This piece of paper, Burks deemed important evidence. But in his zeal to trace the owner of the magazine from which the cover had been torn, Burks overlooked a vastly more important clue—a dark-brown stain, hardly more than a quarter of an inch across, on the card table cover on which the body was lying. This stain X quietly removed by cutting off a bit of the cloth and putting it into his pocket.
Shortly after, X left the club to go to one of his hideouts. He emerged a little later, a young man with commonplace features, and drove one of his cars to the United States Court House. Using credentials which represented him as a member of the city police force, he eventually entered the office of Special Agent Weston. As soon as Weston had had a look at the credentials X carried, the Secret Agent tore them up before Weston’s wondering eyes.
“They’re quite false,” said X with a smile. “I used them as a means of entering only. I am Secret Agent X.”
“Secret Agent X!” Weston repeated slowly. He leaned eagerly across the desk. “Can you prove that?” he asked in a whisper.
AGENT X reached into his inner coat pocket and produced an envelope which contained a message from X’s official sponsor in Washington. Weston read the message over twice. Then he stood up slowly, almost timidly extended his hand to Agent X.
“Naturally,” he said, “I’ve heard of you. Now that I meet the man, I realize fully that what I have heard in Washington, concerning the great work you are doing, is not an exaggeration. This message from K9 clears up much that I haven’t been able to understand.”
X nodded and took back his sponsor’s note. “The nature of my work, my methods of procedure, make it imperative that my official capacity be kept secret.”
“But, Mr. Agent X, yours is a most dangerous position. I don’t know how many times I’ve read of your capture by the police. Once, I even read that you had been killed by Inspector Burks. Is there no way of giving yourself official protection?”
X smiled. “I take pretty good care of myself,” he said quietly. “If my real capacity were known to the city police, it would eventually get into the papers. However, this is not a social call, Weston. No doubt I’ve caused your men a little trouble, but I am actually working with them in an effort to untangle the mystery behind these white-cross killings. Quite by accident, I came across this slip of paper.” X showed Weston the corner of paper that had dropped from Birr’s wallet, and explained the circumstances under which it had been found.
“You have confided in me, Agent X. I am most happy to be able to cooperate with you in this matter. Because we did not wish to arouse public apprehension, we have kept the matter quiet. Perhaps I should begin at the beginning and tell you that the late Wolf Hollis was illiterate. He could not even write his own name. The cross and circle, which the Safety League uses to designate the spot where fatal motor accidents occur, happens to be the mark by which Wolf Hollis was known. Any written order which he issued was written at his dictation and signed by his mark—the cross and circle.
“Knowing this, there are but two possible conclusions to the mystery: either Wolf Hollis lives, a maniacal murderer, or gang vengeance is taking its toll for the death of Wolf Hollis. You can take your choice, Agent X.”
“I’d choose neither,” said X quietly. “There is a definite greed motive behind these killings. The mob is directed by a hired butcher; I am certain of this. The man called the Brain kills for a price—kills anyone. Only one of the murders has been motivated differently. Nelson Birr was obviously killed because of that slip of paper, which I’ll keep for a while if you don’t mind. Birr had solved the mystery of the identity of the Brain.”
“Possibly,” said Weston slowly. “Birr was a life-insurance claim detective, working for Major Hatfield.”
That explained Birr’s suspicious actions to Agent X, who prepared to take his leave. “Inside of thirty minutes, I’ll try to have proof of the identity of the Brain. I strongly suspect who he is, even now. But the proof I might obtain will be of little use to me.”
“Why?” asked Weston.
X smiled queerly. “I am sorry I can not explain the matter. But I must catch the Brain red-handed. Goodnight—and my heartiest thanks.”
A possibility of the Brain’s identity was in X’s pocket—a little brown stain on a piece of cloth from a card table cover. Yet it was Elisha Pond who had obtained that, and Elisha Pond was not supposed to be even an amateur criminologist. As Elisha Pond, X must catch the Brain red-handed….
