Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 6

by G. T. Fleming-Roberts

  X ran to the stair, stamped noisily up six steps, vaulted over the banister, and dropped back into a shadowy niche in the hall. At the same moment that his pursuers stampeded through the living room door, X threw the round, watchlike object up through the stair well, and into the hall on the second floor. No sooner did the round object strike the floor above than six shots cracked in rapid succession.

  “After him!” Tetwilder shouted. “He’s shooting up there. Murdering Mr. Hyde!” And he led Dr. Simon, the two police, and the woman attorney up the stairway.

  No sooner had Della Barrie’s glistening slippers clicked past X’s hiding place, than he stepped softly across the hall, lifted the unconscious Thornton Beem, and dumped him over the back of the couch. Then he assumed the position that Beem had occupied.

  The police would not be long in discovering the trick X had played with the shots. His decoy had consisted of a cylinder of .22 calibre blank cartridges, set off by a clock-spring mechanism. No sooner had X dropped to the couch than danger threatened from another angle.

  The front door was thrust violently open and a figure well known to X entered the hall. It was Inspector John Burks of the Homicide Bureau. Burks was closely followed by two of his aides, the medical examiner, and a trim little figure in blue—Betty Dale, ace reporter on the Herald. The Agent’s heart gave a bound as he glimpsed the girl’s blonde loveliness from beneath his lowered eyelids.

  Burks’ first move on entering was to walk straight over to X. His iron jaw was grimly set. His big fingers closed on X’s shoulders. X forced himself to remain perfectly limp.

  “Huh,” Burks grunted, “somebody knocked out cocky Thornton Beem at last.” He turned and looked around the hall. “Where’s everybody? Where’s the body? From what Tetwilder said over the phone, I thought this was another of those invisible murders your rag talks about, Miss Dale. You don’t think the body’s invisible, too, do you?”

  “There’s somebody upstairs,” Betty told him. “And I could swear I heard shooting as we got out of the car.”

  “You undoubtedly heard shooting,” a voice grumbled from the stairway, “but nobody saw it.” Herman Tetwilder was coming down the steps. Leaning on his arm was the ailing Marcus Hyde. Dr. Simon, Della Barrie, and the two police followed.

  Hyde stared dazedly about. He turned his white head, moistened his parched lips, and addressed Della Barrie: “Who are all these people, my dear?”

  Della Barrie smiled sweetly. “Don’t be alarmed, Mr. Hyde, They’re all friends, anxious to help you. Inspector Burks is here to see what can be done about poor Thomas.”

  Hyde’s white brow furrowed. “Then—then Thomas was murdered!”

  “Decidedly not, Mr. Hyde,” declared Dr. Simon. “I am certain that Thomas’ death was perfectly natural. The police surgeon will bear me out in this.”

  “Come on,” Burks broke in impatiently, “show us the body.”

  TETWILDER pointed to the living room. “We carried him in there, inspector. We didn’t know he was dead until we got to the house.”

  Burks led the way into the living room, the others following.

  X lay perfectly still, concentrating his attention on the conversation in the next room.

  “I tell you, Dr. Simon,” Burks was saying vehemently, “we’ve run into this thing before. This is murder!”

  “You see, Dr. Simon—” the voice of the medical examiner—“though I agree that it appears as though death was due to a stroke, post mortem examination will prove otherwise. The convulsions, which Mr. Tetwilder has described, tally perfectly with a similar case—that of a kidnap victim who attempted to aid the police by giving out certain information.”

  “But,” Simon objected, “you can’t tell me that Thomas had been kidnaped. There’s no motive for murder. And there’s no weapon—”

  “Don’t say weapon to me,” Burks growled. “This is something you can’t see.”

  “Ridiculous!” Dr. Simon snapped.

  “What is it to you, one way or the other, Simon?” Tetwilder demanded.

  “Nothing, except that I’m not used to having my word disputed.

  “That’s too bad,” Burks dismissed the matter. “And now, Tetwilder, tell us about this vanishing man who claimed to be Thornton Beem.”

  X smiled to himself as he listened to Tetwilder tell the story of the two Thornton Beems. While Tetwilder was speaking, Dr. Bently Simon came into the hall. His dark eyes were bright with fury as he screwed his monocle into place and hurriedly left the house.

