by Brant House
“So you are the leader of the gang,” Secret Agent “X” whispered. “And the Leopard Lady was your spy. But what have you done with Jim Hobart?”
“Oh, yes, Hobart. Let me see. I believe I brought him over to this building when my men and I came disguised as plumbers to rig up this gas generating outfit. Hobart is upstairs somewhere, bound in a closet. But he will be able to breathe—breathe the odorless fumes of the carbon monoxide that at this very moment is being pumped into buildings by means of the blower of the air conditioner. He will die along with the police and thousands of others.
“And with you and Burks and Foster and scores of others out of my way, I will carve from the underworld a greater empire than Napoleon dreamed of. That will be my revenge on the law!”
Realizing that many lives depended upon him, “X” went into action without for a moment considering the risk he ran. Lightning lashing the storm cloud, a meteor streaking the sky, an arrow in its flight—such make suitable comparisons for the speed with which “X’s” right arm moved. Before the criminal chief could squeeze the trigger of that gun, “X” had knocked up the barrel. The gun made no noise, for—it was effectively silenced; but “X” heard the rattle of the shot among the pipes overhead. He ducked, drove his right shoulder straight into the criminal’s midsection. The man was thrown off balance, but he still retained his gun.
“X” sprang past him, zigzagged toward the great tanks of monoxide. He leaped behind one, knowing well that neither the Leopard Lady nor the bogus Jim Hobart would dare to shoot him; for if a stray bullet were to pierce the base of one of those tanks, the invisible, odorless death would flow into the room. For a moment he looked upwards through the maze of pipes.
He saw the great pipe that led from the air conditioner blower; he saw the smaller pipe from the monoxide tanks feeding into it. Because the gas was heavier than air, he knew that the valve connecting the gas source with the blower would have to be lower than the tanks themselves. He ducked behind a furnace flue and saw just such a valve within an arm’s length of where he stood. He reached for it, looking under the metal tank-brace of the gang chief.
“You fool!” shouted the man. “That is not the valve!”
A grim smile crossed the Agent’s face. “Isn’t it? If it were not the valve controlling the gas, you would have shot me immediately. You are much too clever to shoot now. A miss and your bullet would nick one of these death-laden pipes!” And while he was talking with the man who would have killed him, “X” was screwing the valve tightly shut.
In a moment of frenzied rage, the killer loosed a shot that by some miracle burned across the Agent’s arm, and cleared the gas-filled pipes. “X” ducked behind a tank, turned, and almost bumped into the Leopard Lady.
The gun in the woman’s hand nosed upwards. Her cruel, catlike eyes narrowed. “X” saw her finger constricting on the trigger. But in that moment that he looked down at the gun, he learned something that the Leopard Lady did not know. What appeared to be a deadly automatic was in reality the Agent’s gas pistol. “X” drew a deep breath and held it.
Felice Vincart would have killed without mercy. She was even smiling faintly at the moment that the gun in her hands hissed. The anesthetizing gas jetted into “X’s” face; but instead of gasping it in, he exhaled with all his strength. Most of the vapor was blown back, directly into the Leopard Lady’s face. For a fraction of a second, her face registered surprise. Then, she suddenly went limp; her cat-green eyes closed, and she keeled over backwards.
“X” hurdled the woman’s form and saw, behind one of the furnaces, a possible exit from the maze of pipes and tanks. His work was not half completed. He might have checked the monoxide gas—if it had not already done its sinister work—but he had not stopped the criminal invasion of Memorial Hall. He knew that if life remained in anyone on the floor above, the corpse-gang would riddle men and women with bullets.
But as he rounded the furnace, he came face to face with the arch criminal. Both were surprised. The criminal’s gun popped. A slug drove into the Agent’s side with the kick of a mule. His bulletproof vest stopped the shot, but the fearful impact made him wince with pain. He led a terrific right that pounded into the killer’s middle. The man doubled, head coming forward to meet the Agent’s left hook to the temple. The man jackknifed to the floor, and lay still.
