Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 6

by G. T. Fleming-Roberts

  “Eh? What’s that?”

  Thomas nudged Tetwilder. “Told you so.” Small triumph in his whispered words.

  Thornton Beem’s square shoulders raised. “You heard me. Not quite himself. It doesn’t make sense to me, either.” He turned his head, watching Marcus Hyde’s shock of white hair disappearing over a little hill. He started off at a shambling gait that covered ground quickly. Thomas trotted off after him on skinny legs. Tetwilder followed, his dry, sacky jowls wobbling with every jolting step he took.

  Beem stopped. His right arm went out, striking Thomas across the middle. “Pull up,” he whispered. They were nearly to the southern boundary of the estate. Ahead of them, Hyde’s gaunt shadow seemed floating along on mist. No sound except from Beem’s gum-cracking jaws. Finally, the detective asked: “The old boy take these proms often?”

  Thomas nodded. “If you knew all I know, you’d have plenty of wonderin’ to do, mister. Always takes the same route. Now, you’d think, that a man—” The watchman’s arm jerked up to his face. “You’d think—” and his sentence ended in a shrill, agonized cry.

  “Stop that!” Tetwilder exploded. “Makes me nervous!”

  Thomas’ arms jerked convulsively. His fingers clawed at his throat, at his face—a face that pain and terror had twisted into a scarcely recognizable human mask. His mouth gaped. He choked inwardly. Then his jerking legs kicked out from under him. He fell on his side, threw himself on his back. His spine bowed as though some giant strength was bent on breaking his back. And all the time his arms and legs flailed the air.

  The dark-eyed detective was on his knees beside Thomas, doing his best to subdue that mad rebellion of bone and muscle against some invisible enemy. But Thomas writhed and twisted so that it was impossible to get hold of him. And all the while he shrieked for mercy like some galley slave scourged by an unseen lash. Suddenly his body became contrastingly rigid.

  “Good heavens, what’s happened to the man!” Tetwilder gasped. “He’s never had fits before.” He stood helpless while the detective raised Thomas’ shoulders from the ground.

  “Quick,” Beem ordered crisply. “Take his legs. Get him to the house and call a doctor. This isn’t any kind of a fit I’ve ever seen before.”

  Together, they raised the stiff form of the watchman, and carried him back to the house. Aside from an occasional twitching of muscle, the man exhibited no sign of life.

  On reaching the house, Beem kicked the front door open. They carried Thomas across a cavernous hall and into the black-beamed living room beyond. With infinite care they lowered the watchman to a lounge. Thornton Beem caught Thomas’ wrist, held it a moment, then dropped it. He grunted unemotionally.

  “What—what’s the matter?” demanded Tetwilder.

  For a moment, Beem did not reply. Even his jaws were motionless. Then he began to chew, slowly, reflectively. “Dead,” he answered coldly. “You call the police.”

  TETWILDER hurried across the room and entered a small library. Instantly, the stoical expression on the face of the detective vanished. His dark eyes burned warm compassion. At that moment, because of the pitying expression on his face, few who knew Thornton Beem would have recognized the well-known private detective in this man who stood beside the dead Thomas. For though he had seen death in all its hideous forms, he had never become calloused to human suffering. For the dark-eyed man who had introduced himself as Thornton Beem was none other than Secret Agent X. Friends and enemies alike attested the quality of his mercy.

  For nearly a minute Agent X bent over the rigid form on the lounge. His long fingers brushed the man’s gray hair back from his forehead. There was a small red welt on the wrinkled brow. There was another on the cheek. X frowned. Perhaps, after all, it was only natural death that had reached unseen from the misty darkness to snatch old Thomas.

  Herman Tetwilder came through the door of the library. At once, the Agent’s frown vanished and he was once again wooden-faced, chilly-eyed Thornton Beem. He shoved his hat a little farther back on his head and cracked gum loudly.

  “Hell, I don’t think you’ve got a nerve in your body!” Tetwilder approached the body of Thomas. He shook his grizzled head. “Poor devil.”

  “Tough all right,” said X. “Stick around, will you? The police ought to be here pretty soon.” And, at that easy, shambling gait that covered so much ground, Agent X left the house.

