Legion of the Living Dead

by Brant House

  With the quickness of a cat, Major Derrick sprang toward a small elevator cage. He dragged the paralyzed banker behind him. He flung back the door, threw Stine­hope inside, and followed. Two of the mobsters leaped toward the elevator. Derrick knocked over the starting lever and at the same time drew his automatic. His was the first shot, fired from the rapidly ascending cage.

  Foster drew a gun and dropped behind a marble counter. “X” was beside him in a moment, flattening himself on the floor just as a sub-machine gun began its hateful rattle. Slugs drilled jagged holes in the marble facing of the counter. Agent “X’s” powerful hand was over the commissioner’s head, pressing him flat to the floor. But a fraction of an inch separated them from the searing line of lead from the machine gun. One of the pellets burned across the Agent’s hand, drawing blood.

  “Not a sound,” the Agent warned. “We haven’t a chance against that mob.”

  Came the sound of feet pelting up the stair. “X” knew that an effort was being made to cut off Stinehope and Derrick. He raised his head ever so slightly, peering through one of the jagged holes drilled by machine-gun fire. One of the corpse-faced criminals guarded the front door. Two more were tiptoeing toward their hiding place, guns ready for instant use.

  “X” nudged Foster. “Back! Work your way back to the vault. It’s our only chance. I’ll hold them back until you get clear.”

  “Like hell!” Foster muttered between clenched teeth. “I’ll stick with you!”

  “Right! We’ll move toward the vault together.” The Agent’s hand went to his pocket, and closed over a small metal cartridge. “Turn around, Foster,” he directed. “Get the position of that vault in your mind. Close your eyes, and go for it. I’ve got a tear gas bomb here that will fix ’em.”13

  “Got it!” whispered Foster. “Let go the gas!”

  “X” had already snaked his way toward the end of the counter. Suddenly, his arm shot out around the cor­ner of the counter. There was a faint pop, a hiss, and immediately the acrid fumes of the gas started to spread. “X” scrambled to his feet. There came the rat-tat-tat of a machine gun-wild, aimless shots that jagged slivers from the floor beneath his feet. Though his eyes were stream­ing from the effects of the gas, “X” made out Foster’s stumbling form.

  The commissioner was yards from the door of the vault. “X” sprang to him, seized him by the small of the back, and shoved him into the vault.

  It required all of his strength to yank the door shut behind them.

  He leaped to the end of the vault, and pulled open the secret door. A shadow flitted across the interior of the tailor shop. There was the sound of heavy breathing. A door opened for an instant and closed. The sound of feet running up a metal stairway. “X” leaped through the opening, drawing his gas gun. For a moment, the light from a window flashed across a cruel, noxious face. One of the corpse-criminals had been sent to cut off their escape. Orange-red gun flame slashed through the gloom.

  “X” dropped flat, rolled to one side and encountered a chair. His legs doubled, shot out, sending the chair spinning across the room toward the place from which the gun-shot had come. The man fired at the moving chair. On his feet, “X” leaped toward the shadowy figure. He landed full weight upon the man’s back. His left arm crooked around the killer’s neck. His right clawed darkness, searching for the man’s gun.

  Together, they crashed to the floor. “X’s” hand slid along the killer’s right arm, and met an automatic. With a powerful wrench, he disarmed the man, gripped the automatic, and drove it hard against the man’s head. The killer suddenly relaxed. On his feet again, “X” called:

  “Foster where are you?” He pulled out his flashlight, sending the spear of light through the gloom toward the secret door of the vault. His face pale, but his jaw firmly set, Foster sprang through the opening.

  “Burks, are you hurt?”

  “Not a scratch. This way!” The Agent seized Foster’s arm and dragged him to the back of the shop and through the open door into the alley. “Get to a call box, and sound an alarm. The chief killer was here tonight! Get the boys here at once—”

  Suddenly, air near the Agent’s face was violently fanned. An oath stumbled from Foster’s lips. There was a hideous flopping sound as something struck the pavement near at hand. The Agent’s flash performed an arc and came to rest upon a horrible black blot on the alley pavement. A human being had been hurled from the sky to certain destruction. Foster dropped to his knees beside the man—a smallish man wearing a dark suit.