  When the doctor had gone, Tetwilder, Hyde, Burks, Betty, and Della Barrie came into the hall. Tetwilder was showing Burks the automatic shooting device which X had employed as a decoy.

  “That’s a new one on me,” Burks admitted. “But there’s no doubt in my mind but what the man who impersonated Thornton Beem, here—” and the inspector looked directly at X—“was that criminal who calls himself Agent X. Someday, I’ll get that guy.” And Burks’ big fingers made tight, crushing fists. “But suppose you tell me in greater detail exactly what happened when Thomas was murdered by this invisible thing.”

  Very faintly to the Agent’s ears, came a groan. X held his breath. That groan had come from behind the couch on which he lay. Thornton Beem was recovering from the knockout blow X had dealt him previous to attempting his impersonation.

  X darted a glance from beneath his eyelids. Marcus Hyde and Della Barrie were separated from the couch, on which he lay, by a massive suit of armor that stood in the hall. Not three feet from the Agent, their backs toward him, were Herman Tetwilder and Inspector Burks. Across the room, Betty Dale was seated in a chair. The girl’s sparkling eyes were fixed upon the couch.

  X was certain that Betty Dale had heard that groan. Perhaps she even detected the stirring of Thornton Beem beneath the couch. X saw her draw a breath, knew that she was about to speak. If she voiced her suspicions about there being some one under the couch, she would unknowingly betray her dearest friend.

  There was only one means of stopping Betty from speaking. X opened his eyes wide, fixed Betty with his keen glance, and gently shook his head. He moved his hands, his forefingers crossing to form the letter “X.”

  Betty’s surprised inhalation was audible throughout the room, but no one seemed to notice it. X had barely time to drop his hands into their former position and close his eyes, before Burks glanced back over his shoulder at the couch.

  X knew that it was only a matter of moments until his trick would be discovered. True, Betty would wisely hold her tongue, but another groan from Thornton Beem and Inspector Burks would realize his ambition—X would be completely within his power.

  Chapter III

  DEATH GAMBLE

  THE real Thornton Beem stirred. One of his shoes kicked the couch. On the couch, X lay perfectly rigid and hoped that Inspector Burks would at least get out of the way so that he could make a dash for the door when the moment of discovery came. But when Burks did move, it was only to turn around, facing X. As he did so, Betty Dale quietly slipped into the next room.

  “Damned funny noises around here,” Burks grumbled. “Wonder how long it will be before we can bring this private dick around. When Mr. X hits a man, he stays hit,” Burks reached out a hand and placed it on the agent’s forehead. At that moment, Thornton Beem grunted loudly. Then things happened.

  Two shots cracked in the next room. “Inspector Burks!” Betty Dale screamed. “Help!”

  Burks turned and pelted into the next room. Tetwilder, Hyde, and Della Barrie followed. But the woman attorney paused in the doorway.

  X understood at once what had happened. Betty, realizing her friend’s predicament, had gone from the hall, fired the little automatic she always carried, and cried for help. It was all a trick to give X a chance to escape from the hall. As X rolled from the couch, Della Barrie turned her head.

  “Mr. Beem!” she exclaimed. Then the Agent saw her eyes widen. She raised her arm and pointed a stiff forefinger at something behind X.
The Agent glanced over his shoulder, saw a hand clenched on the back of the couch, saw the head of the real Thornton Beem as the private detective pulled himself to his feet.

  “Impostor!” screamed Della Barrie. And no wonder. She was seeing two Thornton Beems not four feet apart. X sprung for the front door. As he extended his hand for the knob, the door flung open, and three policemen burst into the hall.

  “Where’s the shooting?” one of the cops demanded.

  “Stop that man!” screamed Della Barrie, pointing at X. “He’s an impostor!”

  To the police, always on the lookout for Agent X, that word of “impostor” was like the lash of a whip. It was only a matter of a few ticks of the watch before X would be hemmed in—police in front of him, police behind him. His hands came out of his pockets. In his left was a small, cylindrical box of cardboard, in his right his gas pistol. X put the box to his mouth and ripped off the cap with his teeth. He tossed the cylinder over his shoulder, and immediately dense clouds of black smoke burst from the little bomb.

