Betty laughed. “I thank you, sir. Now, what do I owe you, after that flattery?”
The bearded man jerked out of his trance. “Betty, will you do something for me? Something that may sound a little mad, and may mean taking a risk?”
“Need you ask? Of course, I’ll do anything within my power that may aid you in stopping these terrible crimes. As long as I live, I’ll never get the face of that little Miss Pettman out of my mind. She had such magnificent courage. Then that cowardly, invisible death—” Betty’s sentence broke off in a shudder.
The bearded man sighed. “So far, I have made absolutely no headway in the investigation. But now I have a real lead. You know Ned Sangar, of course?”
Betty frowned. “Sangar,” she reflected. “Oh, you mean the frigid-faced broker with the firm of Coombs and Sangar. I know him when I see him. Why?”
“I want you to see that he takes you out tomorrow night. I don’t care where else, just so he takes you to dinner at the Stephani Café in Minetta Lane. There you’ll see a big man with shaggy, black hair and a scar on his left cheek. He may call himself Jeefers, but he’ll be yours truly, so you’ll have nothing to fear. And, of course, you’ll not interfere if I abduct your escort. I have good reasons to believe that Ned Sangar is involved in this criminal game, and I mean to make certain.”
Betty thought a moment. “There are two things I don’t see,” she objected. “First, I can’t imagine Mr. Sangar dating anyone, let alone me. Second, how to steer a stiff-shirt like him into a café frequented by the Village crowd.”
The bearded man laughed. “Stiff-shirt and brass-hearted Ned Sangar may be, but I’ve found out his one weakness.”
“Don’t say that’s me.”
The bearded man nodded. “Not in particular. Beautiful blondes in general. Try and arrange an interview with Sangar first thing in the morning. Tell him you want a story on next year’s financial outlook, or tell him you’ve got money to invest—anything. Just let him get a good look at you. You won’t even have to put on an act. He’ll fall like a ton of brick.” Then he added softly: “The man who wouldn’t is a fool.”
And without another word, he hurried from the apartment.
In the street, the door of a car was opened for the bearded man. A second man, hidden by the gloom within the interior of the car asked:
“Well?”
The bearded man chuckled. “It worked.”
LITTLE did Betty Dale know that at the very moment when she was entertaining her bearded guest, Secret Agent X was calmly going about the business of attempting to save the life of Harvey Bates at the sacrifice of his own life. In that stifling crypt of death, he had managed to wriggle out of his coat. Ripping through the lining of his coat, he produced two flat, cloth envelopes which contained the compounds which, when united, would combine with such violence that the heat generated would fuse metal.
X had fastened his coat to the top of the crypt so that it hung down as an additional shield in front of the unconscious Bates. X saw that he would be practically on top of the chemicals when the terrific reaction took place. He could not hope to escape from the heat of the fusing metal. Leaning against the crypt seal, he tore off the corner of one of the envelopes and allowed the metallic powder to trickle along the edge of the door.
His hands were perfectly steady, but in his heart there was a dull ache. The image of Betty Dale’s bright face flitted constantly before his mind. Had he only been able to see her once more in life, to tell her, in words, what he had scarcely dared to intimate before, death would have been easier.
He picked up the second envelope and tore off its corner. In a few seconds everything would be blinding, blasting heat. The crypt would be converted into a volcanic crater.
Suddenly, the bronze door yielded beneath his weight. He pitched forward, head and shoulders extending from the crypt. Beside the door, he glimpsed two men, an upraised club. Then the dull thud of a blow on his skull blotted out everything.
Sudden chill brought the Agent out of oblivion. He shook his head, throwing water from head and hair. He looked up and saw two hard-looking characters bending over him. One, a big man with shaggy, black hair and a livid scar on his left cheek, held a bucket of water. The other, shorter and leaner than his companion, glanced at the man with the bucket. “This bird comes out fast, don’t he Jeefers?”
The man called Jeefers grunted.
“We’ll see how long he can keep his senses when we get to workin’ on him, eh Jeefers?”
