Secret Agent X : The Complete Series Volume 3

by Emile C. Tepperman

  When his disguise was complete, that of a strong, quiet-faced, gray-haired man, Agent “X” dressed carefully. Pond, as an individual of means and importance, must always live up to his station.

  In the secret pockets of the suit that “X” put on, however, he slipped the many strange devices that he was in the habit of carrying.

  When all was ready, he went quickly into the street, using a back exit of the hideout. He walked rapidly several blocks, summoned a taxi and rode to one of the city’s best-known hotels.

  From the lobby of this he called a wealthy, exclusive institution. This was the famous Bankers’ Club, of which Elisha Pond was a member. He asked to speak to Jonathan Jewett, the hard-headed president of the Northern Continent Insurance Co. “X” knew Jewett’s ways. Jewett always stopped at the club after work for a cocktail and a chat. The Agent knew furthermore, that Jewett had suffered indirectly at the hands of the gangsters now terrorizing the city.

  An affiliate of Jewett’s company, handling fidelity, liability and burglary insurance, had been asked to meet policy payments a dozen times in the past week. That meant thousands of dollars loss to the affiliated concern. Jewett should be in a fit mood to be used as a pawn in a plan the Agent’s cunning brain had devised. That plan was the formation of a committee to cross-question Police Commissioner Foster.

  “X” suggested that Jewett select certain men for the task. With quiet persuasion he stirred the insurance man’s emotions, playing on his indignation over the money lost, getting Jewett to agree to his proposal to have Foster, a club member, come down and be put on the mat. It was Jewett himself, however, who suggested that Pond be one of the committee-men. This had been part of the Agent’s own plan from the beginning. But he had cleverly let it appear as though it were Jewett’s idea.

  When he sped to the Bankers’ Club just before six, the commissioner was already there. Foster looked harried, worried, and was pacing a private rear room tensely. Jewett, tall, menacing, indignant, because of the money his enterprises stood to lose, was glaring at him. Jason Coates, a small, sharp-featured man, who had run unsuccessfully against the present mayor, and hated him and his commissioners, was sneering openly at Foster.

  John Harrigan, a financier with large holdings in munitions, was another member of the committee. Christy, a bland-faced broker, was still another.

  Foster stared straight ahead of him, meeting no one’s eyes directly. A limp rag of a cigar, chewed beyond all appearance of a smoke, hung from his lips.

  HARRIGAN was endeavoring to be diplomatic, trying to calm Foster’s evident irritation at this move his club members had made. For Harrigan was a friend of the mayor’s, a staunch supporter of the present administration, and had been dragged on the committee against his will.

  But Foster seemed to feel himself attacked from all quarters. He brushed Harrigan’s diplomatic, pleasantries aside. He shot a venomous glance at Jason Coates, then spoke hoarsely, bluntly answering the criticisms that were hurled at him.

  “I refuse to admit the charge that my department is inefficient,” he snapped. “I’ve ordered the men under me to do everything in their power. They are doing it, gentlemen. That is all I have to say.”

  His face whitened as he said this. Agent “X,” watching closely, saw that the man was lying. “X” had seen many men lie. The expression on Commissioner Foster’s face, the telltale wavering of his eyes, only deepened the Agent’s belief that something strange and sinister was wrong with the working of the city administration.

  A dead silence followed Foster’s speech. In the period that it lasted, the shrill cries of newsboys floated up from the street through an open window.

  “Extra! Read all about the big robbery. Storekeeper murdered! Five hundred thousand dollars in diamonds stolen!”

  The sound was like fresh fuel heaped on a smoldering fire. Jonathan Jewett struck the table with his fist.

  “The citizens of this city will demand a reckoning!” he cried. “You’ll find yourself out of a job, Foster!”

  Commissioner Foster, holding himself stiffly, stared not at Jewett, but over his left shoulder into empty space—as though he were seeing some hideous specter. He licked quivering lips. His face twitched.

  “There’s nothing more to be said, gentlemen! If you don’t like the way this city’s being run—go to the mayor. Perhaps he’ll give you satisfaction.”

