And then the Agent’s eyes gleamed as he noted something else—something close to the desk, something which had failed to register with him until that moment. It was a microphone. A microphone on a stand, right beside the Skull’s chair. Vividly the Agent recalled the picture of himself and Betty Dale escaping through the passages, while the stentorian voice had bellowed through the hidden amplifiers, directing the pursuit.
And slowly the lips of Secret Agent “X” tightened into a thin smile as he contemplated an idea, grimly ironic in its conception, daringly dangerous in execution.
Swiftly he donned the mask and robe, seated himself, and drew the microphone toward him. He flexed the muscles of his throat, tautened, and spoke into it; and his voice was a perfect imitation of the voice used by the Skull.
“This is the Skull talking!” he called sonorously. “Seize Binks! Seize Binks! Seize Binks! Binks is a traitor! Binks is a traitor!”
HE stopped, and his voice came rolling back to him from the amplifiers in the corridor outside: “—a traitor!”
Once more he spoke into the microphone. “Binks is a traitor! Bring him to my office. I will hold you all responsible if he escapes. Get Binks and bring him to my office at once! Do not fail, as you value your lives! When he is caught, let everybody come to my office!”
He ceased talking, waited tensely. Within a few moments he would know if his trick was successful. The Skull might talk the men out of it. If they did turn on him, he might escape, might come back alone to the office.
“X” waited, his ears keenly attuned for sounds outside that would tell him whether many men were coming, or only one. After what seemed an age of waiting, during which he sat unmoving, not showing by so much as the twitch of a muscle the suspense that he felt, there was the sound of voices in the corridor, and the outside door of the anteroom opened.
The men were all there. In the forefront walked Frisch and Gilly, with Binks, handcuffed, between them.
Their brutish faces suggested puzzlement mingled with awe. Frisch and Gilly stopped, hesitantly, at the threshold of the office, waiting for orders from the man who wore the mask of the Skull.
Binks, who had been expostulating shrilly, became quiet when he saw that an impostor sat in his chair. He gazed with burning eyes through his rubber mask at the Agent, then said, “I see you’re hard to kill, Mister ‘X’!” There was open venom in his voice, and a tinge of fear.
Frisch said, “We got him, boss. He was in the main room with us, tellin’ us that you wanted me and Gilly to go out an’ pick up the ransom. When you broadcasted, we grabbed him, an’ he’s been tryin’ to tell us all the way up here that you ain’t the Skull. He says you’re Secret Agent ‘X’! I socked him one, but he wouldn’t keep quiet.”
The other men were crowding close behind, and “X” could see that none of them looked sorry for Binks. They all more or less hated the apparent halfwit, who had prodded and taunted them. Frisch, especially, took a particular pleasure in buffeting Binks around. He no doubt recalled the half-dollars he had thrown to him, recalled that the halfwit had ridiculed him before all the men.
The Agent said, “Bring him in.”
Frisch and Gilly propelled their prisoner toward the desk.
Before they reached the four-foot strip of electrified flooring, “X” said, “That’s far enough. Now—”
But the Skull, his hands manacled behind his back, interrupted, shouting at the men who had crowded in behind, “You fools! This isn’t the Skull. I tell you, it’s Secret Agent ‘X’! Rip that mask off his face, an’ you’ll see it isn’t the Skull!”
Gilly laughed wickedly. “You have been half nuts for a long time,” he taunted. “Now you’re all nuts. Maybe you’ll tell us next that you’re the Skull!” He looked toward “X” behind the desk, as if wondering whether his levity was going to be rebuked.
The Agent said, “Binks is a traitor, men. He was planning to kill the two men who went for the ransom, and collect it for himself. You know that punishment we have for traitors?”
They shouted, “Put him in the chair. Let’s see him wriggle!”
“X” nodded, and the slow motion of his hideous mask must have been impressive to the gathered ruffians. The Skull made another, a desperate attempt to convince them.
