Murphy’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe he’s squawked already. Somebody has.” He seized X by the throat and squeezed until the Agent choked out a plea for mercy. Squid laughed. “He wouldn’t have the guts to squeal with the Brain runnin’ things. You get him out of here, Lefty. Get him a doc. If he checks in, that’s okeh. But you can’t leave him here and no doc in. The rest of you guys,” Murphy swung on the other three gunmen, “I gotta give you hell.”
As he leaned heavily on Lefty and groaned along up the dark stone steps to the dingy street outside, an ironical smile twisted the lips of Secret Agent X. So far so good. His impersonation of Lewey Cassino had passed Squid Murphy’s careful scrutiny. The slight wound in his arm precluded any idea that his apparent agony was not genuine.
He had learned that Squid Murphy’s gang consisted of the old Wolf Hollis crowd, to which had been added a number of young punks who were getting a kick out of killing. The G-men were out to mop up the remains of the Hollis crowd. Possibly the federal agents knew as little about the motive behind the white-cross murders as did Agent X.
But because he had passed Squid Murphy, was not reason to believe that smooth sailing lay ahead. Lefty Laughlin, who was at the moment struggling to get X into a car, was obviously Lewey Cassino’s best friend. Friendship in the underworld usually had an eggshell thinness, but even so Lefty probably knew much of Lewey Cassino that X didn’t know. The tiniest slip might give the Secret Agent away.
About seven blocks from where X had been introduced to Squid Murphy, Lefty Laughlin had a bed behind a door that could be locked. He carried X up a flight of narrow stairs that light and broom had never invaded, stretched X out on the bed, and pulled off the Agent’s shoes. Fists on hips, Lefty regarded X solemnly. “You got to have a doc.”
X rolled his head on a pillow that crackled with the straw inside it. “I’m doin’ fine,” he insisted. Here was another danger. Members of the medical profession the country over knew how to identify Agent X. There was an old shrapnel wound, which he had received during the war, which had left a scar that had taken the form of a jagged letter “X.”
“I said you was goin’ to have a doc.” Lefty reached over and took the automatic from X’s pocket. “Just in case you try something screwy,” he said as he left the room.
Then would have been a good time to beat a hasty retreat, but it was such situations that Agent X enjoyed most. Furthermore, he was determined to stop the white-cross killings. That couldn’t be accomplished by running away.
Less than five minutes elapsed before the door of the room opened. X’s eyes were closed. He was groaning and rolling around on the bed, muttering as though in delirium. He recognized Lefty’s voice, as the latter indicated the patient. And he recognized something else—a rank, strangling odor of pipe tobacco of nauseating strength. Agent X knew of but one man who smoked such tobacco and still miraculously kept his health. The smoke had to be from Dr. Stuart Ormand’s pipe. Through lowered lids, X stole a glance at the man with the foul-smelling, under-slung pipe.
Dr. Ormand was six feet of man in his prime. He had a well-developed, determined jaw, square teeth, and steady, courageous eyes behind glistening, rimless glasses. His hair was a rippling of silver. Not only was Dr. Stuart Ormand a capable, conscientious physician, but he was a criminal psychologist and amateur detective of no mean reputation. His book, Potential Murderers, which dealt with the type of persons who, given motive and opportunity, commit murder, was supplementary reading in police schools. Had Lefty Laughlin searched all over Manhattan, he couldn’t have found a physician less apt to help a wounded criminal, than Dr. Stuart Ormand.
Ormand was clever. He was cool. If he discovered the fact that the man on the bed was not Lewey Cassino, he would know what to do. If he discovered that X was not nearly so bad off as he appeared to be, he would very probably reveal this deception to Lefty. Whatever happened, Agent X was in a bad spot.
But when the blow-up came, what would happen to Dr. Ormand? Without regard for his own predicament, the Agent’s chief concern was to see the doctor safely through trouble. For there wasn’t a chance in the world that this bulldog of a medico would submit to any of Laughlin’s bullying.