  X hurried across the sloping lawn in the direction of the cemetery. His keen eyes strained in an effort to see through the thickening mist. A moving black dot in the murk matured into the gaunt, staggering figure of a man. The Agent sprang forward.

  “Mr. Hyde!” he called sharply. “Mr. Hyde!”

  Hyde moved on toward the house. His eyes stared vacantly ahead of him. Mouth open, he panted like an exhausted dog. X reached the millionaire’s side and put an arm gently around him. A long, quivering sigh, then Hyde whispered:

  “Must not lose the key, I must not lose the key.”

  X half supported the old man as they moved slowly back toward the house. No sooner had they crossed the drive, before the headlights of a motor car flared around a curve. Gravel scudded as the big car came to a stop directly in front of the door. X turned his head as he helped Mr. Hyde through the door. A woman had alighted from the car and was coming up the steps.

  She was strikingly beautiful, and graceful as the flame of a candle. Oddly enough, gold oxford glasses actually enhanced the beauty of her large, gray eyes. Her ash-blonde hair was carefully arranged in a becoming coiffure. But for all her delightfully feminine qualities, there was about her mouth and chin a certain decisiveness, and in her lustrous eyes a suggestion of shrewdness.

  She stepped quickly toward Agent X, a confident smile on her lips.

  “Yeah?” X challenged insolently as Thornton Beem would have done it.

  “How do you do, Mr. Beem? I’ve seen your picture in the papers and have long anticipated meeting you.”

  “Sorry, lady, you got the advantage of me.” X stared the woman up and down. His eyes nevertheless remained frigid.

  “I am Della Barrie, an attorney. Mr. Hyde asked me to come over at the earliest opportunity to assist him in drawing up his will.”

  “You picked the wrong opportunity,” X informed her. “Mr. Hyde is in no condition to talk business.” And he entered the house, gently led Mr. Hyde across the hall and up the stairway. From the landing, he saw Della Barrie seat herself in a hall chair, cross her legs, and calmly light a cigarette. That smile of confidence seemed painted on her face.

  AT the top of the steps, X led Hyde into the first bedroom he came to and helped him into a chair. Then, kneeling in front of the millionaire, he gently stroked the gnarled hands. “What did you do tonight, Mr. Hyde?” he asked gravely.

  Hyde’s features knotted into a grimace of terror. “The key,” he muttered hoarsely. “Must not lose the key. The—the—” his gaunt frame trembled—“the terrible eyes. I must not lose—must not lose—” Hyde’s eyelids drooped. He sighed heavily. His twisted features relaxed and he dozed off, utterly exhausted.

  X shook his head slowly back and forward. Marcus Hyde was evidently a very sick man. Perhaps rest would bring him around. Perhaps that strange stupor into which he had fallen would extend to the grave. Perhaps the secret of his nocturnal wanderings would never be known.

  The long, graceful fingers of Agent X quickly frisked the man’s clothes. Except for a bunch of keys and a handkerchief, the pockets were empty. X remembered Hyde’s mad words: “Must not lose the key.” Quickly, X’s fingers shuffled through the bunch of keys. One, a long, brass key, held his attention for the moment.

  Close examination showed him that there was a little oil clinging to the key and tiny particles that resembled rust adhering to the wards. X slipped the brass key from the ring and put it in his pocket. Then he hastened down the steps to the living room.

  At the living room door, Delia Barrie caught his arm. “Mr. Beem, do tell me what happened to that
poor man.” she shot a pitying glance in the direction of the lounge.

  X appraised the woman carefully. Little wonder that she had more wealthy bachelors among her clients than any other lawyer had. She was more than a clever attorney, she was a beautiful and accomplished woman. “You got me there, Miss Barrie,” X replied and brushed past her to the lounge where the body lay.

  With Herman Tetwilder was a man X had never seen before. He was a slender person with a wealth of curly black beard. He wore a monocle screwed into his left eye. Tetwilder nodded his head toward the man beside him. “This is Dr. Bently Simon, Mr. Detective, He is Mr. Hyde’s personal physician.”

  X nodded to the doctor. “What killed the old man?” he asked, thumbing at the corpse.

