X slammed up the receiver and left the booth. Why hadn’t Betty heeded his warning? And it was not like her to leave town without leaving word with him.
In desperation, he took Esler’s cab and drove to her apartment, hoping to find a note there from the girl. But there was nothing except a cold emptiness about the place.
His plan, his trap—it had to work now. Some sixth sense warned him that Betty was actually in the gang’s power. Only by capturing a part of that pack of human wolves could he hope to pick up the trail of the girl.
Ten minutes before midnight, X slewed the taxi around the corner at Cabot and Oak Point Avenue. Instinctively, he knew that the shadows around the nearby warehouse were peopled with masked, hopheaded killers. As he brought the cab to a halt, he sensed motion all about him—men slinking in the shadows. Was he to lead them into the warehouse where Bates, Hobart and their men waited to subdue the gang with threatening guns and tear gas, or was he caught in his own web?
X got out of the cab. A man came shuffling along the sidewalk, head lowered and hands in his pockets. X waited. The man came up and flicked the beam of a flashlight on X’s face. X saw that the man with the light was masked. But he was a dope fiend, no doubt of that. Had the others, the real leaders of the gang obeyed his newsreel summons?
“What’s the job, chief?” the man whispered.
X commanded: “Bring the rest of the boys. We’re going into that warehouse. There’re some crated silks and furs inside. I got the whole job mapped out. There ain’t a copper for blocks around here.”
The masked man put his fingers to his lips and sounded a soft, owl-like whistle.
They came out of the darkness, the masked men with killer’s eyes. There were perhaps a score of them. They surrounded the Agent, waiting impatiently for his directions.
“Don’t draw no gats,” X whispered. “This is a cinch, I says.”
He led the way to the door of the warehouse and took hold of the latch. Was it merely imagination, or was that metal latch colder than the air that surrounded it? After all, it was a cold night. He lifted the latch.
THE DOOR swung suddenly out of X’s hands. He sprang back, reached for his gas gun. But his hand remained poised in mid-air as a stiffened form pitched forward to his feet. A cold draft, like that from an immense refrigerator came from the door of the warehouse.
“Cripes!” a man at X’s elbow whispered. “The freezing death! Who is this guy?” and he pointed at the frozen man on the ground.
X took but one glance at the man on the ground. The man was one of Harvey Bates’s best operatives. Then Bates and Hobart, inside the warehouse….
“Hey, Ham!” came Zerna’s strident voice. She was elbowing through the crowd of criminals behind Agent X. “Ham, you gotta do something. They got no right to treat a woman that way!” Zerna reached X, seized his arm and shook him.
“What woman?” X demanded, his heart drumming dully against his ribs.
“Why, Betty Dale!” And at that instant, Zerna flashed the brilliant beam of a flashlight on X’s face.
X knew he was caught. While his lips quickly said, “Why the hell should I care what they do with Betty Dale,” he had been counting on the darkness to mask the anxiety that must have showed in his eyes. Zerna had been expecting something of the sort, and for that reason had flashed on her light at that moment.
But if Zerna had noticed that pained expression on the Agent’s face, she concealed her knowledge cleverly. “Maybe you don’t, Ham, but when I see those devils makin’ a dope fiend out of an innocent girl like her, I get mad.”
“Where is this girl you’re so anxious about?” asked X. He was walking into a trap. He wanted to walk into a trap.
“Out on the yacht,” Zerna said. “They’re going to make a hop-head out of her. I’ll take you out in the launch.”
In spite of pangs of fear for Betty Dale that knifed his heart, X managed to comply to Zerna’s request without the slightest indication of anxiety. There was no doubt in his mind but that Zerna had spoken the truth for the first time in a long while. Betty Dale was in the hands of the criminals. And they would use the Agent’s love for her as a powerful weapon to gain their own ends.
CHAPTER X
Two Minutes to Death
AGENT X left the masked dopesters, without a word of explanation, and followed Zerna down to the river front and out onto the pier to join the woman, where a motor launch was tied. Zerna pushed ahead of him, climbed down the ladder, and got in under the wheel of the boat. X untied the painter, and as the motor started, sprang from the pier.