  At the same moment, his big body drove forward into the very center of the police in the doorway. His gas pistol puffed its charge of anesthetizing vapor straight into the face of one of the police. Then he hacked sideways with the barrel of the empty pistol and struck another policeman across the temple. The man lurched into his groggy companion.

  But the third policeman had sprung back into the open air. His .38 was in his hand, roaring out its deathly cargo of lead. A slug landed directly above the Agent’s heart. His bullet-proof vest stopped the shot, but the impact was like the kick of a mule. Pain brought a groan to his lips and sweat to his forehead. He staggered forward.

  With a triumphant cry, the policeman sprang at him. But Agent X, apparently on the verge of a collapse, suddenly came out of a drooping crouch and led a left hook that had the surprising speed of a bolt of lightning. His fist landed on the cop’s unguarded chin. The cop’s head cracked back, his smoking gun dropped. He went down in a heap on the sidewalk.

  X hurdled the policeman, and raced off across the lawn toward the gate.

  INSPECTOR BURKS and Herman Tetwilder burst through the smoke and gained the front door. Aside from the policeman on the sidewalk, no one was in sight. Burks dug at his eyes. Tetwilder sneezed.

  “Only one guy who can move that fast,” Burks declared hoarsely. “His name is Mr. X!”

  “Then, by hell,” Tetwilder exploded, “this X person was here all the time! He could have killed Thomas.”

  “Could and did,” Burks said flatly. “There’s nothing that bird won’t try. I’d give a whole lot to know just how his invisible death works. He’s probably behind this whole kidnaping scheme. But I don’t see why he should kill that old watchman, unless—” Burks’ usually ruddy face paled. “Say, if he should take a notion that he didn’t like most of the people in this city, if he should turn that invisible death on all of us—” Burks ended his speculation in a dull groan.

  One of Agent X’s cars was parked on the road not far from Long View. A few minutes after leaving the Hyde house, he reached the car at a long-legged, tireless run. He was working close to his prearranged schedule. It was now almost time when, by arrangement with the kidnapers, Miss Florence Pettman was to have been returned safely to her home. All details of the kidnaping had reached X’s ears through his trusted lieutenant, Harvey Bates.

  The Agent’s adventures at Hyde’s house had only served to complicate matters. He was quite as puzzled as Inspector Burks as to the motive behind the murder of Watchman Thomas. Had that invisible, stalking death made a mistake and struck at Thomas instead of Hyde? That seemed unlikely. X wondered why the kidnapers had overlooked Marcus Hyde in their quest for victims.

  X felt that Miss Pettman’s release was a critical point in the investigation and one that he dared not miss. He knew something of the woman’s courage and her loathing of criminals. He felt that if anyone would give information that might lead to the apprehension of the group of kidnap-murderers, Miss Pettman would, in spite of threats that she must have received.

  He knew, also, that Herman Tetwilder was a close friend of Miss Pettman. Therefore, X had observed Tetwilder closely that night with the idea of impersonating him. As Tetwilder, X knew that he could get in Miss Pettman’s house without difficulty.

  To duplicate Tetwilder’s irregular features from memory was a difficult task. Sitting in his car, crouching before a small, specially lighted mirror, X went about his task. Layer upon layer of plastic volatile make-up material he molded to give the appearance of Tetwilder’s sacky flesh. This he tinted with special pigments from his make-up kit.

  A specially padded suit-coat, which he had brought along for the purpose, enabled him to simulate Tetwilder’s heavy, barrel-like body. A gray, “U”-shaped mustache, X fixed to his upper lip. A gray toupee completed the job.

  As he drove to Miss Pettman’s house, not far away, X talked to himself, practicing every characteristic inflection of Tetwilder’s harsh voice.

  On arriving at Miss Pettman’s exceedingly practical house, X found the spinster surrounded by police and reporters. Brisket, her secretary, hovered about anxiously, twisting his pale fingers, and shaking his head sadly. X was surprised to see Della Barrie seated on the arm of Miss Pettman’s chair, one arm across the old lady’s shoulders. In the background, looking awkward in his butler’s livery, was Harvey Bates.

  “If you people would stop staring at me as if you thought I was some kind of side-show freak!” Miss Pettman complained. “Stop buzzing! How can I talk? Miss Barrie, I won’t be made over!”

