X sprang to the window sill, tested the strength of the hose for a moment, and swung out to climb hand over hand up the hose toward the overhanging eaves. He climbed swiftly, bracing his feet against the wall and pulling himself upwards with his arms. When he was within inches of the eaves, the hose suddenly slipped.
Where another man might have clung to the hose in panicky desperation, Agent X thought as he had been trained to think in those split-second intervals that meant the difference between life and death. No sooner had he felt the hose slipping, than he reached out with his right arm to its fullest extent. The tips of his fingers just caught on the eaves trough as the hose slipped to the ground.
X tightened his grip, got his left hand on the eaves trough, and slowly drew his body upwards. As his chin came up even with the eaves, he saw three eyes staring into his face. Two eyes that were faintly luminous and immeasurably evil glared over a flowing green veil. The third eye, chill and gray, sought the center of his forehead. That third eye of Shaitan’s was the muzzle of a revolver.
X sent one quick glance downward. It was drop or be dropped.
CHAPTER VI
Five Doomed Men
THIRTY feet of thin air separated Agent X from the ground. He swung in toward the house, kicked both feet against the wall, and released his grip. At almost the same instant, Shaitan’s gun blasted. X felt the breeze of the bullet skimming the toupee he wore, as he lurched back and down, arms and legs clawing at nothing.
Something whipped across his back nearly doubling his supple body. His grasping fingers locked over thin strands of wire and for a moment he clung breathlessly to the network of electric and phone wires that led into the house. It was with the hope of landing on these wires that he had flung himself as far out from the house as possible. As he teetered up and down, he was thankful that the wires were both strong and well insulated.
He could hear feet scurrying across the tiles of the room above. Perhaps Shaitan thought that his bullet had found its mark. X swung himself along the wires until he reached the place where they entered the big garage. From there it was an easy matter to climb down wood lattice work to the ground.
By the time he had reached the house, all within were thoroughly aroused. Hale Bedford and the servant staff were all out on the lawn in various stages of dishabille and carrying hastily mustered weapons that ranged from carving knives to shotguns.
“What—what’s all this nonsense?” demanded Hale Bedford as Agent X came up.
“You could find a much more appropriate name for it,” said X dryly. He hurried around to the side of the house and there discovered the gardener’s ladder reaching up from the sun room.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said a man who had donned his solicitous manner if not his servant livery, “but, as this gentleman says, it is hardly nonsense when one sees a man with a veil over his face running across the lawn. Which was exactly what I saw, sir.”
“When was that?” X snapped.
“Just a bare minute ago, sir,” replied the man. “I aimed with my shotgun and it was not till I pulled the trigger that I discovered I had forgot to attend to the loading.”
“A slight oversight,” X said. “Mr. Bedford, if you don’t mind, suppose we go in the house a moment. You do not seem thoroughly awake to the fact that this was attempted murder.”
“What stuff!” said Bedford, but he was willing enough to show X into the house.
Light found Hale Bedford a pleasant-faced, white-haired gentleman of perhaps fifty. In the living room they were joined by the two girls, Betty Dale and Dora Bedford. Dora, wide-eyed and flushed with excitement, told her father all that had happened. When she had finished, Hale Bedford looked at Agent X. “Have you ever been in my house before?” he asked.
X shook his head. “You are wondering how I found your daughter’s room, perhaps. I was prowling around the house, saw a bedroom light turned on, and recognized Miss Dale as she passed by the lighted window. Miss Dale and I are old friends.” He smiled at Betty.
“Well,” said Bedford, “Miss Dale’s friends are our friends.” He turned to Betty Dale. “Won’t you introduce the gentleman who seems to be made of such heroic stuff and a well-defined bump of imagination?”
Betty hesitated. It was entirely impossible for her to introduce X, for she had not the slightest idea who he was impersonating. X quickly supplied the wanted information, introducing himself as John Moss, the secret service man he had impersonated on first entering the city. It was a big risk to take, for his present makeup in no way resembled John Moss. But he felt that he would have to explain his prowling about the house, and the papers of John Moss, still in his possession, gave him something of an official position. He took out the papers belonging to Moss and flashed them in front of Bedford’s eyes.