Zerna handled the speedy craft well, while X pretended to relax on the leather-upholstered seat beside her. Once away into midstream, Zerna pushed the throttle to the limit, and the boat seemed to skim along on the mist that pressed close to the surface of the water.
Zerna’s green eyes seemed to possess catlike ability to see in darkness. She handled the boat with a recklessness born of desperation. But X knew that she was desperate, not because of any feeling for Betty Dale, but because she knew she was utterly alone with her worst enemy—Secret Agent X.
They had passed Fort Schuyler and had entered the deeper waters of the Sound. Zerna cut the speed of the craft somewhat and piped a shrill blast on the whistle. Her signal was immediately answered by a deeper note coming from near at hand. A little farther on, X made out the white, ghostly form of a steam yacht riding at anchor with a smaller gasoline cruiser in tow.
The right hand of Agent X had been busy in his pocket. He drew it out now as the steam yacht signaled again. Zerna’s hand went out to touch the button that operated the electrical whistle of the launch, but the Agent’s left hand darted forward and closed over her wrist. It seemed almost that he could feel her pulse jump as his fingers touched her.
“No,” said X softly. And as he spoke, his right hand, holding a hypodermic syringe, joined its mate.
A frightened oath whispered across Zerna’s lips as the needle entered her flesh. She struggled briefly against the hold the powerful narcotic was taking, then subsided in the Agent’s arms.
X cut the ignition switch and allowed the boat to drift in the direction of the yacht. Then he climbed over the cockpit and slipped silently into the icy water.
Long, powerful strokes brought Agent X to the stern of the boat. He caught the rope that towed the gasoline cruiser and climbed hand over hand up the rail of the yacht. In another moment, he was moving along the dark deck, his water-soaked clothing making a telltale swishing sound.
A FLASHLIGHT cut a clean swath through the darkness and centered on the Agent’s face. X staggered forward to fall, from pretended exhaustion, into a man’s arms.
“Agent X!” X whispered hoarsely. “Is he here? He’s impersonating me. He rounded up the gang some way, I think. I just escaped, swam out here to warn you guys.”
A masked man came within the rays of the flashlight held in the hands of the man who was supporting X. “Yes,” said the masked man quietly, “Agent X is here; right on deck, as a matter of fact. One of the crew picked out Zerna’s launch with the searchlight. It’s drifting at the stern. Zerna seems to be sleeping in it!”
X pulled quickly from the grasp of the man who had been supporting him. His hand started toward the pocket where his gas was concealed, but stopped halfway. In the dim light, black monstrous shapes loomed menacingly, surrounded the Agent with gleaming cylinders of the cold that killed.
“Don’t move, Secret Agent X,” said the masked man. “We prefer not to kill you at the present moment.” The masked man came through the circle of hairy monsters, stepped boldly up to X and began to search his pockets. But his grasping fingers never reached the Agent’s gas pistol. X’s left fist cracked up to the point of the masked face’s chin, while his right snatched out his gas gun. It was a certainty that the cold-killers would not open up their deadly liquid gas as long as one of their own bosses would have shared the same fate as Agent X. As the masked man collapsed on the deck, the r
ing of hairy monsters closed in. Yet as long as X kept near the unconscious masked man, he knew that he was safe from the killing cold.
He fired the full charge of his gas pistol at the heads of those monster men. But, evidently, because they were amply protected against the effects of their own weapon, the Agent’s anesthetizing gas seemed to have little effect. It was a hand to hand scuffle from there on.
The hairy men tried to smash X’s skull half a dozen times with hasty blows from the metal cylinders in their hands. But their weapons were too heavy to easily follow the weaving, bobbing form of Agent X as every one of his supple muscles was brought into play in swift, deft dodges and in lightning bolt punches that flattened two of the hairy forms on the deck before the fight was well started.
