It was hardly more than a caress, but it brought a scream of agony from Dot Dejong. Her scream was echoed by a sharp cry of terror from Madame Susu. All were on their feet now—all but Dot Dejong. With an agonized sob, the girl threw herself across the table. Her body writhed, muscles twitched, then suddenly were still and stony.
“Look!” shrieked Vina Trumaine. “The hand!”
But the yellow, emaciated hand had been swallowed in the darkness from whence it had come.
Doors of the séance chamber were thrown open. Brilliant light from the outer hall flooded the room. Three of Madame Susu’s Japanese servants stood in the door. Each held a blue-steel automatic.
“No one move,” came the order from the moon-faced Japanese. “Our register has revealed the name of Secret Agent X, he who is wanted by the police.”
The eyes of the Japanese fell upon the figure of Dot Dejong, and seemed to point out to the others what they had failed to see before. On Dot Dejong’s left shoulder was an ugly wound. It was like a brand except that it was in the form of a hand—a perfect impression of the emaciated hand that had come clutching out of the darkness.
Agent X was both horrified and amazed. Here, under his very eyes murder had been executed in its most horrible form. For there was no denying that Dot Dejong was dead. And on top of that, some one had found the Agent’s name signed in the register. How was it possible? X had been most careful to sign the fictitious name of Dale Emboyd. Had some one, then, penetrated his disguise? His fingers went to his face, exploring the features he had so carefully modeled. His makeup was intact.
Everyone in the room was excited and horrified. The announcement that Agent X was in the house had provoked genuine fear, for the Agent’s methods of crime investigation frequently led him outside the boundary of the law. And many, including the police, suspected him of criminal motives…. A beautiful woman had been murdered. Doubtless, in the minds of all present, the name of Secret Agent X was linked with the tragedy.
DONALD LOWERY slumped in his chair beside the body of Dot Dejong. There was grief on his kindly face, but his lips muttered mechanically: “I am ruined. I am ruined.”
X thrust his hands into his pockets, feeling the store of weapons of defense that constant danger obliged him to carry. His fingers encountered the crumpled ball of paper he had taken from Paul Vost. Cautiously, while all eyes were on the armed servants in the doorway, X unrolled the paper and looked at it. A small snapshot was pasted to the paper—the head and shoulders of a man. Beneath was written:
“Meet this man at the corner of 59th and Amsterdam, and bring to the Fury’s office.”
Instantly, X recognized the man in the photo. It was Mark Brady, who stood high on the list of the nation’s public enemies. There was no longer any doubt in the Agent’s mind that Paul Vost was in the service of the Fury. He had come here tonight for the purpose of getting instructions from some one higher up in a powerful criminal organization. But what of Madame Susu? X glanced around the room to find that the medium had vanished.
At that moment, one of the Japanese servants gave place to a large, powerfully built man with a ruddy face. The Agent’s pulse jumped. That man was Inspector John Burks of the homicide office, relentless hunter of Secret Agent X. Behind Burks were others associated with the police department. They filled the only visible exit from the room, and X knew that Burks would waste no time examining all present, searching for evidence of makeup on their faces. How could Madame Susu be associated with the Fury and still call in the police?
Suddenly, X hit upon a clever plan that combined not only a chance to escape but also a chance to get within striking distance of the Fury. If he could manage an impersonation of Public Enemy Mark Brady, a man evidently essential to the Fury’s plans, he would probably be protected from the police by the criminals themselves. But such an impersonation required several minutes alone.
Only the disappearance of Madame Susu gave him hope. Somewhere in the room, was a secret door, one that had facilitated the appearance of the madame’s “spirits.” Could he find it before the keen eyes of Inspector Burks penetrated his disguise?
Burks strode into the room, stopped within a few feet of the body of Dot Dejong. For a moment he stared, speechless with horror at the scarlet brand against the white flesh. Then he extended his large, capable hand and pressed a finger to the girl’s wrist. He turned quickly, squinting at the Japanese.