Bedford nodded. “But—er—just what brought you to our house tonight? What,” he added, with a twinkle in his eyes, “besides Miss Dale?”
“Mr. Bedford,” X said earnestly, “you are taking this matter far too lightly. The reason I came here tonight was that the murder of your daughter was predicted.”
DORA BEDFORD began to cry. Her father put both arms around her. “Look here, Mr. Moss, I’ll not have you coming around here and frightening my daughter with your astrology and predictions. Such things are utterly absurd.”
Betty said: “Please listen to what Mr. Moss has to say. I’ve known him a long time and he is certainly not an alarmist.”
“But for a stroke of good fortune,” X said, “your daughter might now be dead and you might be insane.”
“Oh, that!” Bedford scoffed. “I paid a thousand dollars for immunity from this malady for myself and my household. Did you know there was a serum developed by a Viennese doctor—”
X checked Bedford with a shake of the head. “You’ve handed over a thousand dollars for nothing, sir. That quack doctor happens to be a spy of international reputation. His name is Peter Knore. And if you had tweaked his Van Dyke beard, you would have discovered that it is as false as his so-called serum. This mad malady is the effect of a poison gas such as might have been introduced into your daughter’s room last night. Have you last night’s Bugle around here?”
“I think so,” Bedford said. “Betty, will you run into my study like a good girl and see if you can find what Mr. Moss wants? I declare, Mr. Moss, this is the strangest thing I ever heard of. How can a gas affect the mind?”
“It doesn’t, as I understand it. The gas kills outright when in sufficient concentration. I believe that when diluted considerably with air, it has the power of driving people insane simply because of the terrible pain it causes.”
“Oh, Daddy,” sobbed Dora Bedford. “I know Mr. Moss is right. Won’t you do something? Call the police or something?”
“It’s absurd,” declared Bedford. “Why neither my daughter nor I have any enemies. No one kills people for the sheer love of it unless he’s crazy.”
“Definitely, Shaitan is not crazy,” X told them.
“Shaitan?” Betty asked as she returned with the paper. “Is that the killer’s name?”
X nodded. “And he’s after something big. Selling quack serum strikes me as being pretty small potatoes for a man like Shaitan.”
“Why don’t you arrest him, then?” asked Bedford.
“Because, no one knows what he looks like.” X took the paper out of Betty’s hand and turned to the front page. He pointed out the nonsensical squib in the first column. Bedford read it over and laughed.
“Why, Reed P. Kennedy has been running things like that for years. They used to be quite amusing, but I must say his sense of humor isn’t what it once was.”
X agreed. “As a matter of fact, the man who wrote that, lost his sense of humor long ago. If you’ll combine all the first letters in each word in that paragraph, you’ll find something like this: ‘Dora Bedford will die at midnight. Getting closer.’ If that’s funny, go right ahead and laugh.”
Bedford’s brow puckered. �
�It is rather queer. Still, it could be coincidence. A queer quirk of fate, you know.”
“There’s about as much fate connected with that as there is about tomorrow’s sunrise!” X snapped. “I’m going to see that you’re protected, whether you like it or not. There won’t be another attempt before morning, inasmuch as the killer has no reason to suppose that his attempt wasn’t successful. However, I’ll see you soon.”
Agent X beckoned Betty to follow him out into the hall. When they were alone, he said: “I don’t suppose there will be another attempt tonight, as I said before, Betty. If I thought there would be, I wouldn’t leave you here alone with the Bedfords. But in case anything should happen that even strikes you as queer, call Lorin Garvey’s residence and insist upon speaking to the butler. The butler is Harvey Bates. At least, he will be until tomorrow when I shall transfer Bates to other quarters.”
The girl nodded. “You’ll be extremely careful, won’t you? Somehow this constant threat of madness is worse than death.”
X nodded, held her two hands a moment, and whispered good night. He thought he had never seen her so lovely, with her golden hair all in disarray and her deep blue eyes looking worriedly into his.