“I tell you,” he screamed, “That’s not the Skull. I’m the Skull!” He stopped as a gale of derisive laughter swept the men. Gilly cried, “See that? Just what I said he’d claim. Can you imagine this here halfwit bein’ our boss!”
Binks cried desperately, “I’ll prove it, you damned idiots. I know all about you. You, Gilly!” He stopped for a moment, and then continued and his voice had suddenly become the voice that the men had become accustomed to hear from the Skull himself. He had been a little panicky before, but now he realized that he must control himself, prove to these men beyond doubt that he was their leader. The voice of the Skull, coming to them from Binks, would, at least, cause them to waver, would induce them to listen to him.
ONCE he had their ear, he could prove that he was the Skull. He knew things about them that only the Skull could know; if he mentioned those things, they would be convinced. He started to talk again, using the voice of the Skull. “You, Gilly! Do you remember—”
But Secret Agent “X,” whose brain was keenly attuned to the least change in the situation, detected the change in the voice with the very first words, before the men did. The Skull’s voice was hardly audible above the men’s derisive shouts; they had not yet caught the significance of the change of tone.
Before they had a chance to do so, the Agent arose and thundered, “That’s enough! We will have an execution at once! It will be a lesson to those who betray the Skull!”
Binks tried to shout, but “X” motioned to Frisch, ordered, “Shut him up. He’s said enough!”
Frisch grinned wickedly, raised a fist and brought it down heavily at the side of his prisoner’s head. Binks staggered, and cringed. The blow had hurt.
“X” said curtly, “We will have everybody present at the execution. I want to have those millionaires see how our chair works. You, Frisch, take some men and bring them out of the cells. Take them to the execution room; all you other men, go there and wait for me. Leave me alone with Binks. I want a few words with him alone to show him how bad his mistake has been!”
The men did not question the command. They filed out, shutting the outer anteroom door behind them. Binks stood in a corner, his hideous rubber mask seeming the very incarnation of madness. From under that mask his eyes gleamed fiercely, calculatingly, at the Agent. He was by no means ready to acknowledge defeat. He said with a trace of cunning in his voice, “Look here—I know you’re ‘X.’ You’re a cleverer man than I thought, to have gotten out of the elevator shaft. Why don’t you come in with me? I can make you a rich man. You’d never have to work again—”
He stopped as he saw “X” shake his head slowly in the negative. He burst out, snarling, “You fool! You think you can take my place? You think you can go on with my plans?”
The Agent said softly, “That is not what I intend, Mister Skull.”
“Then you must be looking for a reward! I will give you more than you can ever collect in rewards! Come in with me, and I will give you a third of my profits—three million dollars! And who knows how much more—with two clever men like us working together. Come on,” he urged, as he saw that “X” was silent, “join me. Every man has a price. Three million dollars for a starter should be enough for anyone!”
His eyes widened as he saw the Agent produce a hypodermic syringe from his pocket, and load it from a small vial of muddy-colored liquid. “I’ll make it five million!” he screamed. “Half of my profits!”
The Agent said, as though explaining an elementary lesson to a child, “You have not learned yet, Mister Skull, that all men cannot be bought. There are higher things than money, Mister Skull.”
“You’re crazy!” the manacled man snarled. “Nobody turns down money. You
must be playing a deeper game than I can figure. What is it? You couldn’t be fool enough to turn down five million. Don’t you understand? Five million dollars! There’s nothing that it couldn’t buy you—ease, comfort, power!”
“You are wrong, Mister Skull. There are honor and ease of conscience and the pride of serving humanity. Those are things that you can’t understand, Mister Skull.”
The Agent finished loading the hypodermic, came around the desk, and jumped the four-foot strip of electrified flooring.
The Skull shrank back against the wall. “What are you going to do?” he demanded hoarsely.
Secret Agent “X” advanced upon him grimly, purposefully. “I’m going to put you to sleep. And then I’m going to rip off that rubber mask, and verify my suspicions as to whose face is really under it. I’m going to see the face of the Skull!”
