Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 5

by Paul Chadwick

  He removed the colonel’s dressing gown, reached under the bed where the colonel lay and slipped the letters and wallet back into his pocket.

  The glasses he kept. Then, still playing the role of Borden, he slipped from the stateroom into the corridor. He locked the door behind him, took the nearest exit to the deck, and strode quickly toward the reception lounge again.

  Officers with a haunting fear in their eyes, glanced at him sharply as he passed, recognized Borden, and didn’t stop him. Some of the clamor had quieted down. But a pall of fear hung over the ship. It seemed to beat even in the pulsing, muffled throb of the giant turbines. Every human on board knew now that a killing had taken place. The Baronia had been transformed into a hell ship, with its passengers held in the grip of icy terror.

  As he descended to the deck below, and hastened forward, the Agent passed little knots of frightened people. He walked on into the lounge and up to the purser’s office where death in so terrible a form had struck.

  The ship’s captain, Ferguson by name, was still there, a rugged, red-faced old sea dog. “X” glanced at him in swift appraisal. Ferguson had a list in his hand. He was making marks on it with a pencil. The Agent edged toward him, waiting quietly for an opportunity to speak. Behind the calm face of Borden, the Secret Agent’s nerves were tense. He was running a risk again. Some friend of Borden’s might come up. Some unforeseen thing might interfere with the desperate plan he had formed.

  But the officers around the captain moved away presently. He stood by himself a moment, an imposing figure in his stiff blue uniform and heavy, gleaming braid.

  The Agent went to his side at once. He touched the captain’s arm. Ferguson turned and spoke with explosive irritability.

  “Yes, Colonel Borden! Your papers—I know! We’re doing all we can! Nothing like this has ever occurred on a ship of mine before. You and the others will have to be patient.”

  The Agent shook his head. “It’s not the papers, captain. It’s something else. I must see you alone—at once!” His voice was pitched so low that only the captain could hear. Yet it held a tone of authority, expressed the dignity of Borden, a representative of the government.

  The captain became more civil. “What is it, colonel?”

  “Quiet!” the Agent cautioned. “I can’t tell you here. There may be listeners. In your cabin, captain. And don’t tell any one you’re meeting me. Absolute secrecy, you understand. Go at once, and I’ll be with you.”

  The captain nodded. The looting of the vault might spell his own dismissal, and the bankruptcy of the line.

  The Agent turned away. Out on deck, he walked forward toward the captain’s cabin. He had familiarized himself with the ship, and it was proving valuable now.

  HE edged along the hurricane deck again, keeping in darkness, and using the stealthy, cat-footed walk of a trained shadower. He didn’t want to be seen. Didn’t want it known, above all, that he was meeting the captain in secret conference.

  A group of officers was coming. He slipped behind a gray lifeboat and waited in darkness till they passed. A moment later, he stepped over the rail itself, slid down, and hung by his hands as footsteps sounded. He lifted his head, saw the captain’s burly figure go by.

  When he was sure no one was watching, he followed Ferguson to his cabin. The captain’s face was twitching. He seemed to feel a sense of personal disgrace because of what had happened on the ship. The Agent took a seat directly facing him. He removed the glittering glasses of Colonel Borden. He focused his eyes intently on the captain’s features, studying every detail. Then he deliberately led the captain on to talk.

  “You know, I suppose, there’s a dangerous criminal on board?”

  “After what happened tonight—I certainly do!”

  “That’s not what I mean. I’m speaking of Doctor Marko.”

  The captain gave a start. “You’ve been tipped off, I see. I didn’t realize any of the passengers were aware. Even my own officers don’t know. An inspector from Scotland Yard swore me to secrecy before we sailed. And Blue Star officials were most anxious that no hint of the thing should leak. I’ve been uneasy, ever since we left port—but I expected nothing like this.”

  The Agent nodded slowly, ears alert to each syllable the captain uttered. It was not so much the words as the accent to which he listened.

  “I was told that he was on board, captain. And there’s a lawyer named Robert King on this ship also, whom the police think may know something about Marko.”

  The captain spoke explosively. “Good Lord, sir! That’s another police secret! But, since you seem to know it, I might as well tell you more. King has been questioned. He doesn’t know anything—except that he once shared a compartment on a train with this man, Marko. Just a chance meeting, you understand. The police thought he might be able to supply some facts—but he couldn’t. He stated positively after he’d seen the other passengers that Marko wasn’t among them. I was relieved—until this happened tonight.”

  The Secret Agent answered grimly. “Marko’s disguised, captain. I think he tested this disguise on King. Possibly he went too far, and King suspected. Or it may have been sheer bravado—a warning to the police—that made him murder King.”

  Captain Ferguson leaped to his feet, staring at “X” aghast, his face paling.

  “What’s that you say, colonel? You mean that King is dead?”

  The Agent nodded. “Yes—in his stateroom, captain. Your officers will find him presently. He’s not a pretty sight. He was killed in the same way as the purser. But there are some other questions I want to ask you.”