  He strode forward hurriedly, jerked open the door and slammed it after him. His quick steps could be heard receding, mingling with the persistent cries of the newsboys still outside, advertising the news of the latest criminal outrage.

  Jewett turned on his companions bitterly. His face was screwed into knots of anger. He clenched his fist again. “We’ll take him up on that! We’ll see the mayor and ask that a change of personnel be made in the police department. If he won’t listen, I’ll use my influence to see that the city loan he’s asking for doesn’t go over.”

  Harrigan looked troubled. “I doubt if you can see his honor,” he said. “I happen to know that Mayor Ballantine is a guest on board Monte Sutton’s yacht, the Osprey.”

  Jason Coates, political rival of the mayor, nodded and sneered. “I read about that! He’s going for a cruise to Southern waters for his health. He’s going to run away just when he’s most needed.”

  “But he’s changed his plans,” said Harrigan hastily. “The cruise has been postponed indefinitely—till city affairs smooth out. His visit to the Osprey tonight is a purely social one.”

  “We’ll see what he has to say anyhow!” growled Jewett.

  The five of them, in Jewett’s private limousine, drove off into the winter night. Harrigan, worried and silent in the face of Jewett’s anger, directed the chauffeur. The Osprey was close to one of the city’s most exclusive residential sections, at anchor in the river near a swanky yacht club.

  Jewett arranged for a speed boat to take them out. Bundled in their heavy overcoats, they raced across the dark water, sweeping up to the yacht’s companionway.

  A score of prosperous looking men and women in evening clothes were sitting in the big saloon. Several couples were dancing on a small polished floor that had been laid in its center. A jazz orchestra, on a raised platform under the shaded lights, sobbed out a melody. Cocktail glasses were clinking. Light conversation and laughter sounded above the music. Monte Sutton’s guests were obviously enjoying themselves.

  Then “X” saw Ballantine. The mayor’s appearance was in sharp contrast to the others. His stocky, broad-shouldered figure was slouched dejectedly. There was a grayish hue on his pouchy face. Wrinkles of worry creased his eyes. His lips were clamped over a cigar. He was solemn, distracted, staring ahead unseeingly, rolling his large shoulders from side to side like a restless bear.

  JONATHAN Jewett made straight for him, with Harrigan, the munitions man, running a little ahead, to warn the mayor he had visitors. Ballantine gave a start and looked up uneasily. A combative expression appeared on his face. Harrigan took it upon himself to explain.

  “These fellow clubmen of mine have come to make a few complaints,” he said. “I told them it wasn’t an opportune time; but they insisted. Mr. Jewett, it seems, has an ax to grind.”

  “You’re right, I have,” growled Jonathan Jewett. “We saw your commissioner of police a few moments ago, Ballantine. We protested about the inefficiency of his department—and got no satisfaction. Now we’ve come to make some suggestions. Crime has risen fifty per cent in this city, and—”

  Some of the guests were drawing nearer, attracted by Jewett’s loud voice. The mayor shook his head distractedly.

  “Not here—please! If you want to talk let’s go somewhere where we can be alone.”

  “That suits me,” said Jewett.

  Monte Sutton, owner of the Osprey and the mayor’s host, was courteous and diplomatic. With a slightly bored expression on his handsome face, he led them to a small writing room.

  “You won’t be intruded upon here, gentlemen,” he sa
id. “Now get the poison out of your systems.”

  Coates began to make sneering comments on the general inefficiency of the administration, hinting broadly at graft, predicting that the voters would cast their ballots differently in the next election. Jewett thundered about the rising tide of crime. Harrigan tried to steer conversation into more peaceful channels, and Agent “X,” in the role of Pond, stood quietly by, watching and listening.

  That the mayor was worried was obvious. There were gray shadows under his eyes. He threw out his hands, and snapped up his head as questions and criticisms were shouted at him.

  “Am I to listen to every faultfinder who cares to speak?” he said. “Am I to alter my policies to suit any committee of citizenry that comes along?”