CHAPTER III
G-Gun Serenade
THOUGH he was a man of infinite patience, Harvey Bates was also a man of action. His instructions, from Agent X, had been to obtain what information he could from the unconscious G-man Jackson. Inasmuch as the effect of a dose of X’s gas sometimes required hours to wear off, it looked very much as though Bates’s immediate future was to be filled chiefly with pipe smoke and waiting.
He removed the mask he had worn on entering the G-man’s room, mopped his large, wholesome face with his handkerchief, and sat down. Presently it occurred to him that he might serve his chief by snooping about a little.
There was almost nothing in the room to connect it with an agent of Uncle Sam, for Jackson was a careful man and an intelligent investigator. Except for the far-flung secret organization which X operated through Harvey Bates, the Agent would probably never have known that a G-man named Jackson was getting tips in regard to scheduled white-cross killings.
But when Bates searched a wallet that X had left beside the G-man, he discovered a slip of pasteboard on which Jackson had recorded the tip. Information, Jackson had scribbled, told that Randolph Corlears was to have been the victim and also the approximate time and place in which the murder was to occur. Most of this information, Bates had overheard when Jackson was reporting to his chief. But at the top of the pasteboard card was a telephone number which had obviously been written some time before the other information, judging by the way the penciling was smudged. Was it possible that this telephone number was the source of Jackson’s information? Decidedly, it was a hunch worth working on.
Bates went from the bathroom to the phone and called a number which was listed in no telephone directory, in order that its absolute secrecy might be assured. In a few seconds he was talking with one of his own operatives. Bates asked for information relating to the telephone number the G-man had written on the cardboard. When he had that information, Bates leaned back in his chair, stuffed his pipe with extreme care, and lighted it deliberately. Here was a mystery, indeed.
The phone number on the G-man’s memorandum was that of a woman who had been making history in the tabloids lately. Pam-ela Dean was the particular passion of enough wealthy business men to make front-page news seven days out of the week. About the only government agent who might have been able to afford Pamela Dean’s charming company was the director of the mint, Bates decided, and G-man Henry Jackson’s salary was rather lean, considering the dangers his duties compelled him to face. It looked very much as though Bates’s hunch was founded on fact. Though the connection between a Gold Coast pet and the underworld was just a bit hazy.
Nevertheless, Bates decided to pay a call on Pamela Dean. Bates secured the gold Department of Justice badge from Jackson’s wallet, locked the G-man in the bathroom, and left the dingy room to taxi to the west end of town, where Pamela Dean’s apartment overlooked the river.
A French maid was eloquent in regard to Miss Dean’s absence, but the gold badge Bates had appropriated worked its magic. He was permitted to wait for forty-five minutes before Pamela Dean appeared.
She was breath-taking. The blue stuff of which her gown was fashioned had been particularly created to match her eyes. Her skin had a dark, warm flush. Her hair was a deep-brown and wavy. Her lips bore a warmer welcome than Bates had any reason to expect, and when he grasped her outstretched hand, he was painfully conscious of the immensity of his own powerful digits.
“Any friend of Mr. Jackson is a friend of mine,” she said generously, in a voice that would have guaranteed her radio appeal even in the absence of television.
The French maid brought cocktails. Bates tasted his and set it aside. Here was a situation which Agent X would have met magnificently, but which Bates feared greatly he might fumble. He felt that P
amela Dean’s blue eyes fronted a brain that could think circles around his. There was not a particle of use in his edging into the subject foremost in his mind.
“Gave my friend, Jackson, a tip tonight?” he boomed.
Pamela Dean pursed her lips and examined polished fingernails. “About what?” she asked guardedly.
“Mr. Corlears’ scheduled death,” Bates plunged—too deeply, he realized in another moment. For the girl was back with:
“And were you in time to prevent this—this horrible tragedy?”
And that was a question best detoured. “Your tips have always been useful,” he said. “Wonder if you’ve got more?”
Pamela Dean stood up, took graceful steps to the window, seemed to meditate upon the darkness and the flicker of distant lights, returned, and lighted a cigarette.
“You realize that I am in a position of grave danger,” she said. “Yet I have voluntarily given you information which has been useful to you. Mr. Jackson has been fair enough in promising that he would not attempt to learn the source of that information. He was simply satisfied with its authenticity, as you must be. Yes, I have more information, not fully developed at this time.”
