On the paper was written in a scrawl of black ink: “Good luck to the cleverest criminologist of us all.”
The brief message was signed with the unmistakable signature of Dr. Stuart Ormand.
Only one conclusion could be drawn from this note. Dr. Ormand, himself a criminologist, had recognized the fact that Agent X deserved notoriety of another sort than the type city police records gave him.
Flattering as Dr. Ormand’s opinion was, X dismissed the matter immediately, turned to his telephone, and called the headquarters of the secret organization maintained for him by Harvey Bates. It was Bates himself who answered, a rather crestfallen Bates who had to tell of how, when he had bent over to give G-man Jackson an additional shot of dope, the G-man had come out of a faked coma and struck Bates on the head. There had been a struggle in which the partially stunned Bates had allowed the G-man to give him the slip.
“Don’t worry about that,” X said kindly. “I guess there are enough mistakes made in this world for us all to have a share in them.”
Bates further reported that Betty Dale had just called up. At the moment, she was getting Sally Vergane’s life story over a table at the Milan Café.
X hung up, changed his clothes, replenished his pockets with makeup kit and other special devices, and once more adopted the disguise of Lewey Cassino that he had employed on the night before.
He took a taxi to within a block of the café Bates had mentioned. He got to the sidewalk, after a cautious look in all directions, pulled his hat well over his eyes, and hurried toward the café. As Lewey Cassino, he would not know a moment’s safety until he again had the protection of Squid Murphy.
He saw Sally Vergane come out of the café. The girl turned, came down the street toward X. She carried her head high and looked neither toward the loafers, who eyed her up and down, nor toward the cars that cruised in close to the gutters of the narrow street. As soon as she had passed, X wheeled and followed her, fell into step beside her, and nipped the elbow of her coat.
“Sally,” he whispered, “it’s me, Lewey Cassino. I gotta get out of circulation quick. The cops—”
“Don’t tell me, sap,” she said with frosty quietness. “G-guys have practically camped on my doorsill, askin’ for you. We’re probably tailed now. Quick! I got a car around the corner.”
“That’s the stuff, baby.” X gave the girl’s arm a quick squeeze. She gave him a contemptuous glance and said: “Don’t get ideas. I’m doin’ this for Wolf Hollis on account of what you was to Wolf.”
SALLY opened the door of a wire-wheeled junker, got in, and left the door open for the supposed Lewey. X got in beside her, and she drove recklessly and in silence straight to the old speakeasy that Squid Murphy had remodeled for his own purpose. She steered the junker around back of the building, turned it into a garage with a steel roller door, got out, and closed the door and locked it.
“You probably got something comin’ your way from Squid,” she warned him. “Lefty tried to tell him how you held off the G-men while Lefty and Doxie made their getaway. Squid says one man couldn’t keep off a pack of Feds unless he was in cahoots with them some way. Squid thinks you’ve been singin’ to the Feds. So you better think up some Irish balm to hand Squid.”
“I’ll handle him,” X promised. “He ain’t the big noise he sounds like.”
They went through a system of electrically operated doors until they at last arrived at the sanctum where Squid Murphy’s fishy eyes examined them through a shuttered opening before they were admitted.
Sally Vergane walked through the door. Agent X was pulled into the room, with Squid Murphy’s fingers clawing at his coat front. Eight of Murphy’s mobsmen were in the room. None of them had anything but icy glances for Lewey Cassino.
“Where in hell’ve you been?” demanded Murphy. He hauled the unresisting Agent so that he could stick his nose up into his face.
“Duckin’ the Feds,” X explained. “I was tryin’ to get back here, but I didn’t want to bring a squad of G-men behind me.”
“You don’t like G-men, I guess. Not much! How much dough they been payin’ you for squealin’, rat?”
“Nuts! If I got close enough to a G-man to squeal, it’d be with my last breath. Me squeal? You’re nuts!”
Squid Murphy backed away. “We’re goin’ to find out,” he said in a husky voice. “Damn’ near every job we’ve pulled, there’s been a gang of Feds on the scene. When we crossed out John Phelps, there was a Fed in the house where this Phelps guy was goin’. He didn’t get a crack at any of the boys, but that was his fault and not yours. And you got the nerve to come back here to chisel in on the swag. Well, McAdam paid off to the Brain early this evening. We got our share and split it without countin’ you in.”