“This is murder,” he said through clenched teeth, “and the most damnable thing I’ve ever seen. I thought you said Secret Agent X was here? Why didn’t you say something about murder? And what kind of a place is this, anyway?”
The Japanese bowed low. “This is the meeting chamber of those who devote time and mental effort to communication with the spirits of the departed. Madame Susu rents this house. These are her guests. When I called you, I had no idea that there had been murder. Only I knew that Secret Agent X was among those present, for I have seen his name upon the register.”
BURKS grunted. “It all sounds phony. But by the Lord Harry, the killer that would kill like that—” The Inspector’s eyes roved challengingly about the chamber. “Anyone left this room?”
“No,” declared Wilbur Kopsak.
“Madame Susu has disappeared,” ventured Vina Trumaine.
“She has, has she?” Burks shot a glance at Vina Trumaine. “Well, more of that later. The first thing to do is to find Agent X. I don’t say he’d pull off a brutal killing like this, but if he’s here he’ll know something about this.” And there Burks was mistaken. The Agent was quite as baffled as the inspector.
“Maybe,” Alan Moss suggested, “Madame Susu is your Mr. X.”
Burks snorted. “He’s nothing, if not a man. That guy simply isn’t a female impersonator.”
Burks stepped over to Donald Lowery. “Mr. Lowery, I believe. I’ve seen your picture in the radio magazines. You’ve no objections to some rather rigorous examination of your face?”
“No,” replied the radio magnate flatly. “But you’re wasting your time.”
While Burks was devoting his attention to Lowery, looking closely at his face, pinching his skin gently in an effort to prove that it was flesh and blood instead of makeup, Agent X was busily at work. He occupied the end of the room near the chair where Madame Susu had sat. His keen eyes had detected fine, hairlike wires leading from the bottom of the gilt stool to the floor. Closer investigation revealed a number of electrical buttons bulging the carpet near the foot of the stool.
The Agent watched his opportunity. As Burks moved on to examine Kopsak, X thrust out his foot and stepped upon the first bulge in the carpet. Almost at once, thin, tinkling music filled the air and sent Burks’ suspicious glance darting about the room.
“What’s that?” demanded the inspector. “Who did that?”
No one answered. Doris Foster crept closer to Paul Vost and looked frightened.
“The spirits!” whispered Dr. Arden.
Burks wheeled on the doctor. “Yeah?”
Agent X stepped on the button concealed by the carpet and checked the “spirit music.” No use experimenting in this trial-and-error fashion. His next attempt might produce something that definitely would attract attention to himself. He stepped over to the oak-paneled wall behind the medium’s stool. A little to the right, he remembered, the “ghost” that had prophesied the coming of the Fury had appeared. The Agent’s sensitive fingers hurried along the smooth-grained wood and suddenly encountered something that pricked like a pin.
“You!” Burks’ harsh voice. “What are you up to?”
X turned to see the inspector’s eyes hard upon him. The Agent shook his head. “Not a thing,” he replied timidly. “Just looking around.”
Burks grunted, continued with his examination of Wilbur Kopsak. Fortunately, Kopsak’s humor was not the most amiable. He was giving the inspector considerable trouble and attracting the attention of all within the room. X’s fingers strayed back to the tiny pin point that
jutted from the wall. He was certain that it was a marker of some sort so that a hidden button could be found in the dark. His fingers pressed the wall surface adjacent to the pin, encountered what appeared to be a knot in the wood. Instantly, a narrow section of the panel swung outwards. Without a moment’s hesitation, X slipped through the opening.
CHAPTER II
House of the Dead
A BOARD beneath the Agent’s feet snapped. Instantly, the sliding panel behind him closed. He found himself in total darkness. He slipped his fountain pen flashlight from his pocket and sent its needle of light searching the room. It was small and unfurnished. A wire framework covered with luminous painted cloth and manipulated by wires appeared to be one of the madame’s “spirits.” Beyond it was a door.
X crossed to the door, opened it and looked out into a narrow hall. He closed the door. The secret room, where he now was, offered the best possible place for a change of makeup.