Morning papers screamed about the murder of Nelson Birr, dead from chloral hydrate poisoning. His murderer was admittedly Agent X. About the only truth in the entire article was that Nelson Birr was dead.
Agent X tossed the paper aside, went to the phone, and set in motion the machine that was to turn out a trap for the Brain—a trap in which Agent X was to be the bait.
Harvey Bates and some of his men attended to the kidnaping of Charles McAdam. When McAdam became a guarded prisoner in one of the Agent’s hideouts, X became Charles McAdam. Shortly after, it was announced that a new business firm had been established—McAdam and Pond, Investments. An office was opened, and there both Pond and McAdam might be found; but, because Agent X was playing a dual role of both partners, Pond and McAdam were never seen together in the same room.
Furthermore, to insure that neither partner would greatly lose in the event of the death of one member of the firm, heavy partnership-plan life insurance was written up for the new firm by Thomas Ingram.
There was nothing to do but wait. Eventually, the Brain would take notice of the organization and approach “McAdam” on the delicate subject of removing Mr. Pond from this earth, collecting the insurance, to the mutual benefit of the supposed Mr. McAdam and the criminal gang.
It was a neat plan—if it worked….
CHAPTER X
Nets of Steel
THERE followed a period of ominous quiet in the underworld. It was as if a storm gathered on the horizon, waiting for something before breaking. Evening of the second Tuesday in April, three opposing forces were set in motion: the Brain moved to carry on his mercenary murder; Sally Vergane, vengeance mad, conceived a means of wiping out most of the G-men in the city; Secret Agent X made ready for the culmination of his scheme to trap the Brain.
Though she did not realize it, Betty Dale was calmly walking into the center of this perilous snarl of conflicting forces. Agent X had welcomed her information regarding Sally Vergane’s masquerade as Pamela Dean. Betty was determined to add measurably to that information in an effort to aid the man she loved. So it was that when Sally Vergane asked Betty Dale to meet her at an appointed spot for another talk, Betty eagerly accepted, having no reason to suppose that it was an invitation that held no promise save death.
So eager was she to meet Sally Vergane at the Milan Café that Betty Dale took no notice of the pug-faced drunk who staggered into her when she was within a block of the appointed place. She hurried on to find Sally waiting for her outside the dingy door of the restaurant.
Sally looked worried. She clamped her fingers on Betty’s arm. “Say, Miss Dale, you don’t mind if we get out of this neighborhood? There’s a man that’s been botherin’ me inside this joint. You know how it is. Tough how hard it is for a girl, down on her luck, to keep on the level. I know a place where we can go that’s better than the Milan.”
Betty was agreeable. Had she noticed the face of the driver of the taxi Sally hailed, she might have recognized the driver as the same pug-faced fellow who had bumped into her on the street.
The taxi took them eastward, but by such a circuitous route that Betty had trouble keeping track of the direction. It was not until the taxi rolled into a garage that Betty realized that she had been nicely tricked.
Sally Vergane drove the muzzle of an automatic into Betty’s side. “Now, you cheap little sob-sister, you’re goin’ to meet Squid Murphy. He’ll give you somethin’ to print in your paper!”
Betty measured the lank blonde beside her. Had n
ot the pug-faced Twist turned out of the front of the cab and come to Sally’s assistance, Betty would have put up some sort of resistance. But after one look at Twist, Betty realized the seriousness of the situation. Propped between two guns, she was hurried from the garage and through several dark rooms into Squid Murphy’s new headquarters. Murphy and his men had left the one-time speakeasy as soon as they learned that Agent X had been visiting them in the disguise of Lewey Cassino.
Squid Murphy looked Betty coolly up and down, his hands in his pockets, his fingers squirming. Then he gave Sally Vergane a fishy stare and said: “What the hell? Don’t bring dames around here—even good-lookin’ ones. Ain’t I got enough trouble just keepin’ an eye on you?”
“Look the kid over, Squid,” Sally said.
“Ain’t that what I been doin’?”