She paused, her eyes seemed to fathom the unfathomable. “The sign of sudden death hovers over the business house directed by Aaron Malthus. It is utterly impossible for me to elaborate on that statement, for the simple reason that I know nothing further.” She smiled quickly. “It may help you, if you make the most of it. I promise more news just as soon as I can obtain it. Trust me, as I have trusted you.”
And Harvey Bates left the apartment filled with the desire to trust Pamela Dean to the fullest; and at the same time, he was troubled by a wholly inexplicable something.
Perhaps that something was the deadly scrutiny of the eye of an automatic which appeared in a slightly raised window on the ground floor of the building as Bates wandered out on the sidewalk….
AGENT X came out of his faked delirium, to lie on his back and stare, dull-eyed, at Dr. Stuart Ormand. The doctor folded his arms, contentedly inhaled the poisonous fumes from his pipe, and challenged Lefty Laughlin with his eyes.
The dish-faced Laughlin was standing near the bed, his automatic in his hand. “You’re goin’ to get busy on my pal, Doc. You’re goin’ to fix up that wound of his or get one in your own belly—which you won’t get over in a hurry.”
Dr. Ormand laughed coolly. “Do you know what I think? I think, if I may resort to the vernacular, that you are some sort of a punk. I haven’t any intention of aiding your companion, even though it were a matter of life and death, which it isn’t.”
Agent X reached up toward Laughlin’s gun. “Let me plug the guy, Lefty,” he said. But his ruse to get hold of Lefty’s gun didn’t work. Lefty back-stepped. Teeth on edge, he said:
“You got any idea who we are, Doc?”
Ormand nodded. “You are Lefty Laughlin. The man on the bed is Lewey Cassino. Both of you gentlemen were formerly associated with Wolf Hollis; probably the only reason why you are now considered public enemies. I don’t think you’re quite that important.”
X sat on the edge of the bed and jammed his feet into his shoes. “I’m goin’ to croak that guy, Lefty,” he declared. “I like to be respected.”
There came a rapid tattoo of knuckles on the door of the room. Dr. Ormand smiled. “The law, no doubt.”
“No doubt!” Lefty jeered. “Happens to be one of Squid Murphy’s boys.”
He backed to the door, so that he could keep an eye on Ormand. He unlatched the door and pulled it open. One of the younger toughs X had seen in Murphy’s place, came into the room. He was out of breath and pale.
“Lam,” he jerked at Lefty. “It’s that damned leak again. This joint is surrounded by Feds again. We got a chance over the roof, but—” He looked at Ormand, who seemed bent on smoking out everybody in the building. “What’s that?” the tough asked, nodding at Ormand.
Lefty didn’t answer. He swung on Agent X. “Can you stagger along, pal? We gotta move. You get that, or has that slug scrambled the old brain? G-men outside, see?”
X nodded. “I’ll make out okeh. We sock this doc and leave him here.”
“Like hell!” Lefty snarled. “He goes along for our protection. The G-men shoot, but not if there’s a chance of hitting somebody on their side of the fence.” He got at the back of Dr. Ormand and jabbed his gun into his spine. “Pocket that stove, Doc. That soft coal you smoke makes me dizzy.”
The young hood grabbed the pipe and jammed it into the doctor’s pocket. “You’re a sap, Lefty,” he said, and brought out a gun from Ormand’s pocket, a gun which the doctor would surely have drawn had he been permitted to pocket his pipe himself.
They left the room, the young tough in the lead, then Agent X, walking unsteadily. Lefty and his hostage brought up the rear. They started toward the stair. The young tough stopped, turned around. His face was white. A creak of the steps had warned him that the federal agents had entered the building. The young tough darted around his companions, and led toward the end of the hall. There was a window there that opened on well-soaped grooves. They clanked out on a fire escape.
“Try anything funny, Doc,” Lefty warned, “and from here on, you’re just a grease spot on the alley pavement.” To X he said: “Step on it, Lewey.”