Suddenly, a door in the wall of the cabin opened. The blaze of unexpected light caused X to glance toward it. A hoarse, pained cry ripped from his throat as he saw within the cabin something that made him immediately unconscious of personal danger.
Lying on a bunk in the cabin, her clothes twisted and wrinkled from continual tossing, her golden hair disheveled and snarled, was Betty Dale. Muscles of her arms and legs twitched convulsively. Her lips moved, whispering, babbling about the nightmare-things that peopled a dope dream.
Instantly, the Agent’s arms were pinned behind him by the furry monsters that had taken immediate advantage of his shock. Hands rifled his pockets, removed all his special devices and tossed them over the rail. A man stepped from the cabin where Betty Dale lay. He, too, wore a mask over his face.
“Miss Dale’s future is not a particularly bright one,” said the masked man. “Our dealings with dope have taught us that no matter how fine a character a woman may be before she acquires the habit, she eventually ends in the gutter. It is our hope that your affection is so great that you will not permit this thing to go farther.”
THE HEART of Agent X seemed encased in ice. Better far that they had killed Betty outright than that they should subject her to slow degradation of body and soul in this manner.
“Name your price,” he said dully.
“Very well,” said the man in the mask. “First of all, let me compliment you on discovering our secret communication method depending upon newsreels and Esler’s map. The trap you designed for us was a failure only because of one tiny error: you made the mistake of supposing that Hamilton Esler was the only leader of our organization. Naturally, when we discovered that the newsreel had been altered, we suspected you of doing the tampering, because our real director had not changed the films.
“Our killers arrived at the warehouse long before your men. And under the threat of the killing cold, they surrendered—after our men had made an example of one of your men. Both the redheaded detective, and the big, square-shouldered man named Bates, are locked in the hold of this boat, together with their eleven living operatives. The presence of Bates told us that you were the man behind the trap, since we were already familiar with Bates because of our eavesdropping on the orders you gave him when you were in James Starbuck’s apartment.”
“Get to the point,” said X.
“Very well. You and your men are to die. There is no alternative. But it is within your power to save Betty Dale from a life that is worse than death. You seem to be a man of great financial resources. You may purchase Betty Dale’s life for a check made payable to Hamilton Esler in the amount of fifty thousand dollars. In addition, you will tell us where you have hidden Esler. Betty Dale will be liberated immediately when the check is paid. But, if you do not pay, I swear to drag her through every hell conceivable.”
“I see,” said X. “Nevertheless, I should like some time to think this over.”
“Certainly,” the masked man agreed. To the fur-clad men: “Lock him in the hold until he decides.”
A MINUTE later, X found himself in a cramped little room in the hold of the boat, chained by the left wrist to the steel wall. Just outside the door of the room, one of the fur-clad killers was on guard.
A look at these black hairy monsters beneath electric light showed the Agent that they were men wearing fur suits, hoods, and masks which evidently protected them from the freezing death they dealt. A small opening at the bottom of the masks enabled them to speak, but could be immediately closed when they went to work with their gas. These masks not only protected their faces, but also their lungs. Too much oxygen, such as was rapidly liberated from the frigid, liquid air was quite as harmful as too little: it was actually capable of burning up the lungs, if breathed in too great quantities.
X had not required time to think over the ultimatum he had been handed by the criminals. He would have gladly paid the price they asked to save Betty Dale. He had been simply stalling for time in hope of seeing some way to save Bates, Hobart and their companions as well.
No sooner had he found himself alone than his right hand pulled out his watch and snapped the gold chain attached to it. Then he put the watch behind him, pressed it against the wall, and opened the back of the case with his thumbnail. Though his watch was the size of an ordinary pocket watch, the actual movement was no larger than that of a lady’s wrist watch. The rest of the room in the case was occupied by a coiled ribbon-saw of the finest steel.
With this keen tool in his possession, X went to work on the chain attached to his left wrist. The softer metal yielded quickly before the tiny teeth of the saw and twenty minutes later, he was free. He then dropped watch and saw on the floor and called to his guard.