“X” hurdled the unconscious killer, raced behind the next furnace, and sprang into the open. He ran across the room, and yanked open a door that led to a stairway.
He bounded up the stair, thankful that above he could still hear the rumble of the crowd. He might yet be in time.
CHAPTER XI
THE BARGAIN
At the top of the steps, “X” encountered a locked door. He pounded furiously upon it. It opened. The Agent dove headlong into the arms of Inspector Burks. Burks grappled with him, and, as “X” showed considerable more strength than Burks had anticipated, the inspector bellowed for assistance.
In another moment, “X” was surrounded by police. His arms were pinned to his sides. He was as near helpless as he had ever been.
“Well, well, well!” Burks rumbled. “It’s Steve Pyke. Thought you were the man who was going straight. You picked a great place for a comeback, Pyke. You’d better think twice before you lay a hand on this stuff.”
Over Burks’ shoulder, “X” looked across the room. Near the ventilators in the wall, several men and women were lying on the floor. Others were bending anxiously over them. The carbon monoxide had been sufficient in quantity to attack those nearest its source. In glass cases arranged in rows across the great hall, “X” saw the priceless treasures of Kiev gleaming in the brilliant light.
“Inspector Burks! Listen to me!” Secret Agent “X” shouted. His voice had the swaying power of a master orator. “It is imperative that you get those people who have already succumbed, to the fresh air. Carbon monoxide has been piped into the ventilating system. It’s a trick of the corpse-gang. They will be here to a man any moment. Everything depends on how quickly you act.”
“Listen to him!” Burks scoffed. “You’ll not talk your way out of this, Steve Pyke. Better slip on these cuffs before we force ’em on.”
Across the room, “X” saw Commissioner Foster approaching the group of police. The commissioner had a worried look on his fine, strong face.
“Foster!” the Agent shouted. “May I speak with you alone?”
“It’s Steve Pyke,” Burks explained. “He’s trying to pull something, commissioner.”
Suddenly, “X’s” right arm broke free from the man who held it. He swung a wide haymaker that sent the man sprawling back against his companions. With a mighty effort, he pulled away, dragging with him three surprised police who clung to his legs and one arm.
He reached the commissioner. His hand dropped on Foster’s shoulder. His hypnotic, steely eyes drilled Foster’s brain. “Unless you act immediately, commissioner, the lives of every person in this room may rest upon your conscience! I must speak with you alone!”
Foster’s brow furrowed. He made his decision quickly. “Very well. Follow me. Inspector Burks, follow this man. Keep him covered with your gun.”
Foster led across the hall to a small room at the side. “X” backed to the door and raised his hands above his head. “You may search me, inspector.”
Burks passed his hands hurriedly over “X.” “Picked clean,” he grumbled. “Guess he’s safe, commissioner, I’ll be right out here.”
Foster nodded, opened the door, and motioned “X” to enter. Face pale, lips stern, the commissioner followed.
“Foster,” said “X” as soon as the door was closed, “the corpse-gang will be here any moment.”
The commissioner nodded. “We have been warned.”
“Believe me, Foster, this is no hoax!” said “X” earnestly. “Those people out there by this time should have fallen under the influence of poisonous gas liberated through the air conditioners. But when the gang arrives to
find their leader has failed them, do you think they will turn and run? Certainly. But they will shoot their way out. Many innocent men and women may fall under their fire. If you will force everyone from this building or into other rooms, you and your men may lie in wait for the criminals, using the Kiev treasure for bait. The gang will enter unsuspectingly, and you will probably manage to capture the entire crew without the loss of a man.”
Foster showed little enthusiasm for the Agent’s plan. “It all sounds rather fantastic to me,” he said.
“Do you honestly think I am lying?” “X” pleaded.
“Steve Pyke never told the truth,” said Foster coldly.