“The boss said no rough stuff,” Jeefers replied. “He said just to burn his hands and feet, stick a cigar in his eye or something like that.” He reached a big hand, seized X by the throat and dragged him to his feet, X glanced about. They were in what appeared to be a one room tool-house. Harvey Bates was nowhere in sight. The Agent’s hands were tied behind him. His coat, of course, was in the crypt and in his coat were all his special defensive devices. On a work bench, an electric soldering iron glowed.
Jeefers’ companion was puffing a cigar into a furnace heat. Plenty of torture implements, but nothing quite so terrifying to the Agent as the thought that faithful Harvey Bates was probably still in that crypt in the mausoleum. X scarcely dared hope that there remained sufficient oxygen in that crypt to sustain life.
JEEFERS went over and picked up the soldering iron. He leered at X, and the livid scar seemed to join his lips making a hideous, continuous gash across his face. “You’re a stool pigeon for that X guy, ain’tcha?”
“Where’d you get that idea?” asked X.
“He said, ‘ain’tcha,’ didn’t he?” shouted the smaller man. At the same time he darted around X and pressed the glowing end of his cigar into X’s palms. X took the pain with scarcely so much as a reflex action.
“What if I am?” he asked.
“Get that Jeefers. He says what if he is!” the hood chuckled. “He’ll damned well find out.”
“You’re goin’ to tell us everything you know about Mr. X, guy. You may have to talk blind, but you’ll talk. No good workin’ on this guy’s mits, Matty. He’s got guts. Let’s see if he’ll talk when he hears his eyes sizzle.”
The soldering iron moved toward X’s eyes with torturing slowness. It was close enough now so that he could sample the terrible heat. It stopped. “Say somethin’ guy, and save yourself some grief.”
Agent X swallowed. “All right,” he agreed hoarsely. “I’ll talk. I’ll tell anything. Only stop that torment.”
“See, Jeefers, the guy’s got brains, too.”
Jeefers wasn’t so optimistic. “We’ll see about that.” He scratched his head. “First, you tell us who Mr. X is.”
“I don’t know,” X answered promptly. “Nobody knows.”
“You want to feel this iron?”
X shook his head. “No—no. Wait. If I could tell you where you could find Secret Agent X, would you let me go?”
Jeefers laughed. “Do we look that thick? You tell us to go to Hoboken and then we let you go! Not much. If you know where Agent X is, you lead us to him. And you’ll have your hands tied all the time and we’ll keep a gat on you. That’s our bid.”
X nodded his head. “Done! I’ll take you to Agent X right now. I’m sick of that guy anyway.”
Jeefers looked at his companion. “Say, we ought to rate a raise if we capture Mr. X for the boss.” He turned to X. “How far from here?”
“Where’s ‘here’?” X asked.
“We’re in the tool-house of the cemetery near Long View. We got a car outside.”
“You won’t need it,” the Agent replied. “Mr. X is in the mausoleum.”
“Nuts! We just came from there.”
X shrugged. “Then you didn’t look for X in the right place. I know right where he is. If he isn’t there, you can put a slug in me.”
“Okey,” replied Jeefers. “Show us.” He prodded X in the back with his automatic. The other criminal opened the door of the tool-house, and X was shoved out into the open.
The automatic always at his back, X led the way across the first room and into the second, then straight toward the crypt at the end of the room.
“Say, are you nuts?” roared Jeefers’ talkative companion. “You’re leadin’ us to the same place we found you.”
“I suppose,” X replied coldly, “that it never occurred to you that there might be two persons in the crypt.”
“Hell, no. The boss said you were there. He didn’t say anything about anyone else.”
“And, of course, it never occurred to that brilliant boss of yours that some one might have come to the crypt to try and get me out.”
“Say, if this is a trick—” Jeefers nudged X with the gun—“you’ll learn about it in hell.” To his pal he said: “Open up the hole. But get your gun out. They say this X guy is a hellion.”
The man held his gun in his left hand and unscrewed the bolts with his right. Agent X breathed a silent prayer. If only Bates was alive! He didn’t care what happened after that. He would manage to muddle through somehow and get Bates to freedom. Then the door swung open.
A muffled curse from Jeefers. The other criminal started to bring his gun up.
