There was only one way in which X could prevent this disaster: he must clearly identify himself to the girl, without revealing himself to the others within the room.
CHAPTER II
The Chill of Death
BETTY DALE turned her head. Instantly her eyes fell upon that portion of the unconscious Colrich that was visible from her position, her lips parted and formed a half-uttered word of alarm.
And at that moment, Agent X was seized with a spasm of coughing. All the power in his compelling glance was exerted in attracting Betty Dale’s attention. As the girl’s wide blue eyes met his steady gaze, he folded his hands, extended his forefingers so that they crossed to form the letter “X.”
Sudden realization that she had all but betrayed the very person dearest to her, almost started a cry from Betty’s lips. Then she hurried across the room and settled herself in the very chair behind which Colrich was hidden. She leaned far to the right. It was so marked an effort to hide the Agent’s secret, that X feared she would call the attention of everyone present to the hidden man.
Agent X’s eyes roved from one to the other of the men in the room. “Which of you is Dr. Wicker?” he asked. “I have a very urgent message for Dr. Wicker.”
Wicker cleared his throat. His puffy hands were busy with the upstanding lock of black hair at the back of his head. “I am Dr. Wicker.”
X took a step toward the famous doctor, but Walter Nixon detained him a moment, one hand on the Agent’s arm. He gnawed his upper lips a moment, looking at X from head to toe. “I beg your pardon, but there is something familiar about you. Who’re you?”
“James Nelson,” replied X promptly, using the first name that popped into his head. Then he turned to Wicker. “I have a message from Mr. Fred Colrich. It is very important that you see his wife at once. I understand that she is in some sort of trouble at this address.” X took out the piece of paper he had slipped from Colrich’s pocket. “Colrich followed her and asked me to see you.”
Wicker looked at the address and scowled at it. Gordon Stien, the newspaperman, took a hasty glance over Wicker’s shoulder. He whistled softly. “Nice neighborhood for people like the Colriches to be visiting. There’s a story around here somewhere.”
Agent X was watching the door of the smoking room. It was open a crack. The more he watched the door, the more certain he became that some one was listening.
X took two steps that brought him nearer the door. “Dr. Wicker,” he said, “may I urge you not to ignore the message I just gave you?” And as he said that, X reached out and swung open the door of the smoking room. A very surprised and embarrassed man turned scarlet in the face, took one step backwards and began to stammer an apology.
Sam Arvin’s eyes lighted up as he observed the hollow-cheeked, blond-haired man in the doorway. “Rister! Come in, won’t you?”
THE MAN in the doorway smiled in a sickly fashion and came forward eagerly to clasp Arvin’s extended hand.
“You’ve met Morgan Rister, haven’t you, gentlemen? Dr. Wicker has, I know. Mr. Nixon, I know the name of Rister is familiar to you. He is the manufacturer of commercial oxygen, acetylene, and similar gases of great importance. In addition, he is secretly associated with our Anti-Vice League.”
“Really, Arvin, you overwhelm me,” Rister said, keeping his eyes in constant motion. “I really had no idea of meeting you here.”
Walter Nixon, who had been staring through the open door, turned suddenly to Agent X. “I’ve just noticed that one of my ushers is missing, a man who resembles you remarkably.”
X smiled. “Unfortunately, the business of lending assistance to Mrs. Colrich prevents me from doubling for your usher, Mr. Nixon, though I must admit a secret yearning to wear one of those dashing uniforms.” He backed to the door, sought Dr. Wicker over the heads of the newly arrived Rister and Mr. Arvin. “Doctor, if you will, I really believe that Mr. Colrich would appreciate your coming to see his wife at once.”
“Yes, yes,” agreed Wicker gruffly. “Coming, Arvin. Er—we may find something that would, er— You understand?”
Arvin nodded. “Coming at once.” And, linking arms with Rister, he followed Dr. Wicker from the room.
Betty Dale waited patiently until all were out of the room, then, with a deep sigh, she hastened toward the door. Agent X was there, waiting for her. He stepped into the room and closed the door partway behind him. He slipped one arm about Betty’s waist, and held her so for a moment, searching the depths of her eyes, marveling at the devotion he saw there.