Chapter XXI
FACE OF THE SKULL
THE police at last had a lead to the headquarters of the Skull. It had come none too soon, for the first installment of the ransom was to be paid at midnight—one million dollars in thousand-dollar bills. The insurance companies had rushed through special agreements with the heirs of the abducted millionaires, whereby the companies were authorized to pay out the money and to reduce the policies by the amounts paid.
Headquarters confessed itself checkmated. There was no possible hope, barring a lucky break, that the lair of the Skull could be located in time to save the millionaires and prevent the payment of the ransom. The terrible prospect presented itself of having the same crime repeated time and time again, with impunity. For there was nothing to prevent the Skull, once he had carried this operation to a successful conclusion, from repeating with another group of heavily insured men. The situation threatened to disrupt the entire insurance institution of the nation. The companies would be chary in the future of issuing large policies, and men would be reluctant to purchase them, lest they become victims of the Skull.
Commissioner Foster and Inspector Burks had been in almost constant conference with insurance company officials, and in telephonic communication with state and national officials. Nothing remained but abject capitulation to the terms of the master criminal; to allow those millionaires to be rendered pitiable wrecks like Ainsworth Clegg was unthinkable. Commissioner Foster reluctantly gave the word that he would cooperate with the companies in the delivery of the ransom money.
And then, just when spirits were at their lowest, came a bright ray of hope. Jim Hobart, former patrolman, informed Inspector Burks that he could lead him to the spot where the car which had kidnaped Hilary had disappeared.
Everything suddenly became bustle and stir. Squad cars were ordered; reserves were called out. Foster himself said to young Jim Hobart, “Look here, young man, if your lead turns out to be the means of breaking this case, I’ll see that you are reinstated on the force—no matter what you were ever charged with!”
And sure enough, the false floor in the garage was discovered, the lever that lowered the runway found. Plainclothes men swarmed down, to find themselves faced with an impasse. For here there were no passages, no rooms, no hideouts; there was only a break in the concrete wall, which opened into the new subway cut under construction. They found here the improvised tracks used for hauling material, and a handcar on the tracks.
Jim Hobart could give them no further information. He was as puzzled as they—until he noted that on the wall there was drawn an arrow pointing to the right. The peculiar thing about this arrow was that it showed brightly in the dark.
Inspector Burks, looking at it closely, exclaimed in wonder. “Hell, that’s drawn with radium! Look at how it shines!”
They found, as they went in the direction indicated by the arrow, that at every point where there was a choice of directions, there, too, was an arrow. They followed them eagerly, from the subway cut into a maze of complicated passages. Panels were open, and needed no manipulation. It was as if the way had been paved for them by a friend.
At last they came to a heavily barred door, which opened automatically at their approach. And in the room behind that door they witnessed a remarkable scene.
THE room was cut in half by a heavy wire mesh screen that seemed to run from floor to ceiling. On their side of the screen as they entered the room, stood, stupefied at the sudden entrance of the police, some thirty-odd men, all with criminal records. They seemed to have been cut off from the rest of the room by the wire screen.
On the other side of the screen, near the wall, was an electric chair. And near the chair stood the kidnaped millionaires, looks of joy and relief crossing their harassed countenances as they saw the police. They cried, shouted, gesticulated, and then became suddenly silent as one of their number, Grier, the stockbroker, exclaimed, “The Skull! He’s still there!” and pointed to the niche above the electric chair.
Inspector Burks followed Grier’s pointing finger, and gasped in amazement. For there stood a man garbed in a vermilion cloak and hood, wearing on his face a hideous mask resembling the head of a skeleton. This man had one hand raised, gripping the handle of a switch, and seemed to be leering down at the scene.
There was a slight blur of motion in the semi-darkness of that niche, and suddenly, as if by its own volition, the heavy screen began to rise. The police, who had come into the room behind Burks, trained submachine guns on the thirty-odd ex-convicts who crouched in terror, looking up to the figure of the Skull in his niche, as if seeking aid from him. But the Skull was silent, not moving, seeming to regard the whole scene with leering, sardonic humor.