  “Derrick!” Foster cried. He seized the shoulders of the corpse, turned it over. Blond hair was matted with blood; bone and cartilage had been crushed. The face was a pulpy mass of crimson. “Derrick!” Foster held the battered thing tenderly. His white face was set in a mask of pain. He shook his fist at the black sky above.

  “Thrown out of the window!” Agent “X” gritted. “I’m going up, sir.” He ran to the back of the building. The lower flight of the fire-escape had been raised by means of counter-balance weights. “X” launched himself in a upward leap. His grasping fingers caught the lower step of the fire escape, dragged it down. Above him, yellow light filtered through one window. “X” took the steps three at a time until he came to the office floor. From the fire-escape, he stared into the deserted office.

  A chair had been tipped over; the panel of the door had been splintered. “X” climbed over the sill and ap­proached an untidy desk. There lay a piece of paper upon which a message had been scrawled. “X” picked up the note and read:

  Dear Foster:

  Can’t possibly imagine why I never thought of the lucrative practice of kidnapping. How much do you think Mrs. Stinehope will pay for the return of her husband? Am leaving Derrick to you.

  The note was signed, “Secret Agent ‘X’.”

  “X” crushed the piece of paper and thrust it into his pocket. Then he returned to the window. Outside sounded the scream of sirens. “X” realized that there was nothing more for him to do there. He returned by the way he had come, anxious to avoid the police lest the real Inspector Burks should be among them.

  At the bottom of the fire escape, he found Foster waiting for him. Some of the newly arrived police were carrying the mangled body of Derrick into the bank building. There were no signs of the corpse-criminals.

  “I have a grave matter to discuss with you, Burks,” said Foster, taking hold of “X’s” arm. “We must leave here at once. Come along to the car.”

  Wondering what was on the commissioner’s mind, “X” returned with Foster to the bogus police car.

  “You remember Sergeant Dale?” Foster inquired as “X” started the motor.

  “X” nodded. “His kid, Betty, was left alone when he died. Betty works on the Herald. Nice girl.”

  “That’s the trouble,” said Foster slowly. “I can’t fa­thom it. I have just received information that Betty Dale is to be placed under arrest!”

  For a moment, Agent “X” was too amazed to speak. Then he forced a laugh. “Good Lord, she couldn’t have done anything!”

  “There was another police killing this afternoon. A small jewelry store was held up. Another police squad car was riddled with machine-gun bullets from that dam­na­ble black mystery car. That ingenious camera device, which poor Derrick invented to take pictures of the occupants of the mystery car, had a different story to tell this time. A blonde woman was behind that murdering machine gun. She has been positively identified as Betty Dale. Knowing what I think of Betty Dale, the information was withheld for some time. What do you suggest?”

  “X” hesitated a moment. At the next corner, he turned abruptly to the right. “We’ll head for Miss Dale’s apartment at once,” he said. “If it has to come to an arrest, I think it would be better if you and I, both her friends, handled it on the quiet. It’s my opinion that there’s a trick somewhere.”

  “A camera doesn’t lie,” said Foster softly.

  “No, but there’s many a trick up the p
hotographer’s sleeve,” the Agent persisted.

  And for the remainder of the distance, both men were silent.

  Having mounted the steps to Betty’s room, Foster and Agent “X” found Betty at her typewriter. She was frankly amazed at this late visit from the police commissioner and the man she thought to be Inspector Burks. Cordially, she invited them to enter her tidy living room.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” she asked as she passed a small coffer of cigarettes.

  Foster fidgeted and looked at “X”. Secret Agent “X” was staring at the toes of his shoes. Foster drew a long breath. “The truth is, Miss Dale, that is, I’m afraid you’re in trouble.”

  A smile melted from the girl’s face. Her lovely blue eyes widened. “Just what sort of trouble, commission­er?” she asked.

  “What were you doing this afternoon about four o’clock?”