X faked a groan and stumbled up a flight of iron skeleton steps to a small platform. A simple iron ladder extended to the attic windows. This was evidently loose in its staples, for the young tough was sliding it up two feet farther to hang its hooked upper extremities over the eaves.
The wound in X’s arm had stopped bleeding. He had taken particular pains to inflict it in such a spot that it would not hamper his movements. Still, he climbed the swaying iron ladder using one arm only. If fortune permitted him to carry his impersonation further, he did not want to do anything that would arouse suspicion in the future.
They gained the roof, where asphalt surfacing absorbed every light ray, and the starry sky hung oppressively low. They moved toward the western edge of the roof, Lefty goading the doctor on and whispering threats. The young tough was keyed up with hop. He heard the squeak of an opening skylight even before Agent X realized that some one in the building had divined their routes of escape.
As the skylight bobbed up, the young tough swung around with a vicious oath. Over the sill of the skylight, a G-man whipped out a shot. The young tough kicked out, landed a heel somewhere in the Fed’s face. The G-man doubled over backwards and thumped and rolled down the steps. The skylight covering fell back. Up through the opening, came a warning cry. G-men on the floor below heard their companion’s shot.
The young tough cursed, pivoted, and caught X by the coat front. “Lewey, you and me have got to swing that fire-escape ladder up here on the roof. We’ll use it to bridge the gap to the next building. If we can hold back the Feds until the ladder is in place, we got a clean getaway. You, Lefty, sand that guy near the skylight. When the Feds start up those steps give the guy the works and dump him through the opening.”
IT WAS good strategy, X realized. The body of Dr. Ormand, for the doctor would surely be a corpse by the time Lefty “gave him the works,” would fill the narrow stairway and demand immediate attention from the Feds. Even a ten-second delay might mean the difference between safety and a hazardous battle with the G-men. But it was the sort of strategy X could not permit.
X turned with surprising speed, seized Lefty’s gun. “Gimme that, pal. I don’t like the way this doc parts his hair. If there’s goin’ to be any bumping to do, I ought to do it. With one arm I won’t be any use movin’ that ladder.”
“Lewey’s right,” the young tough said. And Laughlin relinquished his gun to Agent X. Lefty and the other crook started back for the fire-escape ladder. X drove the muzzle of Lefty’s automatic into the doctor’s midsection and pushed him back so that his heels struck the edge of the skylight.
“You’re a sap, Cassino,” whispered Dr. Ormand. “
You can’t get by with anything like this.”
“Shut up, Ormand!”
“You know me?”
“Who don’t? Everybody but Lefty. He would pick a guy like you. When I tilt this gat toward the sky and let it blow, you jump back down the skylight. Do you get it? I’m not exactly what I seem to be.”
“What’s this? Sort of a death-bed conversion, Cassino?”
“Never mind. You’re not going to get killed. I’m letting you off. In return, you can delay the G-men by feeding them a line.” For X still hoped that by sticking with Lefty Laughlin, he would eventually get inside information regarding the white-cross killings.
But at the very moment when the federal men could be heard running along the hall below, Dr. Ormand went into action. His left hand shot out to X’s gun wrist. His right rammed in just below X’s ribs. It was a good punch. It had steam and surprise.
X staggered back a step. Ormand got the automatic. But before he could turn the gun around, X’s right hand had brushed upwards to a vest pocket, curled into a fist, and lashed out toward Dr. Ormand’s face. He pulled the punch short and at the same time flicked a secret catch on the cigarette lighter he had procured from his pocket.
G-men were at the foot of the narrow steps leading to the skylight, and in another moment, so was Dr. Ormand. The anesthetizing gas took immediate effect. A gentle push was all that was required to topple him over the edge of the skylight.
X turned around, lost a precious second trying to see where Lefty and the other crook had gone. Apparently they had either deserted him entirely or supposed he knew the route they intended to take, for they were nowhere in sight.
A G-man had evidently hurdled the form of the unconscious doctor and was running up the steps. It was only a matter of seconds before the roof would be swarming with federal agents, any one of whom would have found a fine feather for his cap if he could bring back Lewey Cassino dead. And there wasn’t a chance in the world of X convincing these manhunters that he was not Public Enemy Cassino.
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 7 Page 44