The Fury threw back the folds of his rain coat and tilted up the muzzle of a machine gun he had concealed beneath. “Just in case you try some heroics, Lowery,” he warned. “You, Madame Susu, have escaped me this time. But there will come a day when you won’t be so fortunate. Lowery, this is your last warning. Unless you pay me what I have demanded I shall blot out everything in radio between the hours of eight and nine tonight. The Uthskin program shall not be broadcast unless you pay. When I speak again, it shall be with the voice of silence. Do you understand?”
The Fury backed slowly down the hall, uttering a peculiar, throaty signal as he did so. From the door at the end of the hall, another of the gaunt slaves appeared. The Fury pointed mutely at the slave’s fallen companion, still unconscious because of the Agent’s timely shot.
The second slave advanced boldly, lifted his fellow upon his shoulders, and moved back to join the Fury. Without another word, the Fury left the house. In another moment, X heard the roar of the criminal’s car as he drove away.
And there was nothing that X could have done under the circumstances. He dared not risk Madame Susu and Kopsak by trying to rush the Fury as he might have done, even in spite of the menace of the criminal’s machine gun.
In the deathly game they were playing, the Fury had won every hand. But X was making slow gains. At least he knew the Fury was out to tap the flow of millions that entered the coffers of the radio-network moguls. He was fighting a losing fight, to be sure, but he no longer fought in darkness.
CHAPTER IX
Radio Hi-Jackers
AS soon as Kopsak had left, and Hobart’s men had come for Madame Susu, X went to the satchel he had carried as Dr. Hykeman, and took out a compact, five-meter radio transceiver. He fixed the telescoping tube aerial in the top of the metal cabinet and immediately called the radio station which operated out of Harvey Bates’s headquarters.
When he heard the answering call of the man on duty, he said: “Contact Bates at Bastion estate. Have him report at G.H.Q. at once. He is to report at the studio of Continental Broadcasters at six o’clock, there to await orders of Donald J. Lowery.”
A like message, sent in the name of A.J. Martin, went out to Jim Hobart at the detective agency. Altogether, there would be twenty reliable men in the radio studio, surely enough to protect it against the Fury’s attack.
X went to Lowery’s bedroom, changed into one of Lowery’s suits, which fitted perfectly, and obtained the radio magnate’s keys. Then he left the house and locked the door behind him.
At six o’clock, he met Bates at the doors of the broadcasting building. He took Bates up to the tenth floor office of Lowery and wrote passes for Bates’s and Hobart’s men that would admit them to any part of the building. His forgery of Lowery’s signature was perfect.
Two hours dragged slowly by. Nothing alarming occurred within the studio. A little before eight, Kopsak insisted upon accompanying X to the small listening booth off Studio D where the Uth-skin show was to get under way. The booth was separated from the studio stage by a glass partition. Sound emanated from the studio through a loudspeaker in the wall.
Lowery’s program staff had spared nothing to give the show variety. A symphony orchestra shared honors with a Harlem band. There was a popular comedian and a news commentator. A romantic tenor and a blues singer—imposing names and the best of talent.
There came the warning signal for silence. The orchestra director raised his baton. Continental’s velvet-voiced announcer stepped to the microphone. Ten seconds after eight, the opening fanfare sounded. The announcer plugged the product and introduced the artists.
“Guess I didn’t need the insurance policy after all,” Kospak whispered. “The show is on the air and nothing has happened.” Kopsak looked at X and smiled pridefully. “And it’s a good show. I’d like to give a party for the cast on the roof garden afterwards.”
X said nothing. The Fury had never given the slightest indication that he was a person who obtained what he wanted by sheer bluff. Yet it certainly seemed that this time the Fury had uttered threats he could not back up.
A tap on the door of the booth and X saw Harvey Bates through the glass. He got up and opened the door. “Anything wrong?” X asked.
Bates shook his head. “Not a thing. Perfect order, sir.”
Kopsak rubbed his hands gleefully. “I knew it all the time. The Fury is a mere braggart.”