In the next few minutes, the Agent’s fingers flew. His pocket makeup kit spread in front of him with its folding mirror to guide him, he removed a portion of the plastic substance that constituted the base of his disguise as Dale Emboyd.
The impersonation he was about to attempt was an exceedingly difficult one. While the features of Mark Brady were not difficult to imitate, the Agent had only the tiny snapshot to use as a model. X had seen the real Brady only once in his life and that several years before he had become notorious as a public enemy.
With plastic material, he built up Brady’s thick, heavy features over his own, added special pigments to simulate the public enemy’s complexion as closely as he could remember it. Having never heard Brady’s voice his art as a ventriloquist and imitator would be of little use to him. He only hoped that those he would be called upon to fool knew Brady no better than he did.
As he was putting the finishing touches to his makeup, some sixth sense told him of unseen eyes watching. He turned quickly and strode to the door. He pulled the door open with one hand and at the same time drew his gas pistol.
The hall without was empty but there lingered in the air a faint, exotic perfume. X hurried back to his makeup kit, gave himself a critical once-over in the mirror, snapped the kit shut, and returned it to his pocket. It was not without a moment’s thought that he stepped into the hall. Police had orders to shoot Mark Brady on sight, and there were police only a few feet away in the séance room. But there were others—servants of the Fury. Agent X was willing to trust his life to the Fury in an effort to hunt down the criminal.
X tiptoed along the hall, one hand in his pocket on his gas gun, ready for instant use. Even if he should fall in with the Fury’s men, as he hoped to do, there was the danger that some of them had looked through the keyhole and seen him changing his disguise.
At the end of the hall, he turned to the left. Some one moved directly in front of him. The Agent whipped out his flashlight and turned it on. At the same time, a flashlight beam from the man in front of him struck X in the eyes. For a moment he was blinded. Then he saw that the man he faced was short and thick-set. He noticed, too, that a golden ornament, like a head of a hideous woman flashed on the watch chain across the man’s chest.
“Brady!” came a husky exclamation from the stocky man. “What are you doin’ here?”
“Turn out that light!” X said harshly in what he hoped was Brady’s voice. “Turn it out before I plug you.”
THE SHORT man turned out his flashlight. “What are you doin’ here?” he repeated.
“A guy by the name of Vost said there was a job for me here,” X replied. “But why all the cops? If this is a trap, I’ll break that Vost guy’s neck.”
“No—no,” said the short man hastily. “I got no love for meetin’ cops myself. You come with me. I’ll show you a way out.”
“Okeh,” X grunted. “But I’m right behind you. First time I even so much as smell a cop, I’ll let you have it.”
The short man uttered a hushed, unpleasant laugh, turned, and opened a door. Beyond were steps leading downward. “In the basement,” he explained, “there’s a passage leading out to the barn. The guy who built this place didn’t like to get his feet wet. And it’s a damn’ nice way to fox the cops.”
In the basement, they crossed the furnace room and entered what might have once been a wine cellar. A small door at the end opened on a passage. The entire building, X saw, was admirably constructed for Madame Susu’s purposes, with this passage that could be used for a quick getaway in case of a police raid.
The passage ended in a garage. There, two men and a large sedan waited. The short man gestured toward X. “Look what I bagged. Will the chief be tickled, huh?”
“Brady!” gasped one of the men and instantly drew an automatic.
“What’s the idea?” demanded X, eyeing the trio suspiciously.
“The idea is,” said the man with the gun, “that we want no slip-ups. We want to be friends, but there’s an order out to deliver you to the chief’s office. We take no chances of gettin’ in bad with the chief. You get in that car and act nice, and we’ll treat you right.”
X shrugged, opened the door of the sedan. Foot on the running board, he paused. In one corner of the back seat was a human figure—or was it human? A loose, black garment covered it from head to foot and hung like a sack from its bony frame.
The short man behind X chuckled. “Get in. That can’t hurt you. Not now, anyway.”
