Three minutes of involuntary inhaling, and Gus Sanzoni was breathing more quickly. His arms moved. His eyelids began to flutter. He had returned to the borderland of consciousness.
Agent “X” took a small bottle from the chemical case. It contained a colorless liquid—essence of sodium amythal. He poured a few drops of this into a whiskey glass of water, tipped back Sanzoni’s head, and made the man swallow.
Sanzoni’s movements and the fluttering of his eyelids soon ceased. He had come out of the influence of one anesthetic, only to be subjected to another. But this was of a different nature.
The Agent fired low-voiced questions at Sanzoni, and in a moment Sanzoni was giving reply. His answers were mere confused mutterings at first. But, as unconscious nerve centers took control, his voice grew stronger, became natural.
His answers were whining, suave, domineering—according to the questions “X” put to him. And these questions were seemingly unrelated to the criminal case in hand. They were questions concerning Sanzoni’s personal habits, his likes and dislikes in food and liquor, his attitude toward politics, his treatment of his men.
Other queries concerning Sanzoni’s communication with the Terror followed. “X” verified what Sanzoni had stated previously—that he alone was the one who dealt with the Terror’s representative, handing over the Terror’s share of the loot, after he had received a telephone call designating the place of delivery. “X” listened to Sanzoni’s voice as well as the words he uttered.
Several times he ordered Sanzoni to repeat a sentence. More than once Agent “X” spoke a phrase directly after the mobster. And the effect then was uncanny. For the Agent’s amazing power of mimicry made it appear as though two Gus Sanzonis had spoken. He mastered the gangster’s wheezing inflection, copied the involuntary gestures that Sanzoni made with his hands and arms as he talked.
And when he had gotten what he wanted, Agent “X” gave his prisoner still another administration of chemical—a hypo injection this time, of the same sort he had given Bugs Gary. Sanzoni returned to the realm of complete unconsciousness.
IT was then that Agent “X” began one of the most difficult disguises he had ever attempted. Sanzoni was the same height as himself. But there were those roils of fat on the gangster’s face and body to be coped with, the baggy flesh under his eyes, the flabby jowls.
These presented great difficulties. Yet Agent “X,” as a master impersonator, had anticipated that he would one day come up against such a problem. He had prepared.
In a locked, metal-bound chest in his hideout were sets of padding. Sets such as some great character actor might have possessed. These had been made for “X” by a famous Parisian stage costumer. He selected those which, fastened on, developed the rotundities of Sanzoni.
Then he began work on his own features, first stripping off his present disguise. With his volatile, quick-drying, plastic material he commenced molding the features of Gus Sanzoni upon himself. And here “X” employed the art of the sculptor. He could have done the same thing in clay. He had in the beginning of his strange career made countless experiments with plastic clay, till his powerful fingers had developed an uncanny quickness and accuracy.
Collodion formed one of the basic substances in the materials he used. There were others, known only to “X,” blended by a secret formula over which he had worked for months, till he had achieved just the right degrees of cohesiveness and mobility.
He modeled the flexed jowls of Sanzoni; duplicated the bags under the eyes, the thickened, flabby neck, the gross lips. And this padding of synthetic fleshlike material followed the movement of the real flesh beneath. When he smiled the sculptured features smiled also. When he scowled they moved in accordance with the muscular movement beneath. The principle of “X’s” disguises was no mystery. The only mystery was the lifelike effect his genius achieved.
For when he arose at last from before his triple-sided mirrors, the twin of Gus Sanzoni seemed to be in that room. And when he removed the gangster’s clothes and put them on himself, he seemed to be the real Sanzoni, and the snoring, sleeping man on the couch seemed to be his ghost. The padding over his own firm muscles filled the gangster’s oversized suit.
He practised Sanzoni’s walk across the room. He addressed the walls in Sanzoni’s wheezing, brutal voice. He stuck one of the gangsters cigars between his thickened lips, lighted it, breathed smoke and practised harsh gestures. He was Gus Sanzoni to the life.