“He was not bluffing the night he killed Dot Dejong,” X reminded him.
“Come now, Lowery,” Kopsak urged, “don’t be a kill-joy. Sit down, won’t you? I’m enjoying this immensely.”
X sat down, but relaxation was impossible. He looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes had gone by. But this was an hour show and much could happen before it was over.
Two minutes later, the program director entered the booth without knocking. “I’m going to stop the show,” he told them flatly.
KOPSAK sprang to his feet. He opened his mouth, couldn’t say anything for a moment. “What the devil do you mean—stop the show? Why I’d just like to see you do it. Over my dead body you’ll stop the show!”
The program director shrugged. “Just as you like. The artists may be amusing themselves and you are evidently enjoying it. But it’s rather expensive entertainment for a handful of people.”
“Do you mean it’s not going on the air?” X demanded.
“That I can’t say,” the man replied. “I only know that no radios are picking up this or any other programs. We’ve received more calls than we can answer in the past five minutes from people wondering what has happened to the Uthskin program. Their radios are completely dead. As near as I can figure out, radio has been blotted out of the ether. It just doesn’t exist. Completely strangled!”
X sprang through the door of the booth in spite of the fact that Kopsak clung to his coat tails. He ran the length of the hall and took an elevator to Lowery’s office. He picked up the phone and called the office of Commissioner Foster.
“Foster,” X began sharply as soon as the commissioner’s secretary had turned over the phone to the commissioner, “this is the man who wrote on your blotter the other day. Do you understand?”
“Yes, of course. Any news?” asked Foster excitedly, thinking, of course, that X had some information concerning Doris Foster.
“Radio reception has been wiped out. The work of the Fury. What is the condition of the police radio system?”
“Oh,” Foster murmured his disappointment. Then: “Nothing doing on the police bands either. No radio communication anywhere. There has been one airplane crash already because the signals don’t seem to get through. Because of the crippled police radio, crime seems to be on the rampage.”
But while Foster talked, X noted a persistent tapping on the line, as though the commissioner was rapping the transmitter with a pencil. In another moment he understood. Foster was tapping out Morse code.
X ceased hearing Foster’s words. He listened only to the tapped-out message and rapidly decoded it: “X please come to the office at once. Help.”
Obviously Foster feared to speak openly over the phone because of the danger of tapped wires. Had the Fury heard his appeal, Doris Foster’s life would not be worth a penny. It was a desperate, pitiful attempt to contact the only man Foster believed capable of helping him. Or was it a trap? Perhaps the Fury stood beside Foster and tapped out the message in order to lure X into some hidden snare.
X would have to take that chance. He had never heard a cry for help and failed to heed.
BETTY DALE was enjoying one of her rare evenings of relaxation, driving her small roadster up Pelham way. She had passed through the park, was driving along the east side of the country club when the radio in her car was suddenly silenced.
The girl reporter had not been paying much attention to the program, for her mind was on Agent X, wondering where he was, what horrible danger he now faced. But the sudden silence of the radio brought her out of her dreams. The dial of the instr
ument was still lighted. Perhaps a tube had burned out. She switched off the instrument, thought nothing more about it until, looking due east across the Sound she saw a faint, purplish light flickering up against the sky. It was as if Northern lights had suddenly decided to wear only lavender and dance on the wrong horizon.
As she gained the top of a small acclivity along the shore road she noticed that the weird light seemed to come from Ghost Island, a small bit of land above Middle Reef. She had visited the island several times. It wasn’t a particularly inviting spot. Two old sailors were ending their days there that their ears might never be far from the music of the sea. There, too, was an old deserted mansion that some millionaire who was medieval minded had built many years ago. The place was a veritable castle, part of which was crumbling into ruins. But the central tower of the old place was still standing, a hoary guardian over the bones of some of New York’s early blue bloods who slept in the tiny private burial lot.
