“No-o,” Garvey said slowly. “On the contrary, he looked so much like you do at the present moment that I am inclined to—”
Garvey’s two hands suddenly went into action, in synchronous movements. His left hand darted out toward X’s left arm, jabbing something that gleamed like a tiny sword straight into X’s wrist. At the same time, his right hand produced a small, efficient-looking revolver. “Don’t move,” he said in a dull, dead tone.
The warning was superfluous. X could have hardly stirred a finger. Already his joints were beginning to feel cold and stiff. He stared apathetically at the hypodermic needle in Garvey’s left hand.
“Your boasted knowledge of my gas was just a little too great,” Garvey was saying. “Only one man could have that knowledge—the man behind this damnable mad malady that has come to our city. You know about my gas because you use it. It isn’t quite perfected, or at least wasn’t when you stole my formula. You are here for additional information which you could not work out for yourself. You are the fiend out of hell known as Shaitan!”
But to Agent X there seemed a dozen Lorin Garvey’s sitting in a circle that was whirling about him. A dozen pair of all but invisible lips were spouting absurdities. The light faded until there was no light at all. Then Garvey’s voice was gone and there was nothing for Agent X but dark silence.
It was a long, dreamless sleep from which he finally awakened. His eyes lighted on the electric clock that was standing directly in front of him as it had been when he had gone into his drugged trance. The hands were approaching twelve. The calendar on the clock dial was beginning to shift. It was then nearly midnight. X had lost nearly fifteen precious hours because of Garvey’s insane actions.
The Agent started to get out of the chair, but found himself too weak and too drowsy to move. He looked around the room. Lorin Garvey was there placidly smoking a pipe and looking owlishly at X. Near the door was Charlotta. She wasn’t wearing her serving-maid’s costume.
“I have discovered,” Garvey said, “that my maid is not a maid at all but a young woman who has been searching the world over for you, Shaitan. She is almost as anxious to see you brought to justice as I am.”
“More so,” said Charlotta huskily.
“But before we turn you over to the authorities, we want to hear certain information from your lips. Are you working for any particular government at the present?”
X turned the question over in his half-drugged mind. Was he working for any government? Of course. “The United States,” he answered slowly.
Charlotta frowned, looked at Garvey. “Are you certain that this serum of yours is what you think it is?”
“It has never failed before. It should be extremely effective with the subject still feeling the influence of the drug I administered.”
Agent X thought he understood. With his resistance broken down by drugs, he might reveal secrets which were known only to himself and were of the utmost importance. He resolved to keep absolutely silent. But that was far easier to say than to do. For over an hour Charlotta and Garvey worked over him, plying him with questions, trying to obtain a confession, trying to get him to admit he was Shaitan, trying to get him to tell whom he had planned to kill next.
Garvey seemed to take a fiendish delight in trying out all the drugs on his shelf in an effort to break down X’s resistance. Finally Garvey gave him morphine in such a large dose that it was necessary to pour large amounts of black coffee into him, then walk him back and forth across the study to keep him out of the morphine sleep that has no awakening.
Here was torment of the third degree in its most civilized form. It was little more than psychological torture with resistance scientifically worn away. But for all that, the Agent had more resistance than either Charlotta or Garvey. By two o’clock, they had given up. Then, in spite of all his efforts not to, Agent X went to sleep. He passed through a series of nightmares in which he was helplessly chained to a big rock and forced to watch Shaitan drive Betty Dale insane with fiendish tortures too terrible to describe.
CHAPTER VII
MILLION-DOLLAR MURDER
HARVEY BATES felt that his new assignment had both advantages and disadvantages. He felt that while he remained in Garvey’s house he had to look upon Charlotta with suspicious eyes and this was becoming more and more difficult for him to do. She seemed such a charming companion, so generous and good-natured.
Furthermore, she seemed to delight in doing thoughtful little things for him. Because he had felt guilty of spying on her, Bates was glad to get away from the house. Still, it was hard leaving her, just disappearing as he had been forced to do. He began to worry as to what she might think of him.