“X” stiffened. His hand passed over his face. It seemed but a mere gesture; yet in that gesture, “X’s” skillful fingers had altered the entire expression of his face. His nose was broad and crooked instead of thin. His chin jutted farther out. “Now, do you know who I am? I am the man who once saved your life. If you owe nothing to those people out there, surely you owe me something. Commissioner Foster, I am Secret Agent ‘X’!”
Foster drew a deep breath. His face held a worried expression. Before him stood the man who was thought to be the law’s deadliest foe. Yet Foster could not deny that “X” had saved his life.
“If I agree to permit you to handcuff me, will you act upon the instructions I have given you? And will you, in addition, search the closets of this building and liberate a deserving young detective by the name of Jim Hobart who was captured by the gang? Think; you will have nothing on your conscience. You will have saved thousands of lives; you will have captured Secret Agent ‘X’.”
Foster moved quickly. Handcuffs came jingling from his pocket. He took “X’s” arm, and led him across the room to where a grand piano stood. He slipped one of the steel bracelets around one of the turned legs and locked it in place. It could be moved neither up nor down. He turned to the Agent. “I agree,” he said. “Your hand, please.”
Mutely, Agent “X” extended his right hand. He had driven a bargain that might well mean the loss of his life; for the police were convinced that he was the most dangerous man alive. But to save the lives of those men and women in the hall, he was willing to make such a sacrifice—if it was necessary.
But as Foster clipped the cuff over the Agent’s wrist, “X” expanded that wrist by muscular tension. He had agreed only to be handcuffed. By a clever feat, he would be able to compress the joints of hand and wrist; he would be able to slip from that cuff as soon as Foster was out of the room.
But no sooner was the cuff in place, than the door burst open. Inspector Burks strode into the room. “Sorry to listen to your confab, commissioner,” he said. “You go out and herd the people into the upstairs. Maybe this guy’s tip was okay, but the handcuff business was a phony. If he’s the man he says he is, handcuffs don’t mean anything—not unless you fix them the way I’m going to now!”14
“Very well, Burks. I don’t know exactly what you mean, but I leave you in charge of the prisoner.” Foster hurried across the room, through the open door, and closed it behind him.
“Now, Agent ‘X’!” Burks was completely triumphant. He dropped on his knees. Both of his hands closed on the bracelet about “X’s” right wrist. The Inspector’s beefy strength forced the ratchet jaws of the cuff tighter and tighter until they bit deeply into “X’s” flesh. Suddenly, “X’s” left arm whipped up behind Burks’ head and crooked around the inspector’s neck. His powerful muscles constricted, drawing Burks’ head closer to his own. Great veins swelled on Burks’ face. For the first time in his life, he knew what it would be like to have his neck broken.
The Agent’s chin pressed against the bridge of Burks’ nose. The pressure of that powerful left arm increased steadily, concentrating upon a particular nerve center at the base of Burks’ brain. For “X,” master of jiujitsu, knew every paralyzing hold in the category of the great Oriental system of defense. Burks’ eyelids fluttered. His eyes protruded. He became limp and unconscious so suddenly that for a moment, “X” was afraid that he had killed him. But no, Burks was quite alive, though unconscious and gasping.
“X” released his grip. With his left hand, he frisked Burks’ garments and produced a small key. This he inserted in the lock of the handcuffs. The jaws sprang apart. “X” took but a moment to handcuff the unconscious inspector to the leg of the piano. Then he was on his feet, running toward the door at the end of the room. He was not certain where it led, but he knew he must avoid the police at all costs.
* * * *
The door opened on a corridor that circumscribed the building. Ahead of him were stairs leading down into the basement. As he descended these steps, he heard the bark of an automatic inside the great hall. For a moment, he feared that the corpse-gang had entered before Foster had organized his ambush. He paused on the steps only long enough to hear the commissioner shouting:
“Put up your hands! Drop those guns! You are surrounded!”
Certain that the police had succeeded in cornering the criminal mob, “X” leaped on down the steps. The body of the gang might be in the clutch of the law, but while the master criminal remained at large not a person in the city was safe. “X” hoped that his blow to the gang leader’s head had kept the man unconscious. He was loath to have the criminal fall into the hands of the police; for to Agent “X,” the shrouded one was the most dangerous man in the world. He alone was in possession of “X’s” secret.
