There were many from the city’s wealthy, political set. This was evidently a farewell party. Ballantine himself possibly was among the traveling guests.
Agent “X” studied Harrigan’s face. The munitions man looked white, strained. There were furtive shadows in his eyes. The smile that came to his lips at something his girl companion said was mechanical.
Agent “X” slipped on, passed the lighted saloon, until he came to another entrance. Here he listened for seconds, then opened the door, and entered upon a carpeted passageway inside the luxurious yacht. Familiar with all types of ship design, he made his way forward, surely, swiftly. Any instant he might meet someone—a guest, or one of the yacht’s crew. There was no possible explanation he could make. He must count on quiet, secrecy, or a quick, knockout blow if he were caught.
He passed the doors of a half dozen luxurious staterooms. Voices issued from one. He listened a moment, went on; then he came to the door he sought. Behind this was obviously the yacht’s wireless room. It was in the forward part of the ship. But there was no sound from inside, no spark in attendance at the moment. The Agent opened the door cautiously to make sure, slipped inside.
He switched on the light, shut the door behind him. There was no bolt. He propped a chair under the doorknob, turned his attention to the radio set. It was modern, complex, complete in every detail; but it offered no problem to the Agent. Radio engineering was one of the subjects he had delved into profoundly.
This was the ship’s radio for long-distance sending and receiving. It had keys for the sending of code, a microphone for voice broadcasting. Glittering dials and tubes were mounted on a huge black panel.
FOOTSTEPS sounded in the corridor outside as the Agent stared about. Some one passed the door. Any instant he might be interrupted. The message that he had to send was imperative. He and his staff of organized investigators had worked for days outside the law. Now it was time for the law to be summoned.
And he had the means to do it. Bates had been instructed to listen for messages from his employer. He would be prepared to receive one now, wherever he might be, because he carried on his person one of the Agent’s vest-pocket receiving sets.
With deft, experienced movements. Agent “X” switched in the transmitting apparatus, started a generator whirring, saw a bright spark leap across the gaps. He turned down to the short wave-length that would reach Bates, and began tapping the rubber-topped key, sending out the dots and dashes of the secret 26G code. If Hobart should pick up this, it would mean nothing to him. It was for Bates’ ears alone.
“Get in touch with police,” tapped “X”. “Have harbor patrol surround and board steam yacht Osprey. Daring criminal and many thousands in loot on board. Speed imperative. Boat leaving soon.”
He repeated the message again and again, fingers moving mechanically on the keys, eyes wandering curiously about the room. There was a panel on the side of the wall which he had not at first noticed. He reached up, opened this with his left hand. Inside was a cabinet, filled with more radio mechanism. Squat tubes with silvered caps gleamed in a Bakelite base. Odd-type condensers were visible. A coil of black wire, some sort of a power unit, rose in the center. In front of the whole thing was a metal grille, locked at the bottom.
Agent “X” bent forward tensely, his hand leaving the key of the transmitting set, cutting off Bates’ message. And at that instant, as Agent “X” stared aghast at the interior of this mysterious cabinet, the mechanism of which carried a message to his scientifically trained mind, the door of the radio room was thrust inward.
In one and the same movement Agent “X” slammed shut the panel he had opened and whirled to face the door. The top of the chair slipped off the knob. The door swung inward, and “X” saw the faces of two startled sailors framed in the entrance.
He did not give them time to think or question him. He plunged toward them, yanking his gas gun from his pocket. One went down, but the other ducked, shouted—and almost instantly three men in the uniforms of ship’s officers appeared. Monte Sutton’s boat was well-manned. Agent “X” plunged into the corridor and saw that he was trapped.
Two stewards were coming along the passage from the rear. The three ship’s officers offered a barrier in the other direction. The sailor who had dodged his gas jet, leaped toward him with a furious cry—Agent “X” crouched, lashed out with his fist. The sailor’s quick feint showed that he was a boxer. He ducked again, flung himself at “X,” hammering in with short-arm blows. They clinched, and Agent “X” swung the man bodily, heaved him forward to crash into the opposite wall.