But devotion to Agent X made Bates throw himself into the task before him and in a few hours he had stumbled upon some rather curious information regarding Reed P. Kennedy. This information came from a member of the circulation department of the Bugle whom Bates met when he visited the plant under the pretense of getting information on linotype-room efficiency for a printer’s journal.
The circulation man was very enthusiastic. Yes, the Bugle had statewide distribution, the man informed Bates; and that he shouldered the responsibility of seeing that all the out-of-town subscribers got their papers. “All except Mr. Franks, that is,” he added.
Bates chewed the bit of his square-bowled pipe. “Who is Franks?” he asked casually.
“Oh, Mr. Franks is the newspaper skeleton,” the circulation man said with a laugh.
Bates’s black brows crimped together. “The what?”
“Skeleton. Mystery, you know. Some say that Mr. Franks is a prospective purchaser of the Bugle. He is a subscriber in Philadelphia, and I can’t tell you much else about him. However, I am never allowed to distribute Mr. Franks’s paper in the usual manner. Old Sour-puss—I mean Kennedy—will come into the press room and snatch up the first paper out of every issue. This he folds up and slaps a wrapper around it. It goes special delivery to Mr. Franks and the Old Man Sour-puss takes it to the post office himself.”
Bates grunted, thumbed the glowing bowl of his pipe, and mentally made a note to see just what Mr. Kennedy did at the post office each day when he mailed the mysterious Mr. Franks his newspaper.
By two o’clock that afternoon, Bates was waiting in a taxi outside the Bugle press room. Ten minutes later, Reed Kennedy came out, rolling a freshly printed newspaper in a brown wrapper as he hurried to his car. Bates tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Kennedy,” he said. “Follow.”
The driver nodded, shifted gears and tailed Kennedy the distance of two blocks to the post office. Bates got out and went up the steps directly behind Kennedy. He took out an old envelope from the pocket of his coat and pretended to examine it closely before thrusting it into the mail chute. Kennedy went up to the stamp window and demanded a three and a special. Bates crowded in behind him, looked over his shoulder, and saw that the newspaper was addressed to Mr. R.W. Franks of Locust Street, Philadelphia.
Bates hurriedly bought a stamp, turned and strode down the corridor behind the publisher. Kennedy mailed the paper, went to a wall of lock-boxes, stooped to a big one on the bottom row, and looked through the little window.
Kennedy’s face blanched perceptibly. His fingers were trembling so that he had to run the combination three times before he succeeded in getting the box open. The box contained a brown-wrapped square parcel that fitted so tightly that Kennedy had to tug and jerk to get it out. Even then, a portion of the paper was torn off getting it through the door.
Bates was close behind Kennedy. Kennedy left the door of his lock-box open and started to hurry away. Bates reached out a hand, dropped it on the publisher’s shoulder. Kennedy turned as though he had been bitten. His long-lipped mouth was open, and his face had a slightly greenish cast.
“Left box open,” Bates clipped.
“Ah—er—th-thanks.” Kennedy turned to slam the box shut, and as he did so Bates got a glimpse of the package under his arm. It was mark
ed as newspaper clippings and was simply addressed to Box 518, and it bore a return address of some one in Philadelphia. Kennedy started at a stumbling, long-legged gait down the corridor. He had evidently lost his direction, for he was going out the door that was farthest away from his car.
Harvey Bates suddenly forgot to pull at his pipe, which dropped from between his lips to land in his right palm. The torn part of the big package under Kennedy’s arm was plainly visible from behind and the contents partially exposed. Newspaper clippings? Well, not like any Bates had ever seen before. Those clippings were green in color. Not a special-edition newspaper green, but the green of newly printed paper money.
KENNEDY turned around at the moment, sent a frightened glance over his shoulder, and saw Harvey Bates bearing down upon him. Kennedy struck the post office door with his shoulder and went down the steps two at a time. Bates followed in long, ponderous strides. Kennedy guessed the direction of his car, guessed wrong and started to sprint. Realizing his mistake, he turned into what he evidently took for an alley but which was actually a narrow court running to the back of a business building.
