soon as he had slipped a gray toupee over his own brown hair, he put on his hat and left the room. Bates was waiting for him in the lobby below. A piece of paper the big man handed him held the address and two telephone numbers X had asked for. X drew Bates to one side so that the clerk at the desk might not hear.
“I’m going into that phone booth. You’re not to permit anyone to come within twenty feet of the booth while I am in there.”
Then X entered the phone booth. The first number that he called was that of the police radio station. His voice slid easily and naturally into Commissioner Foster’s crisp, imperative manner of speaking. “This is the commissioner,” he said. “Address this special message to all squad cars. Ready? Message: Dr. Ralph Pontius has been found after recovering from amnesia induced by motor car accident. Dr. Pontius now at his own residence. End of message. Send that at once. Repeat at quarter hour intervals.” X hung up.
He called the residence of William H. Wise, president of the Continental Broadcasters. And X’s voice changed miraculously to the senatorial rumble of the mayor of the city. “Mr. Wise, I would like you to do me a great favor.”
Mr. Wise expressed his delight on being called upon by the mayor.
“Get in touch with your broadcasting studios and have that late dance program interrupted for a special announcement. I want the public to know that Dr. Pontius has been located. He had been suffering from amnesia, but now his memory is very good. Very good.” X thanked the president of the radio firm, and left the booth.
“The same job for you, Bates,” he told his lieutenant. “Let no one near the real Dr. Pontius.” And he left the hotel.
A FEW minutes of break-neck driving brought X to Montgomery Mansion, a deserted-looking house in an old residential quarter of the city. He hurried across the frozen lawn, through the garden gate, and entered the back door. This old house was one of the first hideouts established by the Agent. It was as near home as anything he had. Concealed within its walls was one of the most complete criminological laboratories in the world. It was directly to this laboratory that he now hurried.
For a few minutes, he rummaged in a drawer which contained all sorts of odds and ends. Finally, he discovered two thin glass shells so shaped as to conform with the visible portion of the human eye. These he dipped in a mild antiseptic solution. Then standing in front of a mirror, he took tweezers and pulled the lids of his right eye out from the eyeball. Carefully he inserted one of the glass shells beneath the eyelids so that it covered the front of the eyeball completely. He performed the same delicate operation with his other eye.
Then, with a tube of plastic volatile material which was fitted with a small applicator, X thoroughly coated his eyelids with the make-up material which he tinted to conform with Dr. Pontius’ sallow complexion.
His next move was to cover every visible portion of his skin, hands included, with a coating of plastic volatile material. Then, removing his outer garments, he put on a suit made entirely of rubber and which he had employed frequently when engaged in a chemical or electrical experiment. Over this he put a suit of conservative Oxford gray such as Dr. Pontius might well have worn.
These preparations completed, he drove at once to the brownstone dwelling which was the residence of Dr. Ralph P
ontius.
The house was dark and probably deserted. X drove by to the corner, where he parked. But before he left the car, he took all his special devices from his pockets except his master keys. It was his fervent hope that he would meet the Faceless Man, but he had no desire to have his true identity revealed by the contents of his pockets in case of capture. The killer would take three times as many precautions against Secret Agent X as against old Dr. Pontius.
X knew that he was inviting death, using himself as bait for a fiendish man-killer. The Faceless Man killed because of fear of exposure, and he had better reason to fear the doctor who had operated on his face than any living person.
X hurried around the corner and up the sidewalk to admit himself into the doctor’s house by means of his master keys. He turned on a single lamp in the doctor’s study and settled himself in a shadowy corner. It was agony, sitting there and waiting. Surely the radio messages would find some one close to the Faceless Man.
The Agent’s every sense was on the alert. Coming from the next room was a whisper of a sound. He tried to place it. A window, perhaps, being raised in its sash frame.
HE went to the study door and opened it a crack. A man was crossing the next room. The vague light struck his tall, lean figure. X inched the door open. The man paused. X had made no sound, but the prowler seemed to possess super senses. X was certain that the man was looking straight toward the door where the Agent stood.