But five others were on top of him now, and far down the passage he heard the hoarse shouts of the guests rising in a bedlam of sound. Agent “X” went down in the carpeted passage under a crashing weight of human bodies. Using a wrestler’s technique, he squirmed out from under, got a scissors grip on the biggest of the yacht’s officers, and twisted the man on his back. Then something cold and hard was shoved against his neck. A voice shouted in his ear.
“Lay off, feller. Quiet there—or you’ll get a bullet in your brain.”
The cold thing was the muzzle of a gun. Agent “X” arose slowly. The officer that he had squeezed with the crushing scissors hold lay on the carpet breathless and groaning. The second man seized his arm. The third, still holding the gun against his neck, issued another order.
“Walk forward. No funny business—or you’re a dead man!”
Agent “X” was shoved along the passage toward the saloon where the guests were assembled. The orchestra had stopped playing. A tense silence reigned in the big cabin. White, excited faces were turned toward “X” and the officers who held him. The Agent presented a strange figure in the baggy, ill-fitting suit of Sanzoni, hanging loosely now on his powerful frame. His last make-up had been a hasty one. He looked like a tough and dangerous young man.
“We caught this chap aboard, sir,” said one of the officers, addressing Sutton. “He’s a bad-actor—and almost killed Jarvis.”
“Where was he?”
“In the radio room, sir.”
MONTE SUTTON swore under his breath. The guests looked startled. Police Commissioner Foster came forward and buttonholed “X,” taking the authority of the law into his own hands.
“Now,” he growled. “What’s the meaning of this? Who are you?”
Agent “X” did not answer at once. He stared from face to face. Harrigan was standing a short distance away, eyes intent and strained. Mayor Ballantine was watching him closely.
“There’s a criminal on board this yacht,” “X” said quietly. “You’re in the right place, commissioner.” He looked hard at Mayor Ballantine. “Some of you,” he went on, “may have heard of a man who calls himself the Terror.”
The Mayor gave a hoarse gasp. His face twitched. Harrigan turned paler. Commissioner Foster shook “X’s” arm roughly.
“What are you talking about? Are you crazy?”
“No—not crazy, commissioner! You know that a crime wave has disgraced the city, that the police have been ordered to lie low, and that millions have been stolen. What if I should tell you that the loot or most of it is on this boat?”
Monte Sutton spoke then. “This man must be mad. Take him away, men! Lock him up till we can get him on shore.”
Agent “X” fixed his gaze on the yachtsman. Craft was in Sutton’s eyes now. His face was hard, lined.
“Wait!” said “X” harshly. “You have an interesting radio room, Sutton! I might ask you to explain several things I found there—but I already understand—”
A transformation came over the face of Sutton. The mask of the dapper society man fell away. He appeared all at once predatory, criminal, vicious. He crouched forward, fingers crooked.
“So—”
Agent “X’s” voice rose. “I came to this yacht shadowing a man who carried a hundred thousand in stolen cash. He used the Osprey’s tender. He came on board the Osprey. Now I know who the Terror is. First clue
s pointed to another man. He is now on board the yacht. What do you know about this, Harrigan?”
Commissioner Foster broke in angrily. “Radio the police, Sutton. This man’s a raving maniac.”
“No,” said Mayor Ballantine suddenly. “I don’t know who he is, but he seems to know a lot. I—” He stopped speaking, gave a gasp, for Monte Sutton, dapper yachtsman, had given a sudden signal that the officers of his yacht seemed to understand. They backed away, faces hard. One slipped through a doorway, out on deck. Sutton addressed his guests, staring at Mayor Ballantine.
“So!” he said again, “you decided to disobey the Terror’s warning, Ballantine, and you, too, Foster!”
Agent “X” understood that Sutton thought he was a spy, hired by the mayor and his commissioner of police.
Words that were like a scream rose to the mayor’s throat. “Good God! You, Sutton—you are the Terror! You planted the bombs!”
Chapter XXI
MOMENTS OF TERROR
THE mayor’s words had an electrifying effect on the guests assembled in the cabin.