But before he left his hideout he added two things to an otherwise perfect disguise. He discolored slightly the plastic material above his cheekbone to look like a bruise. Across his forehead he stuck a small strip of adhesive plaster which seemed to hide a cut. Even the cut was there, a reddish slit in the make-up, in case curious hands should remove the plaster.
TWENTY MINUTES later, a yellow cab drew up before the door of the Montmorency Club, and a man who would have passed anywhere for Gus Sanzoni stepped out. He seemed to be Sanzoni in one of his most evil moods. His heavy brutal features were twisted into a savage scowl. The frayed stub of an unlighted cigar projected from his lips. He flung a coin at the cab driver, turned and clumped sullenly into the club’s vestibule.
The doorman had gone off duty now. The last of the guests had finally left. The band had ceased playing. There was none to see Sanzoni’s apparent return till he mounted the red plush stairs and reached the floor of the club proper.
But the place was not as deserted as it seemed. A rat-faced gunman lounging outside the door of the club’s main room saw the lumbering form of Sanzoni, and gave a hoarse cry of excitement.
“Boss!” he said. “Boss!”
He thrust open the door behind him, called to those inside.
“It’s the boss, gents! He’s come back! He got away from that guy! He’s here.”
A score of silent, tense-faced gangsters were gathered in the room. Some had been leaning against the walls. Others sat glumly at tables with whisky glasses before them. Goldie La Mar, Sanzoni’s moll, looking old and strained, was pacing the room, smoking endless cigarettes. There was a stampede to meet the returning big shot.
Behind the disguise of Sanzoni, one of the most daring impersonations he had ever wrought, Secret Agent “X” was in a state of hair-trigger alertness. This was a challenge hurled into the face of Fate. This was courting death in death’s own stronghold. There was no bullet-proof vest beneath his clothing now. If he made a slip, if one of these men around him, or that nimble-witted woman, learned that he was not Sanzoni at all, but only a clever imposter, guns would blaze murderously. And the menace of the NP bombs would remain to imperil the city. Twice he had escaped close destruction in this building. A third time he had come to make the greatest gamble of all.
Goldie La Mar’s voice sounded above the rest, brittle, shrill with excitement. There was relief in her mascaraed eyes. Her painted lips curved in a dazzling smile. She had thought her meal ticket, her prestige in the underworld, had been snatched from her. Now they had returned in the person of Sanzoni.
She flung her powdered arms around Sanzoni’s neck.
“Gus!” she screeched. “Gus—we thought that mug had croaked you!”
Her cajoling, perfumed lips tried to cling to his. Agent “X,” with an irritable growl, playing the role of a man whose character he had sized up adroitly, flung her away. He made a wry grimace, clutched his shoulder, and winced as though in pain.
“Oh—he hurt you!” said Goldie La Mar. “You’ve got a cut—and a bruise on your face. How did you do it, Gus? How did you get away?”
Others flung questions at him. He was congratulated, admired, cheered. When he reached the inner room, a gangster shoved a glass of liquor toward him. Agent “X” tossed it off at a gulp; threw out his padded chest a little.
“That bird won’t bother us no more!” he said.
“How did you do it, Gus? Where is he?”
“Never mind. Pipe down—all you heels. And you, Goldie—it’s time you hit the
hay. Clear out. Scram! I got business to attend to.”
Agent “X” walked on into Sanzoni’s private office. Four slinking gangsters, Sanzoni’s own personal bodyguard and lieutenants, detached themselves from the others and followed.
“X” heaved himself into Sanzoni’s chair, eyed these men who would have sought to kill him instantly had they guessed the truth.
“How did the work go?” he wheezed.
One of the men, a hatchet-faced, macabre-looking Sicilian, stepped nearer. He drew from his pocket a huge paper packet, laid it on Sanzoni’s desk. A half dozen other such packets followed until there was a pile of them.
“It went swell!” the gangster lieutenant said. “Those are all century notes. There are seven hundred of them—seventy grand, and that ain’t all.” He turned to one of his companions. “Cough up, José,” he snapped.
The second mobster disgorged packets of bills from his pockets. The pile on Sanzoni’s desk rose. The face of José cracked in a hideous smile.