So the mob killed for money. They were hired butchers, directed by the Brain. X mentally reviewed the white-cross killings. A few of the victims had been wealthy persons whose fortunes had gone to one or two comparatively poor heirs. Those heirs had evidently split their inheritances with the Brain to pay for murder. But the majority of persons killed had been associated in some sort of business partnership. Usually the business was in a bad way, as in the case of the Corlears and McAdam firm. Many of these partnerships carried heavy life insurance of such nature that when one partner died, the other, or others, collected the insurance.
He remembered what Ingram had said, when the body of John Phelps had been found. Ingram had said that his insurance firm would suffer rather than the company in which Malthus and Phelps had been associated. Then that was why Malthus had been so upset. Malthus had made a deal with the Brain to remove Phelps in order that Malthus could collect the partnership insurance. Malthus was a murderer, and he had acted—
Some of the toughs in the room were taking off their coats. One of them leered at X. “Goin’ to get roughed up a little, ain’t ya? I’m goin’ to like this a lot, smashin’ the bones in your body. You always had the notion you were higher up than us account of you used to tote a gun for Wolf Hollis. You always—”
“Shut up!” Squid Murphy snapped.
A hush fell over those within the room. Somewhere, seemingly far away, some one was yelling in a raucous voice.
“Just a newsboy, Squid,” Sally Vergane said.
“Shut up. That’s what I want to hear.” Murphy went to the little shuttered opening in the door that was nearest to the street. He opened the shutter, and the newsboy’s voice quavered into the room:
“Ex-tree! Ex-tree! Body of Lewey Cassino found! Read all about it. Ex-tree!”
Squid Murphy slammed the shutter, pivoted, and flattened himself against the door. His face was black with hate. “So!” he said, huskily. “Boys, you know who we got right here in our family circle? No wonder we got G-men on our tail. This guy we thought was Lewey Cassino is Secret Agent X!”
CHAPTER VII
Double-Faced Double-Cross
X CENTERED a ring of guns that had killed often enough before and would certainly kill again. Murphy was behind his men. His words lashed furiously:
“There’s no foolin’ this time, Mr. X. You’re goin’ to die on the spot. To hell with the noise, boys. Burn him down just as if he was Corlears or any of the others. We’ll take our chances with the cops. Let him have it!”
And then, the lights went out. Simultaneously, there was a withering blast of gun-flame, its orange-red light illuminating a squirming figure on the floor in the center of the killers’ circle.
“The Brain’s here!” whispered Murphy, hoarsely.
“Want me to strike a light, boss?”
“Hell no! He’d shoot you down where you stand. Hold everything. Listen!”
The door opened, and the monotonous voice of the Brain sounded within the smoke-choked room:
“Murphy, you’re finished. This is the last leak. I told you to find the squealer, and you’ve failed. Another of Aaron Malthus’s partners was scheduled to die tonight, as you know. G-men were on tap. They mowed down the rest o
f your boys like so much wheat. True, four G-men were also killed, but there’s no profit in killing G-men. They got Lefty Laughlin, one of your best men. Either you produce the squealer at once, or I turn on the light, Murphy. You know what that means? Eh? Speak up, before I blast out your remnant of a brain.”
“Turn on the light, Brain,” Murphy said. “Turn on the light, and I’ll show you the squealer. We got him right here. Lewey Cassino—”
“Nonsense!” the Brain interrupted. “Lewey Cassino couldn’t get close enough to a federal man to squeal. He’s wanted for murder.”
“No. Not Lewey Cassino. Cassino is dead. So is this guy.”
“You’re talking like an idiot,” came the voice of the Brain.
And then, from another portion of the room, came the Brain’s voice again in angry monotone: “Who said that? Who’s using my voice? Don’t move, anybody.”
And again came that twin voice of the Brain from about the center of the room. “He’s over here, you fools. He’s Agent X. You may have thought you killed him, but you didn’t. He’s making a mob of fools out of you. Don’t let him slip.”