  “Why, I was in my car going out to cover an assignment.”

  “Anyone with you?” Secret Agent “X” asked hopefully.

  Betty shook her head without hesitation.

  “Miss Dale, you were seen driving a black, streamlined roadster—the machine gun mounted roadster of this corpse gang,” Foster broke out.

  A puzzled frown crimped Betty’s forehead. She laughed a little weakly. “Surely you are not serious!”

  “So serious,” said Foster, “that there’s a warrant out for your arrest on the charge of murder. Things look pretty black for you. At headquarters, they have a picture which clearly shows you crouching behind the machine gun which sent four policemen and two pedestrians to their deaths.”

  Betty dropped into a chair. For a moment, she re­mained silent. Then:

  “I hardly know what to say. There’s been some terrible mistake somewhere. I would like very much to see that picture.”

  Foster stood up. “May I use your phone? I think it would be easier for all of us if we thrashed this matter out right here. I’ll have one of the boys bring that picture right over. If there’s been a mistake, you’ll find that we are just as anxious to get things straightened out as you are.” Foster walked over to Betty’s small desk, picked up the phone.

  Agent “X” sought Betty’s face. Then he glanced over at the commissioner. Foster’s back was toward them. The Secret Agent raised his hand, and drew the letter “X” in the air with his forefinger.

  Betty took a deep breath. It was like a sob of relief. New color flooded her face. “X” pressed a finger to his lips.

  “Hello. Police headquarters?” Foster was speaking. “This is Commissioner Foster. Connect me with the Hom­i­cide Bureau.” Foster waited. He turned his head to smile hopefully at Betty.

  Though there was no outward indication, every nerve in Agent “X’s” body was taut as a drawn steel wire. After a seemingly endless moment, Foster turned back to the phone.

  “Foster speaking,” said the commissioner brusquely. “Regarding that picture taken of the blonde woman be­hind the machine gun in the mystery car. Would you send that over to Miss Dale’s apartment? . . . Hello. Who is this speaking, please?”

  “X” shifted his weight forward in the chair.

  “Say that again!” Foster whipped out. “You are In­spector Burks?” The commissioner forked the receiver, and pivoted. His hand streaked toward his coat pocket.

  13 Probably, Agent “X” employed tear gas here, rather than a bomb containing his anesthetizing vapor, because tear gas is recognized by the police as an orthodox weapon. It must be remembered that when “X” assumes a disguise, he immediately identifies himself with the character of the man he represents. Foster, who has met Agent “X” many times, would have certainly known that the man who accompanied him was not Inspector Burks if “X” had used some strange weapon, rather than tear gas.

  CHAPTER IX

  SHADOW OF THE SHROUD

  But at the first inflection of doubt in the commissioner’s voice, Agent “X” had sprung to his feet. Before he could touch his gun, Foster found himself staring into the Agent’s gas gun.

  “You—you are Secret Agent ‘X’!” Foster accused.

  “I am Secret Agent ‘X’. Though I hate to remind a man of any favor I have done him, you will always remember me as the man who saved your life tonight. Right now—sleep, and forget.”

  The gas gun in “X’s” hand hissed like a snake. A puff vapor wreathed the commissioner’s face. Foster choked, staggered forward, and fell into the Agent’s arms. Agent “X” shifted his grip, lifted the commissioner bodily, and walked through the door into Betty’s bedroom. He stretched Foster out on the bed, then returned to Betty.

  The girl was obviously ill at ease. “I was so afraid for a moment that you were caught,” she whispered. “It would have been terrible, terrible to watch them take you away!”

  “X” smiled cheerfully. “Poor Foster! He looked a bit helpless, didn’t he. But I admire the man. He’s a human being clear through. But put on your hat, Betty. You can’t stay here. The real Inspector Burks is probably on his way here now. He’ll have the warrant and that picture.”

  Betty paled slightly. “You—you don’t think I had anything to do with it?”

  “X” laughed heartily. “Bless your heart! Of course, you didn’t. But we can’t have you spending the night in jail. Rival papers would fry the Herald plenty with their star reporter in prison.”