“We t’ought you wasn’t comin’ back, boss—an’ we didn’t know w’at we’d do wid dis stuff. De vault opened easy, but we hadda knock off two guys to keep ’em quiet.”
“X” knew that here was more bank loot. Here was more evidence of the black wave of crime that still swamped the city—and would as long as the Terror held the threat of his dread “protection” over Mayor Ballantine’s head.
“X” nodded, drew the money toward him, and asked a sudden question.
“Any phone calls for me?”
The men looked at each other uneasily. The one who had first given him the money nodded and spoke.
“Yeah—a guy called you at two o’clock. But he didn’t say what he wanted. He sounded sore—because you wasn’t here. I said you’d be back later.”
Agent “X” didn’t reply. He lighted one of Sanzoni’s cigars, drew in smoke thoughtfully. But he was inwardly tense. Fingers of dread clutched at his heart. The man who had called had probably been the Terror, wanting to make arrangements for the delivery of his share of the money. Sanzoni had been out. He would not call again tonight, for the cold, gray fingers of the dawn were already stealing in through the window. Agent “X” made an impatient, sullen gesture.
“Scram, all of you. I gotta be alone to think.”
It was true; but not in the way they supposed. The gangsters withdrew and Agent “X” went to Sanzoni’s big safe. He did not know the combination. But, making sure the doors of his office were locked, he knelt before the safe, listened to the faint clicks of the lock mechanism, and easily opened the door. Inside were other packets of bills, and a small leather satchel—loot no doubt ready for delivery. The cash taken in the bank raid tonight formed an allotment, together with that in the safe. The Terror was impatient to receive his seventy per cent.
But Agent “X” could only wait now. He had made one of the greatest gambles of his life. He was like a man poised on the brink of some terrible inferno. Over those miles of city streets, through which the morning light was filtering, a pall of horror hung. There was a chance that thousands of the city’s citizens might never seen another dawn. He himself might not live to see it.
No saying how the Terror might respond to all that had happened. He had known about the Agent’s theft of the bomb. He would know also about Sanzoni’s capture by the Agent. He must have a spy in the Sanzoni gang. And “X” was depending now on the fact that the Terror would hear of Sanzoni’s return. His own statement that Agent “X” would bother him no more must surely reach the Terror’s ear. If it did there was hope. If it did not—death, the impulse that would set off the bombs, might come through the air that very day.
Chapter XVIII
THE TERROR’S VOICE
IT seemed to Agent “X” that the hands of the clock moved with the maddening slowness of crawling maggots. His nerves were like crawling maggots also. He craved action, yet he must wait, wait! The lives of thousands depended on his caution, his cunning, now. He had entered into the role of Gus Sanzoni. He must make that disguise convincing till the purpose of it was achieved—till he made contact with the Terror, or the Terror’s messenger.
He went into the small, windowless den off Sanzoni’s office and pretended to sleep. But he wasn’t sleeping. His thoughts were active. He was planning his campaign.
The phone in Sanzoni’s office, he saw, was an extension. It would be suicidal to call Hobart on it. Other ears would listen in. The underworld was ever suspicious. Yet he must somehow get in touch with Hobart and Bates—learn whether Harrigan had been located and what Bates had uncovered. These details might influence his actions in the immediate future.
He had his lunch sent into his office, ate it somberly, and directly afterwards sauntered out a side exit of the club into the street. Two of Sanzoni’s bodyguards sought to accompany him. He waved them off growlingly.
“I got private business, see! After what happened last night I guess I can take care of myself. I don’t need you mugs now.”
There was a hint of suspicion in their blank faces. Agent “X” had an inspiration. He winked.
“You guys stay here and see that Goldie don’t follow. There’s a jane I gotta have a talk with—and it’s getting so I can’t move without Goldie tagging along.”
The gangster guards relaxed. This was a simple and understandable explanation of Sanzoni’s wish to go for a stroll alone. He had let them think there was another woman.
Agent “X” took a taxi, had the driver speed crosstown. He went into a drug store, called Jim Hobart. The excited voice of the redhead reached him at once.