X got into the car. The short man shoved in behind him. The black-shrouded figure remained stiff and motionless. Its cold clamminess penetrated the Agent’s clothing and sent a chill coursing along his spine. The thing in black was a corpse, apparently. The corpse of a man seemingly wasted away by a long siege of fever. X tried to steal a glance beneath the voluminous black hood that covered the head of the thing, but the shadows of the shroud were too deep.
The short man beside X pulled heavy shutters across the windows of the car. A blind prevented X from seeing the two men who entered the compartment in front of him.
X uttered a short, strained laugh. “This reminds me of the time Mike Gagan’s boys took me for a one-way ride. Only something went wrong. I drove Mike’s car back alone.”
“Sure,” said the short man. “You’re great stuff. That’s why the chief wants to take you in. But you won’t be the head man. Get that into your head. When he says you lay off the booze, you’d better lay off the booze.”
X grunted. “Who is this big shot?”
“Ask somebody who knows, and you’ll get the same answer you get from me—who don’t know.”
THE CAR bounced out of the garage and took a direction unknown. They drove on in silence for nearly an hour before the car came once again to a stop. The door opened and X found himself in another garage the doors of which had been closed behind the car so that it was impossible for him to know his location. The short man took his arm, marched him up three steps and through a door. X found himself in a room, the walls and ceiling of which were painted white. In the center of the room was a canvas-topped table on which were rubber gloves, instruments and syringes. A glass-fronted cabinet near the table was filled with bottles of hair-cleaning fluid and skin bleach. Agent X knew that he was in an undertaker’s establishment.
The short man nudged X with his gun. “Go on into the next room. You aren’t ready for this room yet.”
The room adjoining the embalming room was a small office. There at a desk a man leaned back in a swivel chair while the heels of his shoes scratched the desk top. A black derby was cocked over his face.
“Mitch,” called the short man, “come to, can’tcha. Here’s the guy we’ve been looking for.”
The man pushed back his derby, revealing small, black eyes and a hooked nose. Surely this was not the Fury. This man was Mitch Beckridge, a small-time crook and tough from the lower East Side. Beckridge, the Agent knew, had a reputation for brains but was rather short on courage.
Beckridge looked X up and down carefully. Then he he
ld out his hand. “Never expected to shake the hand of a number one public enemy,” he said nasally. “How yah goin’?”
X thrust out the heavy jaw that was so essential to the part he was playing. “Get this: I gotta know what this is all about. What’s the idea of dragging me into a dead joint like this? I got a right to know, see? I’m goin’ to know if I have to hammer down the ears of every man in this dump.”
“You’re tough,” Beckridge said coldly. “But you get this: you’re about the size of a pimple on an ant compared with the guy we’re workin’ for. Now here’s our proposition. You kick in with us and it’s your chance to get in on the ground floor of the biggest racket anybody’s brains ever worked out. It’s a safe racket, ’cause we don’t do the work ourselves. The big chief thinks up the stunts. All we got to do is direct the lads who do the dirty work, and keep our traps shut.”
“Who’s this big brain?” demanded X. He helped himself from a package of cigarettes on the desk.
Beckridge squinted his tiny eyes. “You ever hear of the Fury?”
X nodded. “Who hasn’t? What’s the racket he’s in?”
“That,” chimed the short man, “is his business. We don’t ask questions.”
“One thing,” declared Beckridge, “you’re supposed to direct a hoist job at the Bastion estate. You know Rex Bastion? He’s lousy with money.”
X KNEW Rex Bastion, had met him frequently at his club. He knew that Bastion’s wealth was largely a myth, knew that his club dues were in arrears. Rex Bastion was an inventor and impractical dreamer. Surely Bastion was too small game for the famous Fury. What was the criminal up to? It worried X to be groping in the dark.
What had the archfiend expected to gain by the killing of defenseless Dot Dejong? What did he expect to gain by robbing a man who was all but a pauper? He could not even hazard a guess. Some crime of tremendous scope was forming in the brain of the Fury. So large a crime, in fact, that he concealed his plans even from his henchmen.
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 7 Page 13