Betty had not the faintest notion what that purple light might be, and that was reason enough for her to investigate it. There might be, she thought, a very interesting newspaper story back of it all. She decided to charter a launch and go out to Ghost Island….
ACROSS the commissioner’s desk, Agent X, once again the redheaded Neihart, faced Foster. The commissioner seemed to have aged years in hours. His eyes were dull lamps of discouragement.
“I have called you as a last resort, Agent—er, Mr. Neihart. I dare not send my men upon the mission I hope you will undertake.
“You know the reason.” Foster fumbled in the drawer of his desk and produced a sheet of paper. “This should have been burned as soon as I received it.” He passed the paper to Agent X.
Upon the paper was lettered in pencil:
My headquarters is on Ghost Island. Needless to say, it is not without good reason that I tell you this. I suggest that patrol boats take up the work of protecting me from curiosity seekers who might be attracted by certain phenomena which will occur. Of course, police must keep clear of the island or you will never see your niece again.
I have a network of high-voltage lines about the place, insuring certain death to anyone who makes an effort to investigate my sanctuary.
With a wish for the continued health of your niece, I am your eternal tormentor.
The Fury.
Agent X returned the paper to Foster. The commissioner eyed him eagerly. “You will do something?”
“My best,” replied X simply. And without another word he left the office and returned to his car.
X drove furiously back to the broadcast studio, entered by means of one of his own passes, and hurried to find Bates. He beckoned the big man into one of the offices.
“Bates, we must get to a plane at once. We’re flying out over the Sound tonight.”
“You, sir!” Bates was open-mouthed with surprise at hearing his chief’s voice coming from the lips of Neihart.
“We have a line on the Fury,” X explained. “His headquarters are on Ghost Island. He has the island protected, but I intend to make a parachute landing. You’ll fly the plane back and stand by for radio orders.”
“But the radios are silenced,” Bates objected.
“Not if I can get my hands on the Fury. I’m not coming back tonight without Doris Foster and the Fury. Come, let’s get started.” Together they left the studio to drive to the Agent’s own airport.
BETTY DALE had visited Ghost Island before, but never at night. As the little launch which she had hired pushed through waters that were deceivingly placid, she saw Ghost Island in an entirely different aspect. Its rocky shore was fringed by wisps of rising mist from whence the island got its name. It was terrifyingly silent and the lights of a yacht steaming up the Sound seemed like things remote from the world of ghosts she was about to enter.
“Seems to me, miss,” said the boat owner from his position at the little wheel, “that you got very strange tastes, though it’s none of my affair, to go rambling round that place in the dark. I, for one, don’t like the looks of that light. It’s a tear-purple, that light is, a mourning sort of light. You don’t hire me to set foot on that island tonight.”
“You’ll have to set foot on it to beach the boat,” Betty told him. “And if you’re afraid to come with me, I’ll go alone.”
The man shook his head. “It ain’t that I’m afraid. Just a little nervous. Stomach is upset. Been eatin’ too many oysters.”
Betty could have laughed at his cowardice had it not been that she did not feel particularly courageous herself. She found it hard to face the dark of the wood that stood back from the narrow strip of beach. For a moment she hesitated, turned her head and said: “You—you’ll wait for me, won’t you?”
“Sure,” said the boatman. “But I think you’re plumb crazy, and don’t forget I warned you.”
Betty laughed, a mere pygmy of a sound mocking a giant of silence. She picked her way among rocks, found a rough pathway leading directly into the woods. Sharp stones underfoot were not meant for high-heeled pumps. Brambles caught at her skirt, seemingly to implore her to go no farther. But Betty had been endowed with courage. She plunged on through the woods.
At last her flashlight shone upon the gleaming cross-wires of a newly erected fence that stretched some twelve feet above the ground. Beyond, the flickering, purple light danced among the tree tops before it beamed upward to paint the sky.
