Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 6

by G. T. Fleming-Roberts

  “No thank you,” Betty returned hastily.

  Carasco shrugged. “Well, it was darned nice of me to ask you, this being the night before my wedding. So long.”

  But as Betty hurried from the café she thought she could feel the penetrating eyes of Della Barrie, like twin needles of fire, lancing through her brain.

  IN his Long Island home, Mr. James Benson had considered his own importance and had become very well satisfied. Assuredly he was the man of the hour. For five minutes, Secret Agent X had sat in a chair while Benson paced the floor of the small library, and talked about everything except what X really wanted to hear.

  “I make the wheels go round in this town, inspector. When you press your light-switch, don’t forget that I’m the man behind the juice.” Benson clenched his fat fists and shook them under the Agent’s nose. “Power? Well, I’ve got more of that in these two fists than you’ve got on the entire police force. Trouble with you fellows, you haven’t any drive. You ought to make the kidnap victims give you information.”

  “Not a bad idea, Mr. Benson,” X agreed. “And here’s a good place to begin. Suppose you tell me exactly what happened to you when you were kidnaped.”

  Benson faced the Agent. “That’s exactly why I wanted you to come here. Believe me, this was not an ordinary kidnaping. The night of the twenty-sixth, I was driving into my garage. It was very late. No sooner had I stepped from my car, than I was set upon by ruffians. A bag was thrown over my head, and the cloth seemed saturated with chloroform. I came to in a place that was like an old basement. I say old, because the walls looked it, and there was a filthy, rotten odor about the place. There was a little cot in the place, a good light, one comfortable chair, and magazines. Otherwise, it was as plain as prison.

  “One of the ruffians brought me good food three times a day, but I soon found out that there was some kind of dope in the coffee, for every time I drank any of it, I became very drowsy. So I only pretended to drink the coffee thereafter. You understand the simple strategy?”

  X nodded. “Go on, please.”

  “During these periods after meals, when I was pretending to be drowsy, someone always came in and studied me carefully. He always wore a white smock that reached to his ankles, a gauze mask and a white skull cap. At what I supposed were regular intervals—say, once every two days—this man in white would roll back my sleeve and give me some sort of a hypodermic injection.”

  The Agent’s eyes brightened. “Yes. Go on. Was there any pain connected with these injections? Any bad after results?”

  Benson shook his head. “That’s the funny part of it. Just the little sting of the needle entering my flesh. No after results, except a tiny red spot that would sometimes itch a little but disappeared in a short time.”

  “What about the amount of the injection?” X asked. “Of course, I don’t suppose you could see.”

  “No,” replied Benson, “I didn’t dare open my eyes. But I could feel, and I would say that only a minute amount of the stuff was injected.”

  “Then you couldn’t—”

  Crash! The window behind Agent X was shattered to a thousand fragments. X catapulted from his chair, his two arms extended in front of him. He seized Benson’s shoulders and pushed the man backwards into a closet. He slammed the door and turned the key. Only then did he turn around. He faced a room of sinister emptiness. Half of a paving brick was in the center of the room and glass was scattered everywhere.

  X APPROACHED the broken window cautiously and opened it so that he could stick out his head without running the risk of cutting his throat on the jagged pieces of the broken pane. He beamed his flashlight through the darkness. Not a sign of anyone. He turned the light on the ground directly beneath the window. Nothing but a torn scrap of newspaper and an old safety-match box.

  “You’ll oblige me by turning around and sticking up your hands, Agent X!” And that could have been only Inspector John Burks’ triumphant roar.

  “Oh, hello, Burks,” X said in a voice that was so near like the inspector’s own that Burks purpled with rage. As X turned around, his left hand went casually into his trousers pocket. He noted, with some pleasure, that Burks’ chin was blue-black.

  But Burks wasn’t alone. No less than six plain-clothes men trooped behind him. He was taking no chances this time.

  “I was just wondering when you would turn up,” X went on. “Don’t bother to turn those guns on me. There’s something far more dangerous than Agent X in this room—the invisible death.”

  Burks sent an apprehensive glance about the room. “Your bluffs won’t get by now. I got you cold.”