THE FOLLOWING morning, Agent X put in his appearance at the office of Reed P. Kennedy, publisher of the Brownsboro Bugle. He had adopted his most famous alias for this visit, one which should have made a definite impression on Kennedy. He appeared as a sandy-haired, commonplace looking man who wore a not too carefully pressed suit of gray material. On the card which he sent in to the publisher was engraved: “A.J. Martin, Associated Press.”
Kennedy’s mouth was less dour-looking than it had appeared the night before. He gave the Agent an hearty hand clasp, rumpled his unruly hair and said: “Don’t see how you got into the town without the quarantine catching you, Mr. Martin, but as one newspaperman to another, let me welcome you to our unfortunate city. There’s plenty of copy right here in Brownsboro.”
“That’s exactly why I am here,” X said quietly. He accepted Kennedy’s proffered cigar and lighted it deliberately. Then he reached over and thumbed a stack of back copies of the Bugle arranged in a wire basket on the publisher’s desk.
“What do you think of our paper, Mr. Martin?” Kennedy asked.
“It is accurate in every detail, Kennedy.” X’s eyes riveted on the publisher’s face. “Especially is it accurate in the matter of prophecies.” He pulled the paper which had announced the attempt on Dora Bedford’s life from the stack and threw it down in front of Kennedy.
“What do you mean?” Kennedy squinted down at the paper, at column one where X’s finger pointed. Then he looked up and grinned strangely. “Oh, you like my way of drumming up trade for the ad department, eh? I’ve been using drivel like that for years. And people read it. That’s the funny part.”
“Have you read this?” X asked.
“Of course. The only thing in the publication I write, so naturally I read it.”
“Read it again, discounting every letter except the first letter in every word.”
Kennedy squinted. “I don’t understand.”
“The first letter of every word. Spell it out. D-O-R-A, Dora and so on. Don’t you get it? And you say you wrote it. ‘Dora Bedford will die tomorrow midnight. Getting closer.’ ”
Kennedy whitened. “Good Lord! Is Hale Bedford’s daughter dead?”
“But for the grace of God she would be!” X snapped. “Now, I’m waiting for an explanation. Quickly, please.”
“Explanation?” Kennedy looked bewilderedly about as though searching for a place to hide. “Why—why there’s no explanation. It’s just one of those things. A—a coincidence.”
“And I suppose it was a coincidence when the same column in your paper, which you have admitted writing, also predicted the death of Mr. Sparks’s boy?” X hurried through the other papers on the desk and came upon one that was over a week old. He snatched it up. Read this:
FRENCH INVADERS VICTORIOUS
Each man entering Nantes dropped optional opponents making excellent disputes. Before entering Denmark, French officials regarded dispute settled. Perry, American rector, killed several French envoys right in street. Having antagonistic leanings, each captain killed many ancient Turks having easily won success.
(It appears our linotype machine is filled with mistakes today. But you can make no mistake lining up with our want-ad department to sell what you don’t want and buy what you do.)
Kennedy laughed weakly. “Isn’t it good? Missing word jumble, you know. We’re offering a prize to anyone who can make sense out of it. All to create interest in our want ads.”
X nodded. “You can just give me the prize. I’ve separated the meat from the bone in that paragraph above the parenthesis. It’s the same sort of cipher. It reads: ‘Five men doomed. Bedford, Sparks, Feris, Haleck, Mathews.’ They are the five rich men who practically own this town.”
“It—It’s coincidence. Typographical errors. You know how things creep in,” Kennedy stumbled on desperately.
“You omitted one possibility,” X said dryly. “It might be spirit writing.” He turned on his heel, went through the door and left Kennedy gasping. Mentally, Kennedy was a badly whipped man. He had good reason to be frightened. If he was in some way associated with the crimes, and there was no reason to doubt but what he was, he would be forced to make some counter move in his own defense. If he was but a lieutenant of Shaitan, he would have to get information to his chief.