  Jonathan Jewett thrust the evening paper forward, with its screaming headlines. “I don’t give a damn about your policies, Ballantine! But this crime wave has got to stop. I’ve spoken to your police commissioner—and he gave me no satisfaction. If you don’t bear down on him yourself, and see about a shake-up at once, I’ll use my influence to hinder your administration in any way I can. You might as well know that now!”

  The mayor faced his critic. His voice was low, hoarse. “There are factors at work that none of you know anything about,” he said. “I’m running this city with the good of all in mind. I’m satisfied that the police are doing the best they can under the circumstances. Commissioner Foster is answerable to me alone—and I find no cause for dissatisfaction in the way he is carrying out his duties.”

  A stunned silence met this retort. Then Coates gave a harshly sneering laugh. Jonathan Jewett spoke furiously:

  “You don’t think a police shakedown is necessary then? You are satisfied to let the criminals of this city plunder and murder as they will? You don’t want to protect the lives and property of honest citizens? By gad, Ballantine, it would seem almost that you have told the police not to interfere!”

  A trembling that was very much like some mysterious, deep-seated terror shook the mayor’s body. He clenched and unclenched his hands, swayed his form from side to side.

  “I—I refuse to talk any more!” he said wildly.

  Chapter IV

  NIGHT PROWLERS

  THAT he meant what he said was evident. The fear that tensed his body seemed to have sealed his lips.

  Harrigan was the only one of the group invited by Sutton to remain on the yacht. But he declined, saying he had an appointment ashore.

  The committee from the Bankers’ Club left as it had come. The members of it formed a silent group as they crossed the black water in the speed boat. Each was preoccupied with his own somber thoughts. But the Secret Agent was the somberest of all.

  “X” left the others when the speed boat landed. He refused Jason Coates’s invitation to return to the club and discuss politics, turned down Jewett’s offer to give him a lift in his car. He gave as an excuse that he had pressing business in the neighborhood. And how pressing that business was, none of them knew...

  Much later that night, when the streets were quiet, Agent “X” appeared again. But no one would have recognized him now as the wealthy, dignified Elisha Pond. He was clad in faded blue trousers. Dusty shoes with thick rubber soles were on his feet. A turtle-necked sweater was pulled up to his chin. A cloth cap half covered his face. His features were disguised again, ugly and shapeless now. His brows were heavy, and a black substance that gave the impression of a stubble of beard was pressed into the plastic material forming his face.

  He was impersonating a night prowler, a burglar or sneak thief, and under his arm was a worn leather kit containing a set of regulation burglar tools. But these were for appearance’s sake only, to be left behind as misleading evidence in case he was chased by the police. His own set of tools, made of the finest chromium steel, and unrivaled by those of any burglar in existence, were the ones that would do the strange work he had in mind.

  Furtively, using the darkest streets he could find and imitating the actions of a night-marauding thief, he made his way across town. Several times he passed patrolling police. But they didn’t see him, so careful was he to keep in the shadows and so soundless were his rubber-soled shoes. But he noticed them—noticed that even these cops on the beat seemed afflicted with some emotional malady.

  For they looked uneasy, nervous. They were confused and strained by orders from headquarters probably—orders which were inconsistent with the duties to which they were pledged. He didn’t doubt that they, too, had been instructed to steer clear of any mob showing the mysterious red-and-green signals of a Very pistol.

  Agent “X” felt sorry for these men. They must believe secretly that the department they had served loyally for years was going to pieces. They must think corruption had eaten into the lives and minds of the men over them.

  It was close to midnight when at last he reached a peaceful, old residential avenue. Prosperous homes lined it. Leafless trees stood in long, even rows.

  The Agent walked several times along the block on this street, staring sharply at a certain house, a two-story brick residence, carefully cared for like the others. It was the Ballantine mansion, where the mayor had lived through all his rising political years, and where he still lived, as the city’s chief executive. There was a spacious lawn around it, and a sizable backyard.