X’s muscles were taut, his nerves strangely cool. Suddenly, he thrust the door wide and leaped like a cat into the room.
The man backed swiftly. The Agent’s hands, intended for the prowler’s throat, actually caught the man below the knee. X and the prowler went down together, the latter squirming like an eel to break the Agent’s bulldog grip. One leg shook free from X’s grasp. X released both hands suddenly and threw his body forward. The prowler sent quick, powerful blows to the Agent’s body. X scarcely felt them. His hands sought the man’s throat. His long fingers exerted paralyzing pressure on the top of the man’s spine. The prowler had met his master and knew it. He relaxed suddenly and lay so still for a moment that X feared that he had laid the man out.
“Where’s Betty Dale?” he asked between clenched teeth. “If any harm has come to her, I’ll kill you with my bare hands!”
“What are you talking about?” the man whispered shrilly.
Of course, if this was the killer, he would know Betty only as Mimi Clarice. “What have you done with Mimi Clarice?” he asked.
The tall man groaned. “I haven’t seen her in years. Are you mad? This is no way to treat a brother who has come to call.”
Brother? The Agent held his captive with one hand. The other brought out his pocket flashlight. He turned the narrow finger of light upon his captive’s lean, brown face. There was no mistaking the face of Oliver Pontius, master thief and brother of Dr. Ralph Pontius.
Some sixth sense warned X that they were not alone in the room. Still holding Oliver Pontius, he turned his head slightly and glimpsed a shadowy form squatting almost beside him, ready to spring. X leaped to his feet, turned in midair. His left fist shot out to meet the man’s midsection. The attacker grunted and doubled over. X closed in to press his advantage to the fullest. But at that moment another figure passed through the open window. X turned. Another, and another slouching form.
Men were pouring into the room, a silent, crushing tide of humanity that bore X to the floor. And as X fought with every ounce of strength in his powerful body, he was conscious of a colossal figure with a great mound of white head lurking in the background.
It was that white, bandage-wrapped head that flashed across his eyes just before something dropped with terrific force on his head. Secret Agent X was knocked into oblivion with a smile on his lips. He had gained his point. He was in the power of the Faceless Man.
Chapter IX
EYES THAT KILL
ON regaining consciousness, X’s first impression was that he was alone in the room. It was a barren place—chill brick walls, no windows, doors that looked like thick steel plates. He was sitting in a chair, his wrists securely tied together with rope. Across the room was a vat of glass that appeared to be lined with wax. From the choking fumes which arose from the vat, X judged that it contained the Faceless Man’s deadly acid.
A shadow fell across the floor—a shadow that was tall and broad with a grotesque mound of head. Like a trained actor, the Agent’s face registered fear as he glanced over his shoulder to look into the black, slotted glasses that were the eyes of the Faceless Man.
“Good morning, Dr. Pontius. You may well tremble at my glance. Mine are the eyes that kill.”
“Wh-what do you mean?” stammered X.
A muffled laugh from the bandaged head. “I require no weapon but my eyes to destroy a man’s face, to throw acid the length of this room into a man’s eyes—acid so corrosive to human flesh that half an ounce of it would turn your flesh into a bony, eyeless skull.” The Faceless Man came around in front of the Agent, placed his rubber-gloved hands on X’s shoulders, and gazed steadily into his face.
The Agent trembled and ducked his head between his shoulders. Until the proper moment came, he must do nothing that might suggest that he was not Dr. Pontius.
The Faceless Man tapped his bandaged head. “Inside this helmet are two wax-lined metal cylinders, easily replaceable. Each contains an ounce of acid under pressure. Small valves, operated by electro-magnets, connect these cylinders with tubes that extend to the frames of these glasses. Look closely and you will see the small orifice at the top of each lens. You will note how the oval slots project like eaves from the surfaces of the lenses, protecting my own eyes from any acid that might drip from the orifices.