  DELLA BARRIE laughed softly and gave the woman’s lean shoulders a pat. “You love it, really. We’re all anxious to hear what you have to say, but Mr. Coombs insists that you speak to him first.”

  Miss Pettman glared at a pompous gentleman who wore his high, stiff collar easily. X recognized the man as David Coombs, head of a prominent brokerage firm. Coombs looked very much surprised; he always did. His eyebrows were continually arched and his forehead a corrugation of horizontal wrinkles. His wide, innocent-looking eyes resembled those of a startled child.

  “Miss Pettman,” Mr. Coombs said gently, “as I am your financial adviser, it is only fitting that you permit me to speak. Since you will not hear me in private, I must speak now. I have asked you not to relate any of your experience while you were kidnaped, to these police. It is too dangerous a gamble to speak when your life hangs in the balance. But if you do insist, kindly think a moment about the future. Do you realize what becomes of your fortune in case—well, in case anything unpleasant should happen?”

  “Who should realize that better than I, David Coombs?” Miss Pettman made furious fists of her thin, blue-veined hands. “I fully intend that when I die my money shall be used to establish a home for the stray dogs of the city. Nothing can change my mind.”

  “But surely,” Della Barrie said softly, “there is some more worthy—”

  “Quite enough!” snapped Miss Pettman. Her beady eyes flicked about the room and lighted on Agent X. She stood up quickly and extended her hands to him. “Herman, my old friend, you’ve always managed to keep order in your house. See if you can do it in mine.”

  X came forward and took Miss Pettman’s two hands. Then he glanced at Della Barrie. The latter smiled and nodded. “This seems to be Miss Barrie’s night for changing wills,” X said gruffly. He had the satisfaction of seeing Della Barrie’s confident smile fade.

  “She’ll not change mine!” Miss Pettman flared. “Quiet, now, everybody. I’m going to speak.”

  Immediately, an excited clamoring arose. The police looked intensely worried. Everyone in the room had been vouched for, but the spectral death had stalked before in rooms as well guarded. The reporters were buzzing excitedly. Looking across the room X saw that Betty Dale had just entered. He caught her eye.

  She gave a scarcely perceptible nod of her head. Obviously, since she had just left Tetwilder at the Hyde estate, she knew that this se
cond Tetwilder was actually the Agent. X moved over toward her.

  A reporter, a slender man with close-set, black eyes and a thin, hooked nose, poked a pencil at Betty Dale. “Get out of here, Betty. This is my story.”

  Betty laughed, “I’m not poking into this. It’s your assignment. You ought to do the stray-dog-home part nicely, anyway.”

  THE hawk-nosed reporter laughed. Betty beckoned to X. “Oh, Mr. Tetwilder,” she called.

  X joined Betty and the reporter at the door. At the sight of X, the reporter’s smile vanished. He turned his back insolently on X and asked of Betty: “You know that old fool?” Then he stalked stiffly away.

  “Young whelp !” X growled. It appeared that Mr. Tetwilder and this particular reporter were not on the best of terms and X had cued his words from the young man’s actions. Aside to Betty, X whispered: “Who is he?”

  “Carlos Carasco. He’s been doing features for the paper. Tell you something more about him later.”

  A hush had fallen over the room. Miss Pettman was standing up, looking proudly about. “My own death warrant, eh? I’ll show them!” She cleared her throat. Reporters poised pencils. Police uneasily loosened their guns in their holsters.

  “Two weeks ago,” Miss Pettman began, “I was walking in my yard just at dusk. A man, very dirty and slovenly-looking, came in through the back gate. I have no use for shiftless sort of men and I approached him with the idea of ordering him off the premises at once. He smirked at me. I was on the point of calling one of the servants, for, I said to myself, who knows what sort of a—”

  Miss Pettman put a hand to the back of her neck. Her face twitched slightly. “What sort of a man—” Again she stopped. Her fingers worked convulsively. She clawed at her throat.

  “A-a shot—” she choked out. Her small, thin body quivered. Then trembling legs deserted her and she fell to the floor. Only then did an agonized sob escape her tightly compressed lips. Tremendous, invisible strength seemed to do what it willed with her body. A final wave of convulsion and she lay perfectly still.