  Silently Agent” “X” climbed a picket fence and stepped onto the lawn. Wraithlike he moved across it, toward a big bay window at the side of the house. His actions were sure, calculated. Once, in another disguise on a different case, he had interviewed Ballantine in the role of a newspaperman. He remembered the mayor’s large study, recalled the big safe where Ballantine kept his private and semi-official documents. Surely, here if anywhere, would be a clue to the thing Agent “X” sought.

  He went to the big bay window, skirted it and came to an outer door. This was a side entrance to the house, the door used by the mayor in summertime to come out on his lawn and chat with his neighbors over the fence.

  With one of his chromium master keys in his hand, Agent “X” came close. There were no lights showing in the house. If the mayor or any of his family were home, they had long since gone to bed. Perhaps Ballantine was spending the night on Monte Sutton’s yacht again. In any case, Agent “X” knew how to enter quietly.

  BUT at the door he paused. The Fates seemed trying to aid him. The door was not shut, nor even locked. It was open about six inches, and when he looked carefully, he saw something—a man’s soft hat—wedged in it to keep it from making any noise in the night breeze.

  “X” slowly replaced the chromium tool in his pocket. No use for that now. Here was a strange turn of events. He had come to enter the house only to find that it wasn’t necessary. The place was already open.

  “X” moved the door slowly, careful to avoid any faint squeak of the hinges. He stepped across the threshold into a hallway, closed the door after him, wedging it as it had been. He moved straight ahead, a flashlight in his left hand ready for instant use, his gas pistol in the other, and every faculty alert.

  He had not been in this hall before, but he could guess at his surroundings. The first door at his left would be that of the study, the chamber in which he planned to go. He reached this and found that it was open, too. Then, as he paused and listened, he heard a faint sound inside, a soft, eerie rustling.

  Slowly he shoved the door back, and looked into the room. In a far corner where the safe was located a faint light showed, the glow of an electric torch with a paper cylinder over its end to direct its rays in one direction only. This was making a glowing spot on the floor close to the safe. In this tiny arena of light, a man’s hands were moving white papers, shifting them and examining them with quick fingers.

  He was so intent on his work, so eager, that he had no inkling of Agent “X’s” presence. “X” couldn’t see his face at first, not until his own eyes became used to the bright spot of light and things around its edge became faintly discernible. Then he started
.

  His eyes narrowed. He bent forward tensely. For the features of the man before him were familiar. He had spoken with this man a few hours previously. The silent, absorbed figure raiding the mayor’s safe in the dark of the night was Harrigan, distinguished member of the Bankers’ Club, and enthusiastic investor in munitions.

  Chapter V

  THE SINISTER PLOT

  FOR tense seconds Agent “X” studied Harrigan’s face and movements. He was the last man “X” had expected to find here. Yet a possible explanation immediately suggested itself. Harrigan had been on the club committee which went to the yacht to cross-examine the mayor. He had acted as peacemaker, he was a loyal supporter of the party to which the mayor belonged. But it was possible he had grown impatient at the way Ballantine and his commissioners were running the city. It was possible that he, too, had come here tonight in the hopes of finding some evidence which would throw light on Ballantine’s strange actions.

  Agent “X” watched hawk-eyed. Harrigan was making a systematic examination of the documents the safe contained, piling those he had already looked at on one side, reaching for others at his left.

  Agent “X,” in his rubber-soled shoes, walking catlike, slowly crossed the floor, till he stood directly back of the kneeling man. He could see over Harrigan’s shoulder now, read as plainly as Harrigan himself what documents these were. Most of them were uninteresting; copies of bills submitted to the aldermen, papers dealing with franchises, charters and the like.

  Five minutes passed, and a faint noise came from somewhere in the house, as though a restless sleeper had stirred. Harrigan tensed. For a moment it seemed he might get up and go to the door. His hand hovered over his light. But the sound was not repeated. Harrigan went back to his furtive work.

  It was then that Agent “X,” looking down, saw the paper which Harrigan drew from a black envelope almost at the bottom of the pile. Harrigan opened it like the others. His eyes started to scan the words. But Agent “X,” reading faster than the man before him, had already seen a sentence that held hideous meaning. Before Harrigan had gotten beyond the first paragraph, Secret Agent “X” spoke sibilantly.