“I mean give her a frisk. I got an idea you want this dame, dead or alive.”
Squid’s pale, twisting fingers darted into the pockets of Betty’s coat. The girl reporter watched, astonished and afraid, as Murphy brought out a piece of paper, opened it, and held it to the light. Betty had not seen the paper before, but she realized that the collision she and the pug-faced man had had on the sidewalk had not been an accident.
Murphy’s lips twisted into an ugly smile. “So you got the dope on this joint, did you? You was goin’ to hand it over to the G-men, was you?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about,” declared Betty. “Furthermore, I advise you to let me go at once.”
“She don’t know what we was talkin’ about!” Murphy scoffed. “She wants to go home! Well, baby, wait till the Brain gets a load of this!”
THAT same evening, Secret Agent X was in McAdam’s Elmhurst home, sitting quietly and alone, as he had sat on several previous evenings. He had put in rather a hard day at the new office, acting first the part of Mr. Pond and then appearing as Mr. McAdam. Tonight, some sixth sense warned him that his patience would be rewarded.
At about nine o’clock, every light in the McAdam house went out. Either some one had cut the wires or opened the master switch. X felt certain that he was about to receive a visitation from the Brain himself.
Doors opened and closed quietly. Agent X never moved from his chair, gave no indication that his nerves were taut, that every sense was on the alert. Velvety footsteps approached the very chair in which X sat.
“Are you there, Brain?” asked X in the voice of McAdam.
“Yes,” came the Brain’s answering monotone. “What is it you want, McAdam?”
“How did you know I wanted you?” X stalled.
“Obviously, the formation of the Pond McAdam combine was for some blacker business than the swindling of investors, McAdam. Have you exhausted all of your portion of the funds realized from our last job?”
“The need of money is not pressing,” replied X, for he had thoroughly investigated McAdam’s finances. The insurance money gleaned from Corlears’ murder had helped McAdam out of a scrape that had endangered McAdam’s bank account and personal liberty as well. “I merely thought that inasmuch as the first job was so clean we ought to be able to repeat it. Pond seemed a likely victim, and I have seen to it that the firm is heavily insured.”
“Then you would like to see Mr. Pond in the center of the white cross, eh?” the Brain asked.
X’s hand strayed to his pocket. He was tempted to take his flashlight and turn it on the man’s face, but he strangled his curiosity. After all, if his deductions were correct, he knew the man to whom he was speaking. And besides, it was evident that the Brain did not rely entirely upon the darkness to conceal his identity; from the muffled quality of his voice, X judged that he wore some sort of a mask. No, it was better to play the game until he caught the Brain in the midst of his hired killers.
“That’s the idea exactly,” X replied in answer to the Brain’s question.
“And quite agreeable to me. But what shall be the terms?”
X had no idea what the Brain charged for his murderous service. It was better that he did not state any exact amount. “Suppose we make the fee the same as it was for the Corlears job.”
“Thirty per cent of the insurance to go to you, then?”
X rubbed his hands greedily. “That’s fine.”
“Very well. I’ll draw up a contract and deliver it tomorrow night.” And the Brain stole through the darkness as quietly as he had entered.
But hardly had the door closed behind the Brain than Agent X was on his feet, following. The Brain had evidently possessed himself of a key to the McAdam house, for he locked the side door after going out. X watched through a window. The Agent’s mind was like a super-sensitive photographic plate that instantly recorded every detail of the man’s figure and stride.
A moment later, X left by the same route the Brain had taken. He hurried to the front of the house, looked down the street, and saw the Brain entering a parked car in which he had evidently driven to the McAdam house. X ran back to the McAdam garage, got in one of his own super-charged cars, and drove it to the edge of the drive. Just as the Brain got his car started and was leisurely wheeling it around the corner, X sprang into his car and followed.
The Brain’s car headed down Northern Boulevard to Forty-second, crossed the bridge into Manhattan. From there on the trail kept close to the river to end abruptly in front of an apparently deserted loft building.