“Drop that gat!” the words slapped from the crypt. For Harvey Bates, squatting like an immense Buddha in the vault, confronted them with a gun—the Agent’s gas pistol.
Jeefers’ automatic cracked. The slug thudded with stunning force into the back of the Agent’s bullet-proof vest. The impact sent him floundering to the floor. He heard the hiss of the gas pistol, saw Jeefers’ pal go down in a heap, but he also saw Jeefers’ gun leveled at Bates’ head. The gas gun in Bates’ hand had released its charge. It was worthless.
But at the very moment that Jeefers would have drilled Bates’ forehead, X kicked up with both feet. His shoes struck the back of Jeefers’ knees. Jeefers’ hands flew up. The gun blasted at the ceiling as Jeefers struck the floor, striking the back of his head resoundingly. He lay still as death.
Bates dropped from the crypt just as Agent X raised himself from the floor. The big operative goggled at X for a moment. “Are you, you—or somebody else?”
“Quickly, Bates,” said X in the voice in which he was accustomed to address his aide, “get my coat out of the crypt.”
BATES sprang to obey. “Figured it was your coat when I looked through the pockets and found that gun. But can’t see how it got there.”
“The point is—how did you get there?”
“Don’t know.” Bates handed the coat to X. “Just after I warned you that Mr. Tetwilder had showed up, somebody banged my head. When I came to, I didn’t know but what I’d been buried alive.”
X nodded. “I know the feeling. I was in there with you. But more of that later. I want to take these two bruisers some place and give ’em a good going over. I may learn something and—” he paused, staring from the unconscious Jeefers to Bates.
“Matter, sir?”
“Nothing. It just occurred to me that you and Jeefers are built pretty much alike. A little work on your face, the addition of a scar, and you could pass for Jeefers very nicely.”
“Er,” Bates suggested hesitatingly, “you suppose you could fix me up like that? Maybe I could try spying in the enemy camp.”
X thought for a moment. “Your voice won’t do exactly, but it happens that Jeefers isn’t a very talkative person. It might work, but then again—”
“Let me try it, sir,” Bates urged eagerly.
“Right!” X decided suddenly. “I want you to keep close watch on the Hyde house and a disguise of some sort would be necessary, since some one might take you for Miss Pettman’s butler. I’ll fix you up as Jeefers and if anything should turn up that would give you a chance to get some information, I know you’ll take it. Let’s get to work. Untie my hands.”
“Here?”
X smiled. Harvey Bates had never got used to the miracles of make-up. “Right here.” And he took his make-up kit from his pocket.
While X’s fingers, skillful as those of a sculptor, went to work on Bates’ face, X talked to Bates, imitating the voice of Jeefers carefully. “Don’t talk,” he said “any more than you have to. But the tone of Jeefers’ voice is well within your vocal range. Try to remember how it sounds. And if you do have to say something speak in underworld jargon with a liberal amount of grunts.”
The Agent stood back, viewing Bates in the light of the electric torch and then looking at the unconscious Jeefers. He nodded his head. “You’ll do. Now if you can carry your counterpart, I’ll take the other man. We’ll get them to my car, then you’re on your own. Use your judgement and keep in touch with your office by means of the radio.”
Then shouldering their captives, they left the house of the dead.
Chapter VI
A KILL CLUE
THE following afternoon found the door of the office of A.J. Martin, A.P. newspaper correspondent, wide open. This was quite unusual inasmuch as the duties of A.J. Martin generally kept him absent from his office for long periods at a time.
Though to all appearances, Martin was seeking exciting news for some of the country’s greatest dailies, in reality his most thrilling experiences never reached the newspapers. A.J. Martin, ordinary-looking, sandy-complexioned man, was one of the most successful aliases of Secret Agent X.
Secret Agent X, wearing the stock disguise that distinguished him as A.J. Martin, paced the floor of his office impatiently.
Suddenly, his keen ear detected the sound of footsteps in the corridor. He turned eagerly, his tall graceful figure poised, his eyes alight.
A sturdy, wholesome-looking young man with bright red hair entered the office. “Hello, Mr. Martin,” he greeted cheerfully. “Got your call and hurried right over. What’s it about this time?”