The publisher realized his mistake even before Bates did. Unexpectedly, he turned, lowered his head, gripped his bundle as though it were a football and charged straight at Bates. Bates sidestepped. His left fist shot out, punched the bundle from beneath Kennedy’s arm. Both stooped for the bundle at once.
Kennedy’s right knee came up to catch Bates under the chin. Bates went over backwards, but he just managed to dig his fingers into the bundle of greenbacks. The back of his head struck against the foundation of the building. Partially stunned, he rolled over, holding the package closely, expecting Kennedy to make an effort to recover the money.
Bates’s senses cleared quickly. He turned over, found Kennedy gone, and the money still in his possession. Bates ripped the package a little more and saw that it contained bills of every denomination from fives to hundreds. No great matter if Kennedy had momentarily escaped. Here was evidence that was undeniable. Bates got to his feet and started toward the opening of the blind alley.
When he was within five feet of the entrance, six men came running around the corner. Four of them were police. The others might be plain-clothes detectives. Bates hesitated a moment. Should he walk on, pretending not to notice them or double back and try to get through the back of the building that closed the alley? He decided that it would be impossible to walk past the six men and not show that the package he held contained money. He turned suddenly and ran as fast as his legs would carry him toward the back door of the building.
“Stop!” shouted an authoritative voice behind him. A gun spoke thunderously in the narrow alleyway. Bates heard the whine of the bullet. He reached out his hand to seize the door leading into the building. The door burst open. A revolver, a fist, a length of blue and gold-clad arm appeared. Bates looked up into the face of Police Chief Hurd.
“You’re under arrest!” Hurd whipped out. “The charge is murder!”
THOUGH he had lost all conception of the passage of time, it was almost at the same moment in which Harvey Bates was arrested for murder that Agent X came out of his drugged sleep. He had been carried to an upstairs room and placed on a bed. Inactivity, the constant application of sedatives, had left the Agent’s strength far below par. He tried to get off the bed, managed to put his feet on the floor, only to feel his knees give way.
He lay on the floor, numb fingers searching his pockets. If he but had his pocket medical kit he could easily prepare himself a powerful stimulant which would enable him to snap out of his present limp condition in less than ten minutes. But his pockets had evidently been emptied before he was brought to the bedroom.
He crawled on hands and knees to the door and shook the knob. Almost at once, a lock on the other side clicked. X rolled away from the door as it was opened. Charlotta stood there. There was a gun in her hand and contempt in her eyes.
“Well, Shaitan,” she said softly. “Do you remember Charlotta?”
Agent X seized the door knob and dragged himself to his feet. The girl watched him narrowly. The gun was firm in her grasp.
“Garvey is going to phone the authorities in a few moments. You will soon see that the police have a way of making even you confess your crimes.”
The Agent looked at her shrewdly with tired, somber eyes. “You really think I am Shaitan, Charlotta? Listen, do you remember the little village back of the Austrian line? You were trying to get across into Italy with special information and the Austrians were on your trail? You hadn’t eaten for a long time. Then you met me and—”
Charlotta’s indrawn breath whistled between her clenched teeth. The gun dropped from her fingers. “You—you’re Agent X! Whatever gave Garvey the notion you were Shaitan?”
“As a detective,” X said, “Garvey may be perfectly sincere, but he’s a washout. Because I knew something about the gas, he insisted I was Shaitan.”
Charlotta nodded. “I see. Yet you didn’t dare tell him you were Agent X, because Agent X is wanted by the police. Don’t worry. I’ll see that Garvey makes this mistake right.”
“Can you manage it without telling who I am? I could have escaped a dozen times, had I the stuff he took from my pockets.”
The girl smiled confidently. “I know right where he put your things. I’ll get them in some way. Just try to be patient.”