  “Just a minute,” X said quietly. “You ought to know what Benson told me. When he was held by the kidnapers, he was given minute hypodermic injections of something. You may remember that the last words Miss Pettman uttered before her death were something about a shot. Altogether possible that she, too, tried to refer to hypodermic injections. I also know that Mr. Thomas received hypodermic injections that might have been of a similar nature, given him by Dr. Bently Simon. You see, Burks, I’m playing square with you. How about giving me a break?”

  “You? Me give you a break?” roared Burks. “Why, I’ve got enough on you to get you sent up for a hundred and ninety years, and send you to the chair to boot.”

  There came a terrific pounding on the door of the closet.

  Burks pointed. “Who’s in there?”

  “Benson,” X replied. “And for the love of heaven think twice before you let him out! He told me much. The invisible thing must be in this room right now, waiting for him.”

  Burks squirmed nervously. “How do you know?”

  X pointed to the broken window. “Something must have come through there—something I couldn’t see. There’d be no reason for breaking the window otherwise. One last word of warning. Don’t let Benson out of that closet until you are certain the invisible death has gone.” And with the word “gone” X snapped his hand from his trousers pocket. In his hand was a small round ball that he tossed at the wall just above Burks’ head. There was a blinding flash of light and a deafening report. And when the smoke cleared away, Agent X was gone. The surprise created by his magnesium bomb had given him an opportunity to spring through the open window.

  As soon as Burks could think clearly again he ordered five of his men to search the house and grounds for Agent X. “Get hold of everybody,” he ordered. “Remember that guy never looks the same twice. And while you’re doing that, I’m going to get Benson out of the closet. Invisible death, my eye! The only hocus-pocus about this is Mr. X. I’ll lay ten to one he was trying to kidnap Benson.”

  Burks strode to the closet, twisted the key, and threw open the door. “Come out, Mr. Benson. Sorry this happened.”

  Benson came out—fell out, stiff and straight on the floor.

  “Good Lord! He—he’s dead!” husked Burks. “But we heard him kicking the closet door not three minutes ago.” Gun in hand, Burks entered the closet. He came out in a moment, face pale, eyes starting. “Not a damned thing in there,” he said hoarsely.

  Chapter VIII

  THE MAN WITH TERRIBLE EYES

  TWO hours later, Jim Hobart knocked at the door of the office of A.J. Martin. Secret Agent X opened the door and admitted the redheaded detective.

  “What luck, Hobart?” X demanded eagerly.

  “Plenty!” Hobart rubbed his hands gleefully. “We caught a man who had thrown a brick through Benson’s window. He turned out to be Benson’s cook, so that clears up who informed the criminals that Benson had made an appointment with Burks. The man was yellow. He squealed almost as soon as we nabbed him. A man by the name of the Dope paid the cook a hundred dollars for listening at Benson’s door. If Benson started to tell anything about the kidnaping, the cook was supposed to go outside and throw a brick through the window. Despite that, the cook didn’t seem to know anything.”

  “Have you heard that Benson is dead?” asked X.

  Hobart no
dded gravely. “Burks failed again—”

  “Not Burks,” X contradicted softly. There was a sad, far-off look in his eyes. It was he who had failed, not Burks.

  Hobart shook his head in despair. “How could anything have gotten to Benson? It was just impossible.”

  X sighed. “It was something that no one could see. If I just knew the weapon used there might be some chance of building up some sort of defense against this thing, because I do know the underlying principle of the murder method.”

  Hobart started. “Gosh! You do? Would it be asking too much to tell me how it’s done?”

  “It’s done by anaphylaxis,” X replied.

  “Who?”

  “Anaphylaxis, resulting in a lethal shock to the sensitized human system. An anaphylactic shock depends on sensitizing the blood to some particular protein. Almost any protein would do the trick—even the white of an egg. You see, the protein, ordinarily perfectly harmless, is introduced into the blood stream. After a suitable period, another injection may be used. The result is that an ordinarily harmless protein becomes deadly poison to the person so sensitized. Anaphylactic shock sometimes kills quicker than a jolt from the electric chair. Convulsions are characteristic. But, I’m stuck right there. Where’s the weapon that makes that final, fatal injection?”