X regarded Private Detective Jim Hobart gravely. “It’s about the invisible murders,” he said quietly.
Hobart’s smile vanished. “Ho-ly smoke!” he gasped. “You mean you’ve actually found something about those damnable deaths that can be investigated? Why the police force is nearly crazy. Not a clue anywhere. Nothing but a lot of crank letters from every fireside sleuth who ever reads of murder in the newspapers.”
“Don’t be too optimistic, Hobart. So far, I don’t see how anyone can cope with this invisible killer. But I have got some advanced information. Now listen closely.”
“I’m all ears, sir.”
“I had the good fortune to run across two underworld characters whom I have every reason to believe were employed in several of the kidnapings which are definitely associated with the invisible death. I gave these two men a dressing-down. I questioned them, using a simple lie-detector. Though they are absolutely ignorant of the man who employs them, they admitted having kidnaped Miss Pettman. They didn’t know a thing about the murder method, except that Mr. James Benson is scheduled to receive a visit from the invisible death.”
“Benson! You mean ‘Coke’ Benson, the gas and electric magnate?”
X nodded. “You remember that he was one of the first kidnaped by the gang. He paid them around a hundred thousand dollars in jewels for release. Miss Pettman’s courage and insistence upon giving the police what information she could seems to have shamed the great James Benson. He is going to tell exactly what happened to him while he was confined by the kidnapers. But, he arranged to tell what he knows to Inspector Burks alone at eight this evening.”
“The two hoods you got hold of told you that?”
“Yes. Now, what does it mean? Simply that there’s a leak somewhere. Some one in Benson’s household has heard him making these secret arrangements with Burks and has told the chief criminal. I want you and some of your picked men to be on the grounds of the Benson place. Be ready to nab anyone s
uspicious. We’ve got to stop this thing.”
Hobart nodded soberly. “I understand. If we don’t stop it, there’s no telling where it will stop—a thing you can’t see. But say, if you could get in on the meeting between Benson and Burks you’d sure have a wow of a story!”
X smiled slightly and dismissed the private detective. He was in the act of going into a small private room attached to the main office, in order to adopt a new disguise, when he heard a shuffling of feet behind him. He pivoted to confront a little old lady wearing a shabby black suit. The steely eyes of the Agent softened.
“Yes?” he asked kindly.
“You’re the newspaperman that works here, aren’t you?”
X nodded. “I’m Mr. Martin.”
“I couldn’t be sure,” she piped. “Never saw you very often when I was scrubbin’ here.”
Pressed for time though he was, X pulled out a comfortable chair and asked the old woman to sit down. “So you used to work here, did you? And what do you do now?”
“I—well, I haven’t anything to do. I’m goin’ to try to get back in this building if I can. When Mr. Thomas got a job as a watchman, I quit workin’ here. The mister and I thought we weren’t goin’ to have to worry the rest of our lives, him workin’ for Mr. Hyde, you see. But last night—maybe you read in the papers about it—the mister was murdered by that—that thing nobody can see. Maybe I shouldn’t be out walkin’ the streets, him not in his grave yet.” Mrs. Thomas swallowed with difficulty and dabbed at her eyes with a wad of a handkerchief. “But I had to see you.”
X SAT down in a chair directly opposite the woman. He took her small rough hands in his. “I knew your husband, Mrs. Thomas,” he said quietly. “No one was more shocked at his death than I.”
She tried to smile. “Did you know him, now. Then—then it’s not like I was comin’ to a perfect stranger.”
X shook his head. “Not at all. My knowing your husband makes us old friends, and you can ask me anything you want to.”
“It—it’s not for myself,” she said hesitatingly. “It’s for the others.” She nodded toward the window. “That invisible thing isn’t done yet. It’s too easy for it to kill. My mister is gone, but there will be others go the same way. They say you’re a very clever man. And besides, you’ve got the power of the papers behind you. Won’t you just try to do something to stop this awful thing that comes out of thin air? Maybe that’s a silly thing to ask. Somehow—” she looked deeply into the Agent’s eyes—“I’ve faith in you. Will you try?”
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 6 Page 46