Charlotta was gone not more than five minutes. She again opened the door and came in breathless, her cheeks flushed. In her hands was a bundle done up in a small napkin. She opened it on the bed. Inside was the Agent’s makeup kit, his gas pistol, pocket tool case, master keys, medical kit and glass gas bombs. He quickly returned his equipment to their proper places with the exception of the medical kit.
“You’ll have to hurry,” Charlotta told him. “Garvey’s telephoning the police. That’s how I managed to get your things.”
X nodded. He filled a hypodermic syringe, rolled up his sleeve and injected the powerful stimulant. He packed his tiny vials of drugs back into the kit and returned it to his pocket. He took hold of Charlotta’s arm and gave it a quick squeeze.
“Thanks,” he said earnestly. “And I apologize for anything I might have done or said.”
The door of the room opened. Some measure of the Agent’s former strength had returned. His right hand went to his coat pocket and rested on the butt of his gas pistol. It was Lorin Garvey who entered.
“There—there’s been a frightful mistake,” he blurted. “You must be the man K9 mentioned. You can’t be Shaitan. They’ve caught Shaitan. The whole thing’s over. It was some sort of an extortion scheme. But the terrible part of it is that another man has been murdered.”
“Who?” demanded X.
“A Mr. Bedford. Oh, you might have stopped it, had I not prevented you by my idiotic actions. He was killed last night at midnight.” Lorin Garvey wrung his hands.
The blood arose in Secret Agent X’s veins. He was thinking of Betty Dale. If Bedford had been killed by the gas, probably everyone else in the house had felt its effects. The gas either killed or maddened. Without another word to Garvey or Charlotta, X hurried from the house.
Lorin Garvey turned to his serving maid. “I think I understand how my secret got out,” he said. “Who do you suppose Shaitan turned out to be?”
Charlotta shook her head. “Who?”
“The man who was my butler before he so strangely disappeared!”
X GOT his car and drove at once out to the Bedford property. He found the doors and the windows of the place thrown wide open. There was a police officer who got up as X crossed the lawn. The Agent flashed his Associated Press card. “Just got the news,” he said. “Mind if I ask a few questions?”
“It’s a little late for news, I’m afraid,” said the officer. “Our local paper has scooped you. But ask away if you want.”
“Anyone beside Mr. Bedford affected?” X asked.
“Sure. The whole outfit of them. Servants and the
girl are all in the hospital with the mad sickness.”
X’s heart sank. “There was a young girl reporter visiting the Bedfords. Do you know anything of her condition?”
“I couldn’t tell you.”
“Mind if I go look through the house?”
“Well,” the cop said slowly, “I was told not to let anybody in, but I suppose a newspaperman could go in if he didn’t touch anything. I got the windows open to air the place, you see.”
X nodded, hurried into the great, deserted house, ran up the broad, curving stairs and found the room that Betty Dale had used. He started to the closet to see if any of her clothes were there, stopped suddenly as he saw a piece of paper on the dresser. It was a typewritten note and X recognized the type as that of Betty’s portable machine that always accompanied her wherever she went. The note read:
Dearest Dora—
I am suddenly called back to New York. Love, Betty.
Then Betty had escaped. She was safe in New York. Or was she? So unlike her to run away, especially when she was at the location of a crime that promised good newspaper copy.
Puzzled and worried, X left the house to drive back to the center part of town. He parked in front of the City Administration Building not far from the jail. If Shaitan had been captured, no one was more anxious to know the details than X. He entered the building and turned into the office marked: Chief of Police. There a young officer wanted to know his business.
X showed the Associated Press card and asked to see Chief Hurd.
“Sorry,” the young officer replied. “Chief Hurd is busy at the moment. He has important guests from out of town and will be occupied with them for some time. I have orders to admit none who were not invited to the conference.”
The Secret Agent did not press his request further. He turned, re-entered the hall. Possibly he could get a glimpse of the captured Shaitan if he went to the jail. As he was about to leave the building, he saw John Morris entering the front door. X turned, fell in step beside Morris and said: “Your name Morris?”
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 7 Page 28