“Betty,” he whispered. “Betty. How can I ever thank you?”
“Thank me? Thank me when I all but gave your plan away? Who is that man behind the chair?”
“The man is Colrich. I was caught, or would have been if it hadn’t been for you. I don’t know what it means, exactly. This sudden increase in dope traffic is terrible and far reaching. We must stop it. I must warn you that you’ve put yourself in danger again on my account.”
“I love it,” she whispered.
“I know. But, Betty, when they find Colrich, they’ll know something queer went on here tonight. Nixon has half an idea right now that I am his usher’s double. It won’t be a very long jump from that to discover that I am Agent X—and that you aided me. I’m not thinking only of the danger this might expose you to from the criminals behind this gigantic scheme, I’m thinking of what the police might do to you if they learned that you are my one close friend.”
“I’ll be careful,” she said earnestly. “I’ll take care of myself.”
“Always,” he whispered, “take care of yourself for me.” And he hurriedly left the smoking room to join Dr. Wicker and Arvin, who were waiting in the foyer.
Dr. Wicker was dangling his watch. “Er—Mr. Nelson, if you will give us that address, I am sure that Mr. Arvin and I can take care of this little matter satisfactorily.”
“I am certain of it, Doctor,” replied X pleasantly. “However, I have known the Colriches for years and am quite as anxious to help in this difficulty as you are.” This was decidedly untrue, but Wicker and Arvin evidently suspected nothing, for they permitted him to join them without further demur. They left the theatre and crossed the sidewalk to the curb.
A taxi swung in near them. The driver opened the door, so that the brilliant light from the front of the theatre fell across his homely features. His nose was a lean hook, his shoe-button eyes set close together. A cigarette was pasted to his doleful, long upper lip. He stared obliquely at the slip of paper X held out to him.
“Know that address?” X demanded.
“Right!” The taxi driver had a thin, raucous voice. “Took one fare there already tonight.”
X sprang into the seat beside Arvin and Dr. Wicker. He glanced through the rear window in time to see Gordon Stien and Betty Dale scrambling into a second cab, undoubtedly with the idea of following them.
The Agent leaned over the driver’s seat as the cab started. “Was your other fare a man or a woman?” he asked.
“Woman,” replied the driver. “A queer dame. Picked her up in front of the Princess Theatre at about ten after eight.”
“What do you mean—queer?” X persisted.
“Oh, dressed funny. Looked like she was gettin’ away with some swell dame’s fur rigging. She was nervous, too. Dropped her pocketbook, and I could have had the whole works, for all she would have known. I gives her back the wallet, see. Honest Ham Esler, they call me.”
Dr. Wicker leaned forward interestedly. His puffy fingers were fiddling with the brim of his hat. “Furs, you said, driver?”
“Sure—classy furs.”
Wicker exploded: “Ruth Colrich has the finest sables in the city! A present from her husband. Poor Fred!” The doctor’s twinkling eyes glanced at X. “Where did you leave Fred Colrich?”
It was far wiser to ignore that question. X nudged the taxi driver. “Speed it up, Ham Esler. There’s a cab following us. Think you can lose them?”
Esler g
runted. “Watch my dust!”
AT THAT moment, in the room off the dance floor that was a part of the gray-fronted house in the Spanish quarter, the woman called Zerna was standing in front of a mirror retouching her perfect lips with rouge.
The house was silent. Zerna was on the point of leaving when the telephone jangled. Deliberately she stepped to the table and picked up the phone. “Yes?”
A man’s voice came over the phone: “Move, Zerna. Secret Agent X is on the way.”
“Oh, cool off,” Zerna replied insolently. “The guests cleared out five minutes ago, and were plenty satisfied with the brand of hop we hand out. When X gets here, there won’t be a thing except the stiff. Not unless—” A look of cunning crept into Zerna’s eyes. “Say, chief, why don’t you tell what you’ve just told me to Inspector Burks down at police headquarters. Just a tip to the cops on the side, see, and we’ll be rid of this X guy for all times.”
She replaced the phone, picked up the smoldering butt of a black Puerto Rican cigarette, and ground it out in the ash tray. She glanced once more, critically, at herself in the mirror, and left the house….