“Bombs!” a woman cried hysterically. “What does he mean?”
“Take me on shore!” another whimpered. “Take me away from here!”
Monte Sutton laughed harshly then. His gesturing fingers swept toward “X”.
“This man, this detective of yours, Foster—let him tell my guests about those bombs! Or, no—I will. It’s true, my friends, there are bombs—but you will be safer here than ashore. The city is to be blown up presently. You will have a nice view of it from here.” Sutton laughed again. His eyes blazed with fury. “I am the Terror!” he cried. “And I am a man of my word! I made a bargain with Ballantine and Foster. They didn’t keep it. Let them and others pay the price!”
A BREATHLESS silence followed his words. Then the mayor spoke in a shaken voice. “No, Sutton! God, no! You can’t do it! This man wasn’t hired by us!”
“You lie!” screamed Sutton. “You tipped him off to come here. And now you’ll see what you’ve done!” He shouted another order at one of his officers. “Get underway! Quick—damn you! We sail at once.” When the man had gone, Sutton turned back to his guests, his eyes brutally mocking.
“Harrigan can tell you as much about these bombs as I,” he sneered. “The explosive in them came from his company. It was he who told me about it in the first place.”
The munitions man made a choking sound in his throat. His face twitched.
“You dirty thief, Sutton!” His trembling hand gestured toward the others. “I hold controlling interests in the Schofield Arms Company. They’ve been experimenting with a new explosive for months—keeping it dark. It’s the most violent thing of its kind in the world—and it was stolen mysteriously a few weeks ago. All our efforts to trace it failed—and now I understand why. I was a fool to mention it to any one—even my supposed friends. But I did—and Sutton was among them! Criminals hired by him made the theft, of course. I half suspected some one was using the explosive to force the hand of the city administration. I even went to the mayor’s house and opened the safe like a common burglar in the hopes of finding some evidence. But I didn’t guess for an instant that Sutton—” Harrigan’s voice trailed away despairingly.
Agent “X,” listening, felt a coldness around his heart. Sutton, he knew, was drunk with a sense of his own power—mixed with fury that his plot had been uncovered before he was ready. Now he was on the point of blowing up the city. The yacht was already moving. These men on board, in spite of their dapper uniforms, were criminals, too. Sutton’s next words showed his determination to make good his hideous threat.
“In a few minutes,” he jeered, “only a few minutes—and all of you will see what those bombs can do!”
Agent “X” spoke slowly, dramatically, a strange smile on his face as he put up a desperate bluff.
“I wouldn’t explode them if I were you, Sutton! You may remember that one of the bombs was found. I brought that bomb to the yacht with me. If the others go up—you and your yacht will be blown to hell!”
Sutton turned incredulous eyes on the Agent. He came close and shook a finger in “X’s” face. “A lie—another lie! You don’t know anything about that bomb! The man who found it is dead. You never saw it. You couldn’t even describe it if your life depended on it.”
“No?” His eyes fixed on Sutton, the strange smile still twitching his lips, Agent “X” told calmly of the finding of the bomb. He gave a description of the radio mechanism, told in detail how the bomb looked and how it worked. And when he finished, Monte Sutton was white and shaken. He gave another fierce order to an officer who was standing by.
“You hear what this man says? Look all over the ship—find that bomb!” As he spoke, the windows of the saloon were raised. Sailors standing on the deck outside shoved gun muzzles through, covering every man and woman in the cabin.
“You’re all my prisoners,” said Sutton. “You, too, Foster, head of your damned police—as well as this spy you sent here. If he’s not lying we’ll find that bomb—and then—”
“You won’t get away with it!” Foster shouted. “You’ll go to the chair for this, Sutton!”
Sutton, laughing like a demon, walked up and struck the commissioner in the face. Then he turned to Agent “X.”