“I touch no switch with my fingers to open the electro-magnetic valves. There is a tiny piece of highly conductive metal foil fastened to each of my four eyelids. Hair wires from the foil on the upper lids go to the electromagnets. Wires from the foil on the lower lid go to a small dry cell also hidden on my person. Do you understand? I have only to close my eyes. The bits of foil contact, the circuit is complete, and the acid is discharged. Sighting my twin guns is simple. I merely fix the prospective victim’s eyes with my own. See? Just as I am looking into your eyes now.”
Agent X ducked.
The Faceless Man laughed. “No, Dr. Pontius. It would require but two minutes of terrible pain for you to die that way, so rapidly would the acid pierce your eyeballs and enter your brain. I want you to be hours dying. Do you realize who I am, and what you have done to me?”
“I know who you were and who you are now,” replied X cryptically.
The Faceless Man put both hands on the side of his bandaged head. “These bandages,” he explained, “constitute a mask for my ugliness. They are wound over a skeleton frame of wire, forming a hollow helmet which contains my acid-shooting device and which is removable in a moment.” Slowly he lifted the headgear high above his head. Wires leading from his eyelids were connected to a small junction block in the bandage helmet so that he could disconnect them easily.
AGENT X gasped involuntarily. Never had he seen such a face. Never, he believed, had such a face existed even in a nightmare. Except for the eyes and a slit of a mouth, it was featureless. There was no nose, only two holes surrounded by inflamed scar tissue. Cheeks and chin were red and pitted like a sponge. Two red welts on the forehead were like the horns of Satan.
The fiend passed a gloved hand over the horror he wore for a face. His finger tips seemed to feel his own ugliness. “This isn’t my face!” he screamed. “It’s the face you gave me! But it is a thing of beauty compared with the face I shall give to you. You will be so hideous that you will think only hideous things and want to do that which is ugly and beastlike.”
“Is that why you murdered your fellow Ghosts, Frash—because your ugliness provoked only fiendish thoughts?” asked X.
Frash laughed like a madman. “Ah, that is a story. I never was a Ghost. I
was merely employed by that group of too scrupulous criminals because I was a master forger. The Ghosts had an idiotic code that did not permit them to kill. Yet what crime is complete without murder? When the Ghosts discovered that I had killed several persons while in their services, they tried to shed me like a worn garment. Shortly after, fear forced the Ghosts into retirement. But they knew my secret.
“They knew that I had murdered. Each of them had proof that would have sent me to the chair. The police were hunting Frash the Forger. I fled. I came to you for a new face. And this is what you gave me!”
“And it was Ghurst who made a mask for you,” X interrupted.
“Ghurst. And I thought the mask offered security. Years passed. As I was beginning to believe that my secret would never be revealed, I received a threat of exposure. Some one wanted money, for I had made much by forgery after I left the Ghosts.
“The Ghosts—they knew my secret. And you knew. Perhaps Ghurst had guessed who that faceless person was who asked him to secretly make a mask. I knew that I would have no rest until all were dead. But I owed them something more than death.” The Faceless Man crossed to the vat of acid. “I came upon the formula for this stuff. I would kill with pain even before it reached the brain. All the agony of years of suffering with cancer could be crowded into minutes with this acid.”
“But,” X interrupted, “the Ghosts had dispersed. Some had changed their names and appearance.” He was leading up to asking about Mimi Clarice—the Mimi Clarice who was really Betty Dale. “How did you find them all?”
Frash said: “One of the Ghosts had sunk to the lowest human level. His name was Lew Mots. I had known him as Sam Horn. I employed him as a spy until he fell into the hands of an associate of that man called X.”
X nodded. “I see. Mots signaled to you from the window of the apartment where he was confined. You got him out of prison—?”
“Not I,” Frash cut in. “It was one of my underworld hirelings. He freed Sam Horn. Horn was hungry for his drug. He had to steal some. I found him and killed him. How did I know that he had not sold information to Secret Agent X?”
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 6 Page 41