The house with the gray front was totally dark when X and his party arrived. Arvin looked anxiously from the cab window. “You’re certain this is the place, driver?” he asked timidly.
Esler turned and thumbed at his chest. “Listen, I got a map of New York for a brain. Never-lost Esler! When I say that’s your house, why that’s your house.”
Dr. Wicker thrust a bill into the driver’s hand. “You’d better wait,” he said, before he joined X and Arvin.
The Secret Agent took the lead, mounted the narrow steps, and took hold of the bell-pull. Its very jangle proclaimed the house empty. He found the door unlocked.
“You’re perfectly sure this is all right?” asked Arvin.
“Not at all,” said X quietly, thrusting himself in front of Dr. Wicker as the latter would have pushed his way into the house. He flicked on the tiny beam of his pen-size flashlight and sent it darting about the large room into which they had passed. Rugs had been rolled up and furniture pushed back. A phonograph stood at one end of the room.
“Seems to have been some sort of a harmless dance,” Wicker suggested.
“Yes,” replied X thoughtfully. “Yet a dance closing comparatively early in the evening. A dance held in a private dwelling; yet immediately after the party is over, the house is empty.”
He crossed the room that had been used for dancing and pushed open a door to reveal a smaller room adjoining the first. He turned on the light switch.
“Desk, chairs, telephone,” X mused aloud. “Air heavy with cigarette smoke.” He crossed the room to heavy green curtains that hid another door. He pushed back one side of the curtains and touched the doorknob. “Odd,” he muttered. “This knob is icy-cold. Come here, gentlemen.”
Arvin pushed Dr. Wicker ahead of him as the pair came nearer to where X was standing. Arvin said: “I suppose you know this amounts to house-breaking, young man?”
X ignored Arvin. “Do you notice a chill draft coming from beneath this door?”
Wicker, nervously fingering the buckle of his overcoat, informed them that it was a chill night. Agent X turned the cold doorknob and opened the door.
“B-r-r-r!” Arvin shuddered. “Feels like a refrigerator.”
Agent X found the light switch on the side of the door and pressed it on. There was no visible occupant. Furniture in the room looked as though it was covered with white mold. As X moved around the chilly apartment, his coat sleeve knocked a fountain pen from a small walnut secretary. The pen crumbled to bits as it struck the floor. Soundlessly, the Secret Agent rounded a love seat and came to a stop. Then slowly his lips formed the words: “Look, gentlemen. Here is where the cold comes from.”
As Wicker and Arvin were timidly approaching, a merry whistle sounded from another part of the house. Some one boisterously shouted: “The old duffers tried to fox us, Betty. We’ll get a story now or tell the cops they’re burglarizing.”
The cherubic countenance of Gordon Stien appeared in the doorway. Almost at once, his smile faded as he regarded the anxious faces of the three men huddled about the love seat. “Cripes!” he whispered.
Stien hurried forward, took one look over the back of the love seat. His eyes suddenly threatened to pop out on his cheeks.
“And that,” said Sam Arvin, like a man in a dream, “was once Ruth Colrich.”
THE BODY of Ruth Colrich, stripped of its furs, was stretched out behind the love seat. The flesh was blue-black, brittle in appearance. And from the body rose a cloud of chill, condensed mist.
“Frozen to death,” whispered Dr. Wicker.
“Yes,” X added. “Killed with cold. Those fingers—why, a good hard snap would break them off. This is murder.”
“Wow, what a picture!” exploded Stien. “Betty, here’s a scoop to end scoops!”
Betty Dale, accustomed as she was to horror that came to her in her life as a reporter, turned deathly pale as she viewed the blue-black corpse of Mrs. Colrich. She turned quickly away and centered all of her attention on her notebook.
In the other room, Arvin could be heard phoning the police. Agent X knew that if he was to pick up clues, he must work fast. While Dr. Wicker’s eyes were busy in a cursory examination of the body, X picked up Mrs. Colrich’s purse and carried it to a table near the door. There, beneath the light of table lamp, he turned the purse inside out.