“You will die,” he said gloatingly, “but not until you’ve watched the city go up. It won’t be a pretty sight—but it will be something to remember—the grandest fireworks you’ll ever see. I—”
He paused suddenly, whirled toward a window. As the yacht moved ahead, something sounded in the darkness outside. It was a moaning wail, like the voice of the night protesting. It rose in pitch—became identifiable as the siren of a boat. Other sirens took up the cry abruptly. They were all around on the black water. The harbor patrol had arrived.
Monte Sutton staggered back. The commissioner of police gave a cry of amazement mixed with intense satisfaction.
At that instant “X” saw the man who called himself the Terror leap toward the wall and press a button that plunged the saloon in darkness. He saw Sutton turn and dash toward the passage at the cabin’s end. And he got a glimpse of the man’s face in a stabbing searchlight from one of the patrol craft sweeping up. Sutton’s features were convulsed. He was in the grip of stark emotion, a raging, unholy devil of a man, lips skinned back from his teeth, fingers clenched.
And in that instant Agent “X” divined Sutton’s intent. A cry of horror came from his own lips. Sutton had been defeated in his plot. Yet there was one last coup he could make—a coup that brought beads of sweat to the Secret Agent’s forehead. If this happened, his own efforts, his desperate struggles, would have been futile.
He sprang across the cabin after the black shadow of Sutton. All about him was confusion. Men and women were crying in excitement. The sirens of the police boats wailed. The sound of shots as Sutton’s criminal crew tried to fight off the law. But in the Agent’s mind was no confusion—only cold purpose.
He reached the door of the passageway through which the ship’s officers had shoved him a few minutes before. He saw Sutton’s figure ahead, a furious streak at the end of the passage. The corridor curved, following the deck line of the boat. “X” lost sight of Sutton for an instant. When he rounded the bend, the man ahead had just hurled himself through the radio-room door.
AGENT “X” after him. The door slammed in his face. He beat against it. Bullets, fired by the human demon inside, ripped through the wood, plucked at the Agent’s coat.
Ignoring them, risking his own life that horror might not come to thousands, Agent “X” flung his full weight against the door. It crashed inward; but Sutton was already bent over the instruments in the covered cabinet. A motor-generator was whirring somewhere. Sutton had the metal grille unlocked.
He was reaching for a button inside, fingers taut as talons, eyes gleaming. The man was going to blow up the city anyway, risk the explosion of the bomb that Agent “X” claimed to have bro
ught with him—and commit suicide rather than give himself up to the law.
A gun in Sutton’s left hand streaked up. Agent “X” dodged aside as the muzzle lanced flame. Sutton screamed a curse at him, tried to press the gun against his body. Agent “X” battered the gun down and clamped viselike fingers over Sutton’s right hand, snatching it away from the radio signal button. Then he crashed into Sutton, knocked the man to the floor.
Sutton was a kicking, clawing, biting fury. His frenzy gave him amazing strength. He tried to sink his teeth into the Agent’s arm, reached up with gouging fingers to press out his eyes. The Agent struck with desperate, sledge-hammer blows. His knuckles found Sutton’s chin, snapped the man’s head back. With a sigh and a groan Sutton relaxed, and flopped back on the floor.
But Agent “X” was taking no chances of his coming to before the police found him. He stooped for an instant, pressed a small hypo needle into the man’s arm. That would keep him in a stupor for several hours.
Then “X” went expertly through the man’s pockets. In one he found a small-scale city map. His eyes gleamed at this. Red marks showed on it—a dozen of them. Here were the locations of the hidden bombs. One of the marks, at the block of the Montmorency Club, was proof of that. Now the police bomb squad could find them. Harrigan would tell them how to handle the NP bombs. The Agent’s work was done.
He stooped down, pinned the map to the front of Sutton’s coat, left it on the inert figure. And with it, he left brief penciled instructions to the police, urging that they round up Sanzoni and Sanzoni’s gang for the part they’d played in the crime wave. He listed the mobsters’ names, added the names of several witnesses. Bugs Gary had done nothing and could go free when he recovered consciousness. But “X” would dump Sanzoni on a certain street corner where the law would find him.
Secret Agent X : The Complete Series Volume 3 Page 60