  “But what does it all mean?”

  “X” grew suddenly serious. “It means that you and I are in the tightest place we ever have been in. The criminal behind the corpse-gang not only calls himself Agent ‘X’, but he imitates my own methods. After the robbery at the Krausman store, what did you do, Betty?”

  Standing in front of a mirror, Betty was adjusting her hat. “X” thought that he had never seen anything so beautifully appealing as the reflection in that mirror. Then Betty spoke.

  “I went out and got in a taxi. I was acting according to your instructions—to leave as soon as possible. The taxi driver took me a little way in the direction of my apartment. Then he stopped, turned around, and confronted me with a gun. I think I cried out, but before I knew anything else, he had struck me on the head.”

  * * * *

  The Agent’s steely eyes flashed. “And how long were you unconscious before you awoke in the house of leopards?”

  “I’ve no idea. When I came to, I was too frightened to think.”

  “Did you notice if your face felt stiff and dry?” the Agent asked.

  “Now that you mention it, I believe it did.”

  “X” nodded, took the girl’s arm and steered her through the door. “You see,” he whispered as he led her toward the stairway, “this killer has been fighting me with my own weapons. I noticed the same dry feeling on my face when I came to in his prison cell. It was caused by the material he uses in making the masks.”

  “You mean that while I was unconscious, some one made a mask from my face? Then—then you—”

  “X” nodded grimly. “A mask of some sort to get all the features. That enables him to re-create, in a flexible material, the exact counterpart of anyone’s features.”

  “But your face—your real face. Has he seen it?”

  “Undoubtedly. What is more, he has a record of it in one of those masks. He’s saving it for a coup. That is why this leader of the corpse-legion is the most dangerous man I have ever met.”

  Outside, “X” opened the door of the police car. “I’m driving you to a friend’s house. There’s a woman there who can be thoroughly trusted. She is one of my agents. You must stay with her until the skies clear. And don’t worry, Betty.”

  The following afternoon “X” received a communication from Bates that sent the blood coursing a little swifter through his arteries. Another robbery, another brutal police killing had been enacted. But this time, the patient, searching eyes of “X’s” own intelligence force had been on the look out. One of the Agent’s own planes, equipped with a moving-picture camera, had followed the course taken by the myste
ry car. It was little wonder that the mystery car always seemed to vanish into thin air.

  The aerial camera had traced the black destroyer along its course, into the mouth of an alley where it had met a huge moving van. A retractable incline had been lowered from the truck, awaiting the mystery car. The black roadster had bumped up the incline and into the van. The incline had been withdrawn, the doors of the van closed. Then the van lumbered from the alley, apparently going about its legitimate business.

  But the aerial camera had not stopped there. It had recorded the movement of the van, tracing it through crooked streets until it backed up against a garage coupled with an apparently deserted brick building in the west end of town. Further checking had furnished the address of that house. It was leased in the name of Steven Pyke.

  Consulting his records, “X” learned that Pyke had been a smalltime crook who had been out of prison for five years and had apparently gone straight.

  Half an hour after he had received this important information from Bates, Agent “X” sauntered down the street on which the Pyke house was situated. He wore the shabby garments of a day laborer. Grease and dirt stained his face. A blue denim cap was pushed back from iron-gray hair.

  “X” walked past the Pyke house, apparently without paying any attention to it. Then he rounded the corner of the block, and continued walking until he came to the alley.

  He entered the alley and proceeded slowly along, apparently concerned only with the contents of the ash barrels along the route. When he reached the back of the Pyke house, he stopped, and dug around a pile of tin cans with a stick he carried. He lingered there until a woman, who was beating rugs in the yard behind a neighboring house, went inside. Then he approached the door of the garage which was attached to the big brick house.

  It required but a moment for him to unlock the door with one of his master keys. He stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. The room which he had entered was a large one. There was room for three cars. However, at present it was occupied only by the black, streamlined roadster which had terrorized the city. The two embalmed corpses were artfully posed in the seat of the car.