  “How about a poison dart?” Hobart suggested.

  X shook his head. “You could see that. I happen to know that Benson was in a locked closet when he died. If there was no one in the closet, and there was no one that Burks could see, what was the weapon that reached Benson? I don’t know the next move. Dr. Bently Simon is mixed up in it somewhere. But Simon seems to have vanished.”

  “Maybe he was kidnaped tonight like Sangar.”

  “Sangar? Ned Sangar?”

  “Yes, hadn’t you heard? Sangar was kidnaped at about the same time death came to Benson.”

  Ned Sangar. X was thinking of Sangar’s meek, inoffensive partner, David Coombs, and of the tough-looking character that drove Coombs’ car.

  “Tell you what you do, Hobart. You see if you can get a line on David Coombs and also Coombs’ chauffeur. I’ll try to find Dr. Simon somewhere. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  As soon as Hobart was dismissed, X opened a secret compartment in a desk of A.J. Martin and revealed a compact radio transceiver. He called the station operating out of Harvey Bates’ secret office, then switched on the receiver.

  Harvey Bates had reported regularly, the radio informed X, up to seven-thirty that evening. Bates, disguised as the criminal Jeefers, had received instructions to kidnap Ned Sangar from the Stephani Café, But since seven-thirty, Bates had made no report.

  Agent X closed the radio slowly. His face had suddenly grown old with worry.

  FOR a long time after, prickling sensations informed him that he was regaining his senses, Harvey Bates lay perfectly still with his eyes closed. He could not move his arms and legs. He wondered dully if he were back in that mausoleum crypt where he had waked up once before. The odor about his present place of confinement indicated that he was, for there was all about the place the smell of damp and decay.

  Slowly, he raised his eyelids, expecting to meet the darkness of the grave. Instead, he was completely dazzled by electric light. A man bent over him. Of the man’s face, only two brilliant, burning eyes, were visible. The rest of his face was covered by a gauze mask.

  “You see where your very clever impersonation has brought you, Mr. X?” asked the man with the piercing eyes.

  “Wrong number,” Bates chopped.

  Another man, also dressed in white and masked to the eyes, came to the table on which Bates was bound. “You mean to deny that you’re Secret Agent X?” he said angrily.

  Bates nodded. His head pained sharply with every movement “My intention.”

  One of the men held a mirror over Bates’ face. Bates stared at his own reflection. All make-up had been removed from his face. “That’s me, all right,” he admitted carelessly.

  “And you still deny you are Secret Agent X?”

  “Positively. Been called lots of things, but not that. Who is this Secret Agent?”

  “You realize,” said one of the masked men, “that we could torture you into admitting that you were Agent X.”

  “Maybe. What good would that do?”

  The man with the piercing eyes put a hand on his companion’s shoulder. “Never mind. If he is Agent X, I don’t think you’d ever get him to admit it. But there’s some one who can identify him, if he is X. You give him a shot and keep him locked up. I’11 be back in a couple of hours. Then we’ll know.” And he left the room.

  The other man in white placidly filled a hypodermic needle from an opaque glass flask. Then he bent over Bates and bared Bates’ arm. “The foundation of the invisible death,” he whispered, and drove the needle into Bates’ flesh….

  That morning, as Betty Dale opened the door of the Herald building some one caught her by the arm. She turned quickly to face the lean, bearded man that so closely resembled Dr. Bently Simon. Perhaps this was Simon. Or then again, she thought, it might be Secret Agent X. She studied the dark eyes a moment before saying: “Good morning, Dr. Simon.”

  “Good morning, Miss Dale,” replied the man coldly.

  Still, uncertainty gave Betty’s heart a trip-hammer tempo. She watched the man’s hands hopefully and saw the forefingers cross to form the letter “X.”

  “Quickly!” the man whispered as he took her arm. “I am in deadly danger and only you can save me.” He led Betty to a car that was parked at the curb, helped her in the front seat, then went around and slid under the wheel.