Thus spoke Secret Agent X, in perfect imitation of the Brain’s voice, as he moved cautiously through the dark toward the door. He had dropped to the floor on the instant that the real Brain had turned out the lights. Only one of his would-be murderer’s bullets had touched him, and it had lodged in his perfect, bullet-proof vest.
In the basement room, all was confusion. The Brain was raging, snapping conflicting orders, for every order he gave was echoed by another order, given by Agent X. And X was moving steadily for the door, all the time ordering the men to remain exactly where they were.
“He’ll get through the door!” shouted the Brain. “Stop him. I’m the Brain. He’s the impostor.”
“Don’t mind him, boys!” shouted X. “I’m the Brain. Shoot at the next person who speaks, and shoot to kill!” He reached the door, opened it, slammed it without leaving the room. He flattened himself against the wall near the door, waiting, listening to the chorus of quick-drawn breath.
The Brain said: “Damn you! He’s given us the slip. Get through the door. You can catch him yet!”
There was only a moment’s hesitation before the whole gang rushed pell-mell through the door. When the last footstep had died away in the distance, Agent X drew a long breath.
“Brain,” he said quietly. “I’m still here, waiting for you. Just you and I alone. Shall we finish it?”
Absolute silence. X took a hesitant step forward. He took out his small flashlight, held it as far from his body as possible, and flashed it. The light drew no gun fire. He fanned the beam around the room. The place was empty and as silent as the grave. Either the Brain had slipped out with his mob or had taken an exit made especially for his own use. Agent X sighed. With the Brain still at large, the white-cross killings might go on and on.
He left the building by the back way. There was one more scheme he might try to trap the Brain. It was exceedingly dangerous. It threatened the very foundation of his organization, for he would deliberately make himself a prospective victim for the Brain’s murder machine.
As he hurried from Murphy’s hideout, the plan formed completely. Charles McAdam had paid the Brain money for killing McAdam’s partner, Corlears. Through partnership-plan life insurance, both the Brain and McAdam had benefited by the murder. Why couldn’t McAdam form a second partnership, with the idea of gaining by the same nefarious scheme? Why couldn’t Agent X, disguised as McAdam, form such a partnership? Who with? With himself, of course. Agent X would not only impersonate McAdam, but he would also act in the drama as McAdam’s partner. And for his partner, what better alias could he choose than that of Elisha Pond. Yes, that was the way—a fake firm formed by Elisha Pond and Charles McAdam, with Agent X the sole actor for both roles….
SALLY VERGANE had left Murphy’s hideout as soon as she realized that the Brain was on his way. After all, she realized that she had unknowingly brought X into the hideout and feared that the Brain might vent his rage upon her.
Unknown to Sally, she and X had been followed, not by G-men, it is true, but by a golden-haired, persistent little shadow, Betty Dale of the Herald. Betty had made it a point to leave the Milan Café a few minutes before Sally Vergane had. She had waited just around the corner in her coupé, and had successfully followed Sally and the supposed Lewey Cassino to the hideout.
No sooner had Sally Vergane appeared at the back of the hideout, than Betty Dale was on her trail, and this time, as on one other occasion, Sally Vergane’s trail led directly to the apartment house where Pamela Dean lived.
Sally went in the back way. A man stepped from a hiding place in the back entry and grunted a greeting to her. Sally told the man to come up. She wanted to talk with him.
Betty followed the woman and her bodyguard up the back steps. She watched them approach the door of Pamela Dean’s apartment. She watched Sally Vergane produce a key and unlock the door, after which Sally and her pug-faced bodyguard entered the apartment.
Wide-eyed with astonishment, Betty tiptoed toward the apartment door. Either Sally and her companion were contemplating larceny, or the unthinkable was true—this underworld woman, ex-moll of a notorious gangster, was that woman of fortune, Pamela Dean, herself.
Betty listened at the door but could detect no sound. Her heart jumping madly in her throat, she tried the door. It was locked, the key remaining in the lock. She opened her purse and took out a pair of peculiar, needle-nosed pliers. This was an “oustini” such as hotel thieves use to turn keys from the wrong side of the lock. This instrument, a souvenir which Agent X had taken from a petty thief, early in his career, had been of use to the girl reporter before this.