  Dr. Simon winked out his monocle and twirled it. He regarded X with extreme gravity. “A stroke,” he replied softly. “Something that is not entirely a surprise to me. Thomas was old and subject to extremely high arterial pressure. No possible grounds for supposing his death to be—er—well, shall we say unnatural? But, of course, I will be glad to have some member of the police medical staff substantiate—”

  Herman Tetwilder jerked around suddenly, so startling the doctor that Simon’s sentence remained unfinished, Tetwilder plunged hands deep into his pockets. He teetered on squeaky yellow shoes. And he said, witheringly: “Time you were getting here.”

  X turned. He squinted at two policemen who were standing in the center of the living room. In the Agent’s mind, a danger signal flashed. The cops seemed too amazed to speak. They looked at X and then at each other.

  Herman Tetwilder stamped across the floor. “What’s the matter with you ?” he asked hotly.

  “I—we—it just ain’t possible!” one of the cops blurted. “That bird—” pointing at X—“Why, he’s unconscious. We found him at the edge of the road. He was way out. We brought him here because it was the nearest house. He’s on the couch in the hall right now—or he ought to be.”

  X understood perfectly what puzzled the two policemen. Previous to attempting the impersonation of Thornton Beem, X had waylaid the private detective and knocked him out. The police had evidently run across the real Thornton Beem where X had left him near the gate.

  Chapter II

  KIDNAPING DELUXE

  NEARLY a mile to the south of Long View, a narrow side road forked from the broad highway and ambled its lonely way toward the Sound. On warmer evenings it was a favorite Lovers’ Lane, but at this particular moment it served as a rendezvous of quite a different sort.

  Along this lonely road, two men were walking. Contrasting figures, they were. One was of immense proportions, so broad and so square-shouldered that few guessed his height as over six feet. He wore no hat, but his shaggy, black hair offered ample protection against the evening chill. His square jaws clamped the bit of a square-bowled briar pipe with a certain bulldog ferocity.

  His companion was small, pallid, and addicted to the wearing of soft gray things. His wide, washed-out eyes windowed a timid soul. He was employed as private secretary to Miss Florence Pettman, a wealthy spinster. Brisket, for that was the little man’s name, hopped along in an effort to match the other’s stride. He was decidedly ill at ease.

  And not without reason. Acting as go-between in one of the most sensational kidnapings that had ever been accomplished was hardly a job that a man like Brisket would relish. The fact that the heavy canvas bag in his right hand contained sixty thousand dollars worth of gold and platinum jewelry contributed in no way to mental peace.

  Gold, platinum, and diamonds—such was the ransom sought by the group of kidnapers that had spirited Miss Pettman away. Clever criminals that they were, they had carefully avoided money in their dealings. Money could be marked and serial numbers of bills recorded. But gold and platinum could be sold to foreign markets. Diamonds could be cut beyond recognition. Perhaps the criminals’ insistence on ransom of this nature, contributed more than anything else to the repeated successes of their snatch schemes.

  Miss Pettman was not the first victim. No one realized this better than the great, square man who accompanied Brisket. Aide to that relentless foe of crime, Secret Agent X, Harvey Bates had obtained a position as butler in Miss Pettman’s household for the sole purpose of gaining information in regard to the kidnap gang.

  “You think that Miss Pettman will be quite all right?” inquired Brisket timidly.

  “Probably,” Bates clipped the word short. He emitted a mouthful of pipe smoke. “Apt to be some nettled.”

  “Yes, Miss Pettman has quite a temper. But you were telling me that other victims of this kidnaping group have always remained strangely reticent about their experiences. Either they refuse to tell the police anything about the kidnaping or they do tell and—”

  “Die,” supplied Bates.

  “Yes. And of course such silence makes it difficult for the police. Knowing Miss Pettman as I do, I should say that no threat the criminals might make could possibly prevent her from talking after her release. Death, even in the terrible form that has come to other victims of this criminal group, holds no terrors for—”

  “Mail box,” Harvey Bates interrupted. He pointed with his pipe at something that loomed beside the road.

  Brisket quivered nervously. “You—you’re certain this is the right one?”

  “Only one,” Bates told him. Together, they crossed the road and stopped in front of a sheet-metal box mounted on a half-rotten fence post. Bates opened the flap of the mailbox. “Put it in,” he ordered.