The fur-clad man came into the room and approached X fearlessly, for the Agent held his left arm behind him as though it were still chained to the wall. Through the thick glass lenses in the man’s mask, X saw his little black eyes, the pupils constricted to mere needle points. As he had expected, these servants of the gang were kept kill-crazy with liberal rations of dope. The man would make an excellent tool in the clever plan that was rapidly forming in X’s brain.
“How much money would it take to buy you?” X asked. “Would a couple of grand fix things up so I could get away from here?”
The man laughed harshly through the mouth opening in the fur mask. “Don’t act crazy! I know the guys I’m working for, see. They’d dope-starve me, see? I’d go nuts.”
X had asked this question for but one purpose, to hear the man’s voice. Suddenly he lunged forward from the wall. The fingers of his right hand were talons of steel, striking at the man’s throat. At the same time his left arm swung around in a powerful haymaker, the single remaining iron link on his wrist catching the guard at the side of his fur-clad head. In spite of the protection his headgear offered, the guard dropped to the floor with scarcely a groan.
X dropped at the man’s side, quickly found the fasteners that buckled the fur garment in place. He removed the suit, hood, mask and heavy, gauntlet gloves and laid them aside. Then he slipped out of the taxi driver’s uniform that was part of his disguise as Esler, put on the fur suit and hood, and then dressed the unconscious guard in Esler’s uniform.
Taking the makeup material from his own face was a task that required time and steady nerves, for he wanted to remove it and at the same time keep it as nearly intact as possible. For a moment, the light saw what no living person save Betty Dale had seen—the real face of Agent X, hidden, a moment later, by the fur mask that was part of the guard’s uniform. Then, with infinite care, he replaced the plastic makeup material on the face of the guard, shaping it to conform with new facial contours.
The guard did not now resemble Hamilton Esler as closely as X had, but after all, that was not what X had tried to achieve. He wanted to be able to pass the guard off as Secret Agent X.
THE MAN already showed signs of reviving, and X braced him against the wall, held his head between his two hands, and stared steadily at the man’s eyes. Never had the tremendous will power of the Agent been called upon for a greater test of hypnotism.
As the guard’s eyes met those of X, the Agent repeated in a soft, compelling voice: “You are Agent X
. You are Agent X. When anyone asks you who you are, you will tell them that you are Agent X. But you are also Elisha Pond because Agent X is Elisha Pond. When you sign a check you will sign it with the name Elisha Pond. Why?”
“Because,” repeated the man mechanically, “I am Agent X. And when I sign a check, I sign it Elisha Pond.”
X smiled to himself. The plastic mind of the dope fiend was completely in his possession. As long as he remained in the same room with the man, he would be able to dictate his every action.
As soon as he was sure of his subject, X got to his feet, went to the door, where, in the voice of the guard, he shouted for help at the top of his lungs. As soon as he heard footsteps on the steel stairs leading down into the hold, he pivoted, went back to the guard, and lifted the helpless man in his arms—only to throw him down again as soon as he was certain that some one had entered the room behind him.
X turned around. Two men wearing black masks, several members of the crew, and three of the fur-clad cold-killers had crowded into the room. X pointed to the man on the floor. Through the opening in the fur mask he wore, he said: “The devil tried a getaway, chief. Look, he had a saw in his watch. He cut clear through the chain and tried to rush me.”
One of the masked men nodded his head. “He was just stalling for time. He’ll make his decision at once.” He pulled a check and fountain pen from his pocket. The check was made out for $50,000 and lacked only the signature. The masked man held the check out to the hypnotized guard. “Will you sign this?”
The guard’s dopey eyes were glued on those of Agent X. “I will sign it,” he said tonelessly. “I will sign it with the name Elisha Pond.”
“Why?” demanded the masked man. “Elisha Pond is an old coot with plenty of dough, but you’re Agent X.”
“I am Agent X,” repeated the guard. “But I sign checks Elisha Pond. Agent X is Elisha Pond.”
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 7 Page 40