“Boss, I’ve been expecting to hear from you all morning! That guy you asked me to locate, Harrigan—has disappeared! He’s left his apartment. He ain’t at his office. I can’t find any trace of him!”
A thin smile curved the Agent’s lips under the make-up of Gus Sanzoni. The man he suspected of being implicated somehow in the Terror’s activities had taken this time to drop out of sight. That might be mere coincidence, or it might not.
His voice snapped a response at Jim Hobart over the wire. “We’ve got to find him, understand, Jim! This is something big. You’ll know about it later. But keep after Harrigan, question his friends and servants. Find him. And when you do, send out a broadcast in the Z2 code. I may not have a chance to phone you again, but I’ll be listening.”
Agent “X” snapped up the receiver. Hobart would have been astounded, would have thought himself insane, if he could have seen the man he had just talked to—the man whose voice had been that of A. J. Martin.
Still in the role of fat Sanzoni, Agent “X” walked out of the drug store. He took another taxi to a different part of the city. Here he entered an apartment house where no gangster had ever visited. With a key he took from his pocket, not one of Sanzoni’s, but one which he had transferred from his own clothes when he dressed in the mobster’s outfit, he opened a door on the second floor. The place was empty, sparsely furnished. It was another hideout of Secret Agent “X.”
When the Agent came out he carried a cigar box with him. It was inoffensive. It would not attract suspicion. He had apparently visited a friend, and had been given a full box of choice Havanas.
WITH the box under his arm he hurried back to the Montmorency Club. Goldie La Mar had had her beauty sleep and was up for the day. She greeted him boisterously.
“Where you been, Gus? How you feelin’ after the fight last night? Ain’t you got a kiss for Goldie?”
She pouted her red lips at him, sidled up to him possessively. Agent “X” gestured her away. He screwed his face into a scowl, spoke gruffly.
“I’m busy, Goldie. I ain’t got time for no mushy stuff now!”
Hostility flared in the woman’s eyes. Yet he knew that if she wasn’t repulsed she would be a pest, interfering with his desperate plans. She snatched at his arm now. “Listen, Gus, you been actin’ funny lately.” For an instant it seemed to him that he read suspicion on her heavily rouged face. He spoke
with swift calculation.
“Lay off me, Goldie! The boys say you got sweet with Bugs last night. You danced with him, didn’t you? You two-timing little—”
That brought pallor to her painted face. She shrank away. Her voice was husky, scared. “Gus—you don’t think—”
Agent “X” walked on, leaving the woman with something to worry about. His show of jealousy against Bugs Gary would keep her docile and quiet till she learned whether he was going to hold it against her.
In Gus Sanzoni’s office, “X” slumped into a chair again, laid the cigar box before him on the desk. He snapped open a little wire catch, raised the lid stealthily. Under the cover, at the top, was a row of cigars wrapped in tin foil. But the gleaming front they presented was only camouflage.
He lifted two of them, moved his fingers deftly on a small rheostat beneath. Finely made, watchlike mechanism filled the remainder of the box. It was a vest-pocket size radio receiving set, operating on two small, but super-powerful, dry batteries. Bending his head he could hear the faint dots and dashes of a secret code message. It was as though a tiny, shrill-winged insect were imprisoned in the box. Three feet away the sound would be inaudible. But Bates was broadcasting a report, and Agent “X” listened. There, in the stronghold of the Terror’s allies, he was getting a report from his own men.
A detailed account of the activities of the Schofield Arms Company came from the radio. Bates was a faithful, routine operative, who worked by rule of thumb and could always be depended upon to carry out an order. But his report now was not significant. The Agent changed the dial again, to the wave-length over which Hobart would signal in code Z2 if he succeeded in locating Harrigan. That had been “X’s” main motive in bringing the hidden radio here.
He was running a risk in doing it. If its presence were discovered, it would be his death warrant. But death was close, anyway. Somewhere the Terror was waiting for darkness, and the money that reposed in Sanzoni’s safe.
Secret Agent X : The Complete Series Volume 3 Page 58