Burks raised his heavy service revolver, covered the vermilion figure, and bellowed, “Come down from there, or I’ll shoot!”
There was no response from the Skull.
The millionaires huddled together, as if fearing some last terrible action from the master of evil, which would wipe them all out. After a moment Burks stepped toward the niche, motioning for a couple of his men to follow him. He came up close under the niche, reached up and pulled at the Skull’s robe, shouting, “Come on, there! You’re under arrest!”
In answer to the inspector’s pull, the figure of the Skull suddenly toppled forward, and fell from the niche, its fall being broken by the three men underneath.
Burks scrambled to his feet, leveled his gun. But the Skull was prostrate on the floor, not moving.
Burks reached down, gripped an edge of the mask, and plucked it away.
A gasp went up from everybody present, including the Servants of the Skull.
For the face that was exposed beneath the mask was the face of Harrison Dennett, the subway contractor.
Grier came up beside Burks, exclaimed, “Good God! We thought Dennett had been killed, and it was he all the time. We were told Dennett had been killed first, so we wouldn’t suspect him!”
Burks said grimly, “He’s not dead—just unconscious. Looks like someone gave him a shot of some sort of anesthetic.
Laurens, the little jeweler, exclaimed, “Think of it! He was our friend, and he turned out to be such a devil! He was broke, and losing the subway job, so he figured he’d recoup this way!”
Burks said, “I wonder who laid him out here; and who left those arrows for us to follow. It looks like—”
He paused, for just then, from the corridor outside there came a series of incoherent cries, and the sound of wildly stumbling feet. There reeled into the room a young patrolman, one of those who had been assigned to guard the corridors. He staggered in, his hands to his eyes, rubbing them madly.
Burks jumped up, seized him by the shoulder. “What’s the matter, O’Brien? You hurt?”
O’Brien rubbed knuckles at his tortured eyes. It was several minutes before he could speak, and then he said, “Some one was in the corridor, inspector. He came through a panel—looked like some sort of a halfwit, with a face that was full of scars. I called to him to stop, but he started to run away, so I pulled my gun. An’ then, what does he do but turn around an’ throw some sort of a litt
le pellet at me. It burst on the floor—tear gas! I couldn’t see a thing, an’ he escaped!”
Just then there came an eerie whistle from somewhere out in the maze of passages—a whistle strangely musical in its quality, that seemed to pierce to the very marrow of the bones of the men in that room.
Inspector Burks raised his head, and there was a peculiar light in his eyes. “Now I understand,” he said. “I’ve heard that whistle before. I—think—I know who it is!”
The Murder Monster
A panic-stricken cities shrank in horror from these death-dealing robots who were immune to bullets. Only Secret Agent “X” dared meet the challenge of these inhuman fiends and their master, The Murder Monster, whose pointed finger turned men and women into flaming agony.
Chapter I
STORM CLOUDS OF CRIME
THE setting sun cast a cold, hard glint across the waters of the Hudson. Brittle spearheads of light flashed athwart the waves that rippled at the bank of the river below the somber walls of the State Prison.
The chill of early November dusk was in the air; almost it seemed to reflect a spirit of dreadful foreboding, to presage the approach of calamity. Somehow, the air seemed charged with thunderbolts of doom, poised and waiting to be hurled at the grim walls of the gloomy pile that loomed above the river, imprisoning fifteen hundred bitter men.
It was Sunday afternoon, and the inmates were being given a glimpse of life in the world beyond their cells. They were being treated to a football game between their own team and the team of Ervinton College, an institution that played the State Prison once a year.
The players on the field, convicts and college boys alike, were lost in the excitement of the game.
But the convict spectators displayed only a listless half-interest. Behind the high wire screen that separated their section from that of the visitors, they sat tensely, eyeing each other furtively, shifting nervously in their seats. Over the whole prison there seemed to be an air of tension, of taut expectancy.
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