Betty turned to the left and followed the fence closely until she came to a gate. The gate was open. She stepped through, knowing that she was not far from the ancient mansion. She had gone but fifty feet through the woods enclosed by the fence when somewhere in the distance a gong sounded once. Betty stopped, listened breathlessly to the dying of the bell note. She persuaded her legs to take her a little farther. Looking up through the trees, she saw the tall tower of the house. It was capped with a dome of glass or metal, and from the dome the purple light eddied upwards.
Suddenly, a cone of brilliant, blinding light cleaved the darkness. It was like a sword thrust to Betty. She turned sharply to the right and broke into a run, only to come to a quick stop. Her lips parted. She screamed. Directly in front of her, the darting beam of the searchlight flashed upon a hideous, yellow face with eyes so deeply sunken they seemed like holes burned in the brain beyond them.
Betty turned again, ran back through tearing brambles. Close behind her, bare feet pad-padded along in tireless strides. Something sure of its prey was pursuing her, wearing her down. And always that piercing searchlight from the tower pointing its accusing finger upon the frightened girl.
Ahead of her was the fence. She saw the gate, now closed. But perhaps it was not locked. She prayed that it wasn’t locked.
Something sprang from the brush beneath her feet, sending her heart up into her mouth. Only a rabbit, probably little less frightened than she was. It bounded straight ahead of her as though leading her on. She saw the cottontail gain the fence, turn quickly to run down beside it.
Then there was a brilliant, blue-white fire leaping from the fence. A sputtering noise. The stench of burned hair hanging heavy in the air. Betty stopped, stared in terror at what she saw. The rabbit was dead, burned, electrocuted. It had run near the fence—the fence then was charged. There was no way out. And behind her—
She dared not think of the mummy-faced thing that pursued her. Giving the fence a wide berth, she ran on. She was breathing heavily. Weights seemed tied to her feet. A wire jacket seemed around her breast, a cage of steel against which her heart fluttered like a frightened bird.
The white light followed. The yellow slaves followed. And the distance to doom shortened.
She fell over something, picked herself up, her fingers digging into the mossy surface of a gravestone. Her breath came now only in sobs. She ventured a look over her shoulder. The gaunt forms, like the dead unearthed, came striding closer.
Suddenly, a tall tombstone begot arms. Another emaciated, kill-crazy being appeared from behind the graves
tone. There was no time to turn. She struck out with a small, balled fist at the noxious face. A hand caught her wrist. She screamed. Other long arms lashed about her—bony arms, that looked as fragile as glass, yet had the strength of the hawser of an ocean liner. Hot, foul breath met her cheeks. She was thrown to the earth.
Then rope replaced those hideous arms, lashed round and round her like the coils of a boa. Her body was strained back against the tombstone. The bonds grew tighter and tighter until she no longer had the breath to scream, nor the will to struggle.
Then one by one, the thin, nightmare people vanished. The brilliant light went out. She was alone with the Silent Ones—those rotting old bones that lay buried in the earth beneath her.
CHAPTER X
Terror Island
IN the high, domed chamber on Ghost Island, the Fury watched, through eye slots in his white mask, the mounting purple light from the Bastion Ray tube. The tube centered a complicated hookup of electrical apparatus. Instruments required constant watching. The Fury paced from one meter to another, made adjustments in voltage and resistance.
An auto-call horn blared above the whir of generators and the thunderous crackle of spark gaps. The Fury shrugged disgustedly and crossed to the door. On opening the door, one of the yellow-skinned, emaciated slaves put in his appearance. For a moment, the sunken eyes were filled with a sort of animal fright at the sight of the flickering light that bathed the tower room.
“Speak, man!” the Fury whipped out.
A swallowing movement in the scrawny throat of the slave. “Ah—the girl. The golden-haired girl. She came through the gate. We have her tied to the stone near the entrance.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” the Fury snapped. “How does it happen that anyone came through the gate? I have given explicit orders that the gate shall be closed and the switch set so as to charge the fence with electricity.”
“So it is now, master,” replied the slave humbly. “It was not I who failed. But no damage is done. We have the girl. What now?”
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 7 Page 19