X realized fully that nothing could be accomplished by third-degreeing Kennedy. If Kennedy was in reality Shaitan, he would never have admitted it and there was certainly no way of proving it. If Kennedy merely worked for Shaitan, Kennedy would know nothing more about his chief than would Agent X. By leaving Kennedy wondering what the mysterious Mr. Martin would do next, X felt that he had advanced well into the enemy’s territory.
The Agent went immediately to Lorin Garvey’s rambling house. This time, he was fully prepared to find out exactly what the nature of Garvey’s secret was. Then, too, Bates must take up his duties elsewhere. Every move that Kennedy made would have to be watched and Bates was the man to do that.
IT WAS Bates who answered X’s knock at Garvey’s door. X placed a cautioning finger on his lips. The disguise associated with the Agent’s alias of A.J. Martin was well known to Bates, so that no identifying sign was necessary. X stepped into the hall, took Bates by the arm and whispered:
“As a butler you’re through. Your job is to watch Reed P. Kennedy, the newspaperman. His paper has been predicting these killings and Kennedy looks suspicious. Follow him everywhere. You understand?”
Bates nodded. “I just disappear?”
“From here? Yes. Is Charlotta still here?”
Bates nodded, flushed slightly.
“I just wanted to know. I thought perhaps you’d like to know that she helped me out of a tight fix last night. I may have to apologize to her some day.”
X left Bates grinning widely, walked into the living room and to the door of Garvey’s study. He knocked. A moment later, Lorin Garvey, wearing an acid-stained white apron, opened the door and came out. He looked X up and down.
X smiled. “Garvey, this is probably something of a surprise to you. I am the man sent by K9.”
Garvey sucked in his pale lips until they were entirely out of sight. He stared thoughtfully at X through his thick-lensed, smoke-colored glasses. “I am afraid I don’t quite understand your language,” he said.
“It is well to be cautious,” X told him. “This, however, will convince you of my identity. In his letter, K9 said: ‘Dear Garvey: I am sending you with this letter the best possible protection—a man whose identity necessarily remains a secret but in whom you can place implicit trust.’ I might add to further convince you, that K9 writes in blue ink and in an almost indecipherable back-hand.”
Garvey smiled: “Very good. Won’t you step in? Our conference was badly upset last night when you left s
o abruptly.” He ushered X into the study, a room darkened by blinds. At one end, X could see the entrance to Garvey’s laboratory. Garvey went over, closed the laboratory door and locked it. Then he switched on the electric lights and offered X a chair on the other side of his desk. He turned an elaborate electric clock with electric calendar so that both could see it. “I can spare you just about thirty minutes,” he said. “Now, what are your questions?”
“I believe,” X said slowly, “that you at least owe me your confidence. I cannot possibly protect your secret unless I know what I am to protect.”
Garvey shook his head. “I am sorry. Any other questions?”
“You’re being a fool, Garvey,” X continued. “Perhaps I can convince you to confide in me by telling you what I already know. You are working on the development of a poison gas. It is suffocative, exceedingly deadly, and causing great pain even when greatly diluted with pure air. So great is this pain that if it does not kill a man outright, it can drive him insane.” X leaned back in his chair and waited a moment while the cautious Garvey turned this over in his mind.
Finally, the scientist said: “Oddly enough, you have described the properties of this gas to perfection. How did you manage?”
“Chiefly a matter of guess work. You see, it occurred to me that I came here a little too late. Somebody else is in possession of your secret. Is that true?”
“Perhaps it is,” Garvey confessed. “I have, of course, not been able to try my gas on human subjects. What you mean is that this present plague of madness is caused by a gas which might very well be the gas which I have discovered. It will interest you to know that shortly before I wrote to Washington, asking protection, my only laboratory assistant disappeared. That is what caused my first moments of alarm. Though I had not confided my secret to this man, it is possible that he managed to interpret notes I had locked in my safe. There was no evidence to lead me to believe that he had opened the safe, however.”
X LEANED forward eagerly. “Can you tell me what this man looked like? Did he have a ponderous bald head and eyes that were slightly luminous? Eyes like Satan’s, I might add.”
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 7 Page 27