  Brisket raised the canvas sack and stuffed it into the box. He looked at his watch. “Ten o’clock. Everything according to arrangement. Now, will the kidnapers come this way and pick it up?”

  “That’s likely,” replied Bates dryly. “Come on. Remember the instructions. If the crooks see anyone near the box, it’s the end of Miss Pettman.”

  BRISKET jumped, and started up the road without even a backward glance at the sixty thousand dollar mail box. He was wringing his pale fingers. “Oh, I feel certain that Miss Pettman will do something foolish. This is the seventh kidnaping of this sort. Two of the victims have tried to give information to the police, just as Miss Pettman will try. She’ll die like the others. That invisible thing will seek her out and kill her. Have you any idea how these criminals kill? You seem pretty well informed for a member of the serving class.”

  Bates grunted. “I read the papers,” he evaded.

  “Suppose,” Brisket whispered, “just suppose that they loose their invisible death upon the entire city. Have you thought of that?”

  Bates didn’t reply. Agent X had suggested the same thing to him. X was even more interested in nailing the spectral thing that killed than in the kidnapings. X was probably the first to realize what horrible slaughter would result if the invisible doom extended its long arm across the entire city.

  Suddenly the narrow road in front of them whitened with bobbing light. Bates and the secretary turned around. A car was rocketing out of the night toward them. Three times, the headlights flashed on and off. It was the signal of the kidnapers. Bates sprang to the side of the road and dragged the terrorized Brisket after him.

  The car slashed through the darkness. A short distance ahead, it skidded to a stop. A door opened, a man sprang out into the road, and lifted out the figure of a woman. Then he sprang back into the car, which immediately accelerated to disappear around the curve ahead.

  “Miss Pettman. It is Miss Pettman!” Brisket shrilled, as he ran toward the small, erect figure in the center of the road. “Are you quite all right, Miss Pettman? Oh, why doesn’t she answer!”

  “Gagged,” Bates told him, as he easily swung ahead of the secretary and reached the side of the wealthy spinster. In spite of the cloth that was bound around her mouth, Miss Pettman was already trying to talk. Her black eyes sparkled like the eyes of a wren. Bates yanked out his pocket-knife and cut loose the gag to reveal Miss Pettman’s compressed, perpetually disapproving lips.

&nb
sp; “Either of you get the number of that car?” she snapped.

  Bates shook his head. “There were no plates, miss.” He took hold of her arm. “I’ll carry you back to the car. It’s quite a walk.”

  “Carry me!” The thin lips came together with a smack. “I’ve learned something about walking in my sixty years, my man. I’ll manage alone, thank you. And when I get home, I’ll want to see the police. Those devils have threatened me, but what’s a threat? Let them try to touch me. Just let them!” And she hopped off up the road at a sprightly pace.

  THINKING and acting are synonymous with Agent X. No sooner did he hit upon a plan by which he could evade the police and at the same time remain in the Hyde mansion, than he set about putting that scheme to work.

  He thrust his hands deep into his pockets, palming a round, metal object about the size of a watch in his right hand. He chewed gum patiently and stared the two police out of countenance. As one of the cops advanced, gun in hand, X took a step to meet him. X thumbed at his own chest.

  “Take a good look, copper,” he twanged nasally. “Ever hear of Thornton Beem?”

  “You look like him,” the cop admitted, “but you’re not him, that’s all.”

  The two police saw that the Agent’s hands were in his pockets. Neither saw his left hand as he withdrew it, however, so rapid was the motion. His left fist struck the policeman directly beneath the heart with enough force to rock the man’s heavy body. The man dropped his gun, for the Agent’s blow had a momentary paralyzing effect.

  The second policeman made the serious error of imagining that a high, around-the-neck tackle could bring X to earth. X ducked. His shoulder struck the policeman’s middle. His hands clasped the cop’s legs for an instant as X straightened and tossed the man over his back to the floor.

  Della Barrie screamed, and her shrill cry was like a goad to Dr. Simon and Herman Tetwilder. They swung into motion together, but by that time X had gained the hall.

  A glance showed X that the real Thornton Beem was stretched out on a low, antique couch at one side of the room, but there wasn’t a spare moment in which X could take the private detective’s place. Simon and Tetwilder were hot on X’s trail and the police were crowding in behind them.