Agent X had driven with one hand all the way while his other hand had been occupied with artful changes in the plastic material that covered his face. When he left his car, about a block from the old building, his face was that of a younger and leaner man than McAdam. He had only to slip out of his padded coat, that had helped him simulate McAdam’s fleshy body, and he seemed quite another person.
He approached the door through which the Brain had passed. It appeared of flimsy construction, yet the weight of the thing, as it yielded to one of the Agent’s master keys, told him that it was backed by solid steel.
BEYOND the door was dark, silent emptiness. X entered cautiously and explored the room without benefit of light. He hesitated only a moment, opened a door leading into the next room, and stepped across the threshold.
Air swished. Instinctively, X jumped aside, but not far enough to escape the chill, weighty thing that landed across his shoulders. He twisted around, his arms flinging out to grapple with thin, flexible steel ropes woven into a net that tightened quickly about his body. Every fully developed muscle in his body strained against that metal mesh, but it was being drawn tighter and tighter.
He jammed his arms down to his sides, kept every muscle distended in order to obtain more play in the trap of steel rope. Still, the net tightened until he was practically helpless, standing upright in spite of the weight of the net.
There was derisive laughter in the darkness, followed by the monotonous voice of the Brain: “It was a fifty-fifty split, Agent X. It was agreed between McAdam and I that I was to get fifty per cent of the proceeds for the killing of Corlears. Had you objected to the seventy per cent I demanded for killing old Pond, I would not have been suspicious of you.”
“So,” said X softly, “you led me deliberately into a trap. I am afraid you’ve let yourself in for a lot of trouble, Brain.”
“The most fruitless bit of bluffing you’ve ever attempted, Mr. X,” the Brain chuckled.
There was a second of silence followed by the sound of men moving cautiously through the dark. Then lights came on. Agent X looked out through the steel mesh of his flexible prison. Six tough-looking men, three of them with drawn guns, stood in the room. There was no sign of the man X knew to be the Brain.
It would have added measurably to the Agent’s worries had he known that Betty Dale was a prisoner in the same house.
AT ABOUT the same time that the Brain had led X into the trap made ready for him, Sally Vergane left the building where Squid Murphy’s men held X and Betty prisoners. There was fever heat in Sally’s brain, and the fires of hate b
urning in her eyes, as she got into the fake taxi where the faithful Twist waited for her.
At Sally’s direction, Twist drove at a furious pace to the apartment where the glamorous “Pamela Dean” lived. There Twist was directed to wait. Once again, Sally accomplished her metamorphosis. This would be the last time, she declared. Sally Vergane was dead—Long live Pamela Dean!
She dressed with extreme care and left the apartment as the beautiful and seductive Pamela Dean. Then Twist drove her directly to the headquarters of the federal agents. Ten minutes later she came out, a gleam of insane happiness in her eyes.
“Wolf Hollis,” she whispered, into the darkness. “Dear, dear Wolf! For every bullet in your body, a G-man dies tonight!”
She did not care how many of Squid Murphy’s men were killed. They could fight it out—G-men and gunmen. The point was that she had directed the Feds against Murphy’s whole crowd, against Murphy’s all but impregnable hideout. Men would die on both sides, but she would count only the dead that wore the badge of the Department of Justice. Justice? This was justice!
She opened the door of the cab, started to get in. The toe of her pump slipped on something on the running board. She looked down, caught her breath. “Twist!” she said hoarsely to the man in the front seat. “Twist!”
Twist made no answer. He lay across the back of the front seat. Cushions of the cab were splashed with blood and white paint—white paint drawn in the form of a crude circle. And struck across the body was a white cross.
Sally Vergane stepped back, turned around. The back of her hand smothered a scream. Out of the shadows came the figure of a man. There was the threatening gleam of gun steel in his hand.
“Miss Dean,” he whispered. “The guns are silenced. I can kill you as easily as I killed Twist, but I would rather not at this moment, Miss Dean. Or shall I just continue to call you Sally?”
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 7 Page 49