  “Oh, do tell me what’s happened? Didn’t I do all right last night at the Stephani Café? Is it anything that I’ve done? Is it—”

  “No,” the man interrupted. “You’re a dear. I don’t know what I’d do without you. But the task you must do now may seem more alarming than the kidnaping of Sangar was last night. Now please, no more questions until we reach our destination.” And the car rolled steadily onward, gaining speed as it drew out of traffic.

  Betty remained silent until the walls of Long View estate came in sight. “Is—is it something at Mr. Hyde’s house?”

  “No,” replied her companion.

  And Betty was allowed to wonder until the car turned into the gate of the cemetery and raced along the curving driveway to stop in front of the mausoleum.

  “What are you going to do here?” she demanded.

  THE lips of the bearded man twisted into a smile, “I told you this might be alarming. But there’s nothing dangerous to it. You will do what I ask you, won’t you?”

  “Certainly, but—”

  “Then we haven’t a moment to lose.” He sprang from the car, helped her out, and unlocked the door of the mausoleum. Then he hurried the bewildered girl through the front of the building and into the second section. He led her directly to the crypt at the center of the rear wall, hastily removed the bolts that held the bronze seal in place, and opened the crypt.

  “Why, it’s empty!” she gasped.

  He nodded. “Get in.”

  “But I don’t understand.”

  He smiled. “Here I’ll help you. Don’t you trust me, Betty?”

  “Of course, but—”

  The bearded man seized her in his arms and lifted her into the crypt. He placed a finger on his lips. “Just keep perfectly quiet, Betty. And don’t be afraid.”

  Betty sent a shuddering glance about her. Her face loomed whitely against the blackness of the tomb. She bit her lips. “I’ll t-try—”

  The heavy bronze panel clanged shut. The bearded man replaced the bolts. He left the mausoleum, locked the door, and regained his car. Then he drove rapidly the distance of a quarter of a mile, and stopped in front of a stone house—the house of Dr. Bently Simon….

  At almost the same time that Dr. Simon left the cemetery, Secret Agent X was pushing his super-charged car at break-neck speed along the highway th
at led to Long View. From the concealed short wave radio came the cheerful voice of Jim Hobart: “No trace of David Coombs. David Coombs missing since yesterday. David Coombs missing. All leads exhausted. Coombs missing. Standing by.”

  X touched a switch on the dash, converting the receiver into a transmitter. “No further orders, Hobart. Signing off,” X spoke into the microphone, using the voice that was associated with his alias of A.J. Martin.

  Coombs missing. Simons missing. Would he find Marcus Hyde at home, he wondered as he swerved through the gate of the Hyde estate.

  X, previous to leaving the office he leased in the name of Martin, had adopted the disguise of Detective Sergeant Keegan. The replica of a detective-sergeant’s badge that he wore would gain him admission anywhere. Also, the detective disguise furnished a simple motive for the questions he intended to ask Hyde.

  At the door of the Hyde house, X brushed by a butler who would have denied him entrance. He dashed across the hall and entered the living room. Marcus Hyde and his surly friend, Herman Tetwilder, were enjoying the sun that was streaming through the wide windows.

  X flashed his badge. “Keegan’s the name.”

  Hyde and Tetwilder got out of their chairs. Hyde was looking much stronger than when X last saw him. Tetwilder gouged angrily at the side of his nose. His gray mustache bristled. “The devil, sir! And who do you intend to arrest?”

  X smiled. “Calm yourselves. I simply want to ask Mr. Hyde a few questions. You feel strong enough for a go at it, Mr. Hyde?”

  “Why, yes, of course,” replied Hyde in his weak, kindly voice. “But dear me, tell us what’s the matter.”

  “Sit down please. And I’ll have a chair myself.” X pulled up a fireside chair and dropped into it. For a few seconds, he stared straight into Hyde’s faded, vacant eyes. Then he spoke slowly as though to a child: “You must tell me the truth, Mr. Hyde.”

  “That’s an insult to begin with!” Tetwilder flared.

  “Keep out of this, Tetwilder,” X roared harshly. “Mr. Hyde,” he continued gently, “you have made frequent trips to the cemetery next door at night, haven’t you?”