There was no money. Calling cards engraved with Mr. and Mrs. Fred Colrich, brought a curious, heavy feeling to the Agent’s heart as he thought of the helpless husband who must have recently discovered that his wife was heading for the gutter via the dope route. There were also two cheap marihuana cigarettes and an empty hypodermic syringe in the bag. X picked up the hypodermic syringe with his left hand. Closer examination of the instrument might reveal important evidence. X glanced quickly around the room.
Betty Dale was grimly taking notes with a stubby pencil. Stien had just closed his camera with a triumphant snap.
“Could sell these plates to any newspaper in town for five C!” the photographer shouted. “The good old Herald ought to give me a raise.” He made a dive for the door and was brought to a sudden stop by a ham of a fist that shot out to his face. The big knuckles nipped Stien’s nose and pinched until the reporter yelped.
“You’re not going any place, picture clicker,” said a gruff voice, exceedingly familiar to Agent X. It was the voice of Inspector John Burks of the Homicide Office. Instantly on the defensive, X moved nearer the curtained doorway as the six feet of red beef and brawn that was John Burks came padding into the room.
Burks didn’t look toward the corpse. He simply reached out and seized the man nearest him by the chin. And that man was Agent X.
The Agent understood perfectly why Burks had pinched Stien’s nose. Burks knew that Secret Agent X, his old enemy, was in that room. And he was determined to find out which of the men was X by a simple method of trial and error. Stien had passed that test—the test that X could not pass.
X’s right hand jabbed toward the pocket where he kept his gas pistol. But Burks had been forewarned and was consequently forearmed. The barrel of Burks’s gun jammed up just beneath X’s chin.
“Move a muscle, and this slug travels up through the roof of your mouth, Agent X. I’m one jump ahead of you this time. A good pinch shows up that putty you use for a face every time!”
Sergeant Keegan and others of Burks’s crew surrounded the Agent. Keegan’s deft fingers were going through X’s pockets like a vacuum sweeper. Nothing would be left him but his flats and his wits—nothing except the hypodermic needle he had taken from Mrs. Colrich’s purse and which he now held in his left hand.
Across the room, X saw Betty Dale, standing very straight, her blue eyes anxious and her notebook clasped close to her breast. Agent X smiled slightly. The game wasn’t up yet. One chance in a hundred remained to him….
CHAPTER III<
br />
Faceless Horror
INSPECTOR JOHN BURKS had achieved a triumph. He had every advantage, his opponent stripped of all those amazing devices that had so frequently helped him to fool the police. But as he stood in front of the curtained door, his gun muzzle an inch or so from the Agent, he unwittingly gave X a powerful weapon. Inspector Burks was too confident. So it was that he did not notice what X’s left hand was doing.
At the moment when Burks, face flushed with pride, glanced about the room to make certain that X could not possibly escape, the Agent began the execution of his surprising scheme.
His left arm went up underneath the curtains, so that his hand was directly over the small of the inspector’s back. In his left hand, he held the hypodermic syringe, entirely empty, which he had taken from Mrs. Colrich’s purse.
X knew perfectly well that the point of a needle might well be mistaken for the point of a knife. He also knew what powerful weapons are suggestion and surprise. To achieve surprise, he simply thrust the hypodermic needle through the curtain and into Burks’s back. And for suggestion, a voice actually seemed to come from the room beyond the curtain: “Drop that gun, or I knife you!”
It was ventriloquism, an art in which Agent X was an adept. Never for a moment did X suppose that the courageous inspector would drop his gun.
Burks cursed, sprang forward, wheeled, and fired directly at the non-existent man on the other side of the curtain. And scarcely had the slug roared from the revolver, before X’s right hand dropped like a striking falcon to Burks’s gun wrist.
It was all over in a moment—a powerful wrench with his wrist, a knee-kick upward to Burks’s arm, and Agent X was in possession of a serviceable accurate police special.
In spite of his dislike for lethal weapons, few persons could shoot with more deadly accuracy than Secret Agent X. The gun was half raised, lying easily in his palm, when Sergeant Keegan drew his gun. The revolver in X’s hand bucked, and then there was no longer a gun in Keegan’s hand. It had been knocked two feet behind him and had all but taken the sergeant’s fingers along with it.
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 7 Page 34