She managed the instrument skillfully, and unlocked the door. In another instant, she found herself cautiously breathing the perfumed atmosphere of Pamela Dean’s living room. There was the rumble of voices in the room just beyond.
Betty Dale tiptoed to the door of the bedroom and ventured a peek inside. The pug-faced watchman was there and also Sally Vergane. Or was it Pamela Dean? Actually, she was witnessing a metamorphosis. Sally Vergane had slipped a luxurious, dark-brown wig over her closely cropped blonde hair. Her dress lay on a chair beside the dressing table. Sally Vergane, wearing the most expensive underthings, was doing things to her plain face with creams and tinted powder.
No doubt about it. Sally Vergane was the glamorous Pamela Dean. Sally Vergane was speaking in an odd voice that was a mixture of her own voice and the cultured diction of Pamela Dean.
“I have played this game fairly to its limit,” Sally was saying. “I think we have given them something to remember Wolf Hollis by. Our chief difficulty will be in finding some one on whom the Brain can place the blame.”
“A fall guy,” the pug-faced man said and began wandering aimlessly about the boudoir.
Fearful lest the man’s wanderings bring him into the living room, Betty replaced her oustini in her handbag and hurried from the apartment. Sally Vergane was Pamela Dean. This was news that Agent X would value highly. She must phone him at once.
WHILE Betty Dale was excitedly reporting this news to Bates’s office, Sally Vergane, perfectly fortified behind the glamorous veneer of Pamela Dean, was in her living room, talking to her watchdog.
“You’ve been faithful and square to Wolf and me, Twist,” Sally said. “We’ve netted exactly one dozen G-men to date by arranging encounters for them with Murphy’s gang at the scenes of the white-cross killings. I’ll never rest until I send a whole squad of them to hell at once. Wolf would like that. He hated the Federals. But we’re in a dangerous spot now.”
The man called Twist nodded. “I’d better get back to my post. You think up something smart.” He turned the key in the door, tried to open the door and failed. “Funny,” he grunted. “I’m sure I locked that door when we came in.”
Sally Vergane was on her feet. She stamped a fluffy, blue mule irritably. “Are y
ou sure? Oh, how could you be so careless!”
“I locked that door, damned sure!” growled Twist. “Somebody’s been here, that’s all.”
Sally Vergane’s eye roamed about the room and alighted on a scrap of white cloth on the floor. She pounced on it, catlike, and held it aloft. “A woman’s handkerchief! I’ve seen it somewhere. Wait!” Her breast heaved. The fury of hell gleamed in her eyes. “I know! She used it in the restaurant. She must have dropped it from her bag.”
“Who?” asked Twist.
“That nosey little blonde reporter with her blue-eyed, baby stare,” she said venomously. “She’s been here. Then, she knows.”
Then out of the fury cloud on Sally Vergane’s face came a slow, unlovely smile. “Twist, we’ve got it! The Brain is trying to find out who’s been squealing and sending G-men to the scene of the white-cross murders. Perhaps he suspects me— But not for long. The girl, don’t you see? Betty Dale can be framed so that the Brain will think that she has been peddling the information.”
Twist nodded his misshapen head slowly. “I get it. She’s the perfect fall guy.”
CHAPTER VIII
Killer’s Mark
AN uneventful day passed in which X and his staff of operatives gathered much information regarding Charles McAdam, partner of the late Randolph Corlears.
McAdam was an unscrupulous attorney who had several times been on the verge of being removed from the bar. He was a member of a well-known business men’s club in which X, as Elisha Pond, had no difficulty in gaining membership. Many other men known to the Agent were members of the same club. Among them were Thomas Ingram, Dr. Ormand, Major Hatfield and Nelson Birr.
How Nelson Birr, private secretary of Aaron Malthus, could afford to belong to a club was a mystery to Agent X. Birr’s salary certainly must have been rather slender, for Aaron Malthus had been on the verge of bankruptcy for some time.
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