“X” crossed a large recreation room in the basement of the building, entered a corridor, and hurried toward the furnace room. Inside the room, the dim light was still burning. Except for the hollow thud of many feet on the floor above, the room was sinister in its deathly silence.
“X” hurried behind the row of furnaces. The Leopard Lady lay where he had left her. But the master criminal was gone.
Had the man made good his escape or had he adopted another disguise in order to mingle with the crowd? “X” was inclined to believe that the man would try to get clear of the hall as soon as he discovered that his plan had failed. He would not have changed his disguise; for though the gang chief seemed to have limitless possibilities for vocal impersonation, his facial disguise depended upon masks. Such masks would be somewhat difficult to carry secretly.
“X” left the Leopard Lady there to be captured by the police. Then he ran across the furnace room and into the hall beyond. He hurried toward the rear basement entrance. As he bounded up the steps, he heard the grind of a motor car starter. A powerful motor kicked over. Flinging through the door and into the court, “X” saw a long, black car rolling toward the alley. Even in the gloom, he recognized it as the same black roadster that had terrified the city and slaughtered members of the police force with its machine gun.
“X” spurted, taxing his muscles to the limit. The long car swept past him. He could see two figures crouched low in the seat. Corpses or living men? A lunge, backed by every ounce of his strength, sent him flying toward the passing car. His fingers clutched at the slippery rear deck, encountered the spare tire carrier. “X” was jerked off his feet and dragged along the pavement. But somehow, he regained his balance, and, as the car turned into the alley, he sprang onto the rear deck.
He dropped full length on the smooth, rounding surface. His right hand extended until his fingers closed over the back of the seat. He drew himself forward. The two occupants of the seat did not move. “X” tumbled forward into the lap of the passenger. Even through the cloth of the man’s suit, he could feel the chill of hard, dead flesh.
14 Regular followers of the chronicles of Agent “X” will remember that he has used this handcuff escape, taught him by a Hindu fakir, a number of times. Inspector Burks had witnessed just such a trick when “X” escaped from him before.
CHAPTER XII
BATTLE OF THE TITANS
The black mystery car slowed up in front of a high brick wall. Beyond the wall, “X” could see the old Georgian roof of the house it enclosed. Rus
ty iron gates creaked open at a touch from the mystery car’s bumper. Gears shifted soundlessly by an unseen hand, and the car glided up an unkempt gravel drive, tall grass rustling against its running gear. Headlights flashing on the garage doors opened them. The garage was large enough for four cars, but the mystery car came to a stop just inside the doors. The garage doors closed magically.
“X” was out of the car before the motor stopped. He stood perfectly still, waited. A slight sound of a well-oiled mechanism in motion, then complete silence.
A smile played across the Agent’s lips. He dropped flat on the floor and rolled beneath the car. Fortunately, his pen-flashlight had not been taken from him. He turned on the light and sent its beam up at the underside of the car. A small V-type engine was mounted over the front axle of the car; it could not have occupied more than a third of the length of the nose of the car.
Directly above “X’s” head was a sliding steel plate. He moved it aside, revealing an opening—a means of entering a compartment hidden in the cowl of the car. As “X” had guessed, the car was actually driven by a man concealed beneath the cowl. The corpses had been placed in the seat simply to attract police bullets.
The mounted machine guns in the hands of the dead men were operated by remote control by the hidden driver beneath the cowl. An ingenious system of mirrors enabled the hidden driver to see clearly the road ahead and to the sides through the three cowl ventilators.
It was little wonder that the police had failed to stop the car. They had directed their shots toward the harmless corpses in the seat, when actually the killer was safely concealed in the armor-plate compartment beneath the cowl. The killer had ghoulishly robbed the grave of Slash Carmody and others to obtain the corpses which he used as decoys in the car.