  The captain swore, struck the table, growled angrily. “You ought to have told me about King at once, colonel—or is that what you came to see me for?”

  The Agent said abruptly: “Is there any one on board you suspect of being Marko?”

  “I’m no policeman, colonel!” Ferguson barked. “I’m only a sailor. But there are trained detectives on this ship. And they’ve had no luck until tonight. Then this stowaway was seen. They’re hunting him now, with the help of my officers. And it’s my belief that he’s Marko. Unless he jumps overboard, he can’t escape.”

  The Agent nodded, a sardonic glint in the depths of his eyes.

  “You don’t suspect any of the passengers then?”

  “Why should I? They’ve all been checked by the detectives I spoke of. And now, sir, if you’ll be so good as to call this interview over, I’m going to tell them about King’s murder.”

  THE captain’s hand reached behind him for a phone; but the Agent spoke with a sharpness that made him start.

  “Wait!”

  As Ferguson turned, the Agent’s own hand swung up. Once more gray vapor spurted from the muzzle of the gas gun he had palmed. The smothered cry in the captain’s trembling throat was cut off sharply. He staggered against the wall, struggled to keep his faculties, and failed. Slowly, he collapsed to lie inertly on the deck of his cabin.

  The Agent opened one of the ports at once. He made sure the door was locked, and began quickly peeling off his disguise of Colonel Borden. He’d had some minutes to study the captain now. He commenced the creation of his new disguise with uncanny deftness and speed.

  A thin wash from one of his vials duplicated the captain’s ruddy, sea-toughened skin. The plastic substance, under his quick fingers, began to shape itself into the lumpy contours of Ferguson’s features. He removed the gray toupee, slipped a white one on.

  Next, he stripped off the captain’s outer clothes. The gold-braided uniform was a bit too large. The Agent put it on over his own suit, thus taking up the slack. He buttoned it about him, lifted the captain’s cap.

  For a moment he stopped to study the face of the unconscious man, and add the last brief touches; moles and small skin blemishes that completed the facial appearance.

  He was finally satisfied. He rose, regarded himself in the stateroom mirror. It was one of the strangest, most daring impersonations of his life. He opened his lips, a
nd spoke deliberately in the gruff tones of the quick-tempered captain. Ferguson seemed to be speaking in the room. Even the captain’s parents wouldn’t have known the difference. “X” tilted his visored cap; made his mouth bleakly grim. He had become, in a moment, the commander of a giant ocean liner.

  Chapter VI

  A SPY ON BOARD

  HE hadn’t assumed the disguise to test his skill. That had been proved a hundred times already. It was his latest desperate play in his search for Doctor Marko. He bent above the captain for a moment, pressed the point of a small hypo needle into his arm, administering a harmless anesthetic that would continue when the effects of the gas wore off.

  He lifted Ferguson’s body, stowed it under the bunk. Then he seated himself at the captain’s desk, and picked up the ship’s phone.

  “Ferguson speaking. Send the purser’s assistant, and the chief steward to my cabin at once.”

  He fidgeted as he waited. He was battling in the dark. The coast of America was coming closer every instant as the Baronia forged ahead. Menace of hideous crime was creeping darkly across the water with it.

  A knock came at the door and the Agent rasped: “Come in!”

  Sloan, the assistant purser entered, still white and shaken, with dark rings around his eyes. He licked dry lips, said:

  “It wasn’t my fault, sir. I told you that! It was horrible—but I didn’t know a thing about it till after—”

  “Quiet!” barked the Agent. “Pull yourself together, man! Wait till you hear what I have to say.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get me the complete passenger lists at once. That’s all I want of you, Sloan. Hurry!”

  “Yes, sir.” Sloan ducked out, looking relieved.

  A moment later the chief steward entered, a withered man of fifty, shrunken, bald-headed, dapper. “You called me, sir?”

  “X” was marshalling his thoughts. Some one had tried to grab Carlotta Rand’s stateroom key, apparently to search for Colonel Borden’s papers. Now the vault, with those papers in it, had been robbed. It looked as though Marko had possibly pulled off the robbery just to get the valuable government documents—after his first attempt had been thwarted. Yet one job had been bungling, amateurish, the other wickedly professional. The Secret Agent was puzzled. He said:

  “You’ve noticed Colonel Borden’s secretary, I suppose, steward?”

  “Yes, sir—a very charming girl.”

  “Do you know whether or not she’s made any friends on board?”

  “She’s a popular lady with the gentlemen, sir. I’ve seen her dancing and playing cards a bit. Count Cariati’s been very attentive. They make a dashing pair.”

  The Agent nodded, visualizing the face of Cariati, the handsome, black-mustached man who had come into the purser’s office to announce the loss of his bonds and family jewels.

  “Did anyone else seem especially interested in Miss Rand?”

  The steward hesitated a moment, then looked knowing. “Well, sir, people come to me when they want to learn things—just as you’re doing, sir. There was a gentleman who inquired about her the first day out. He saw her, you know, and wanted to learn her name, and who she was. I saw them together afterwards, though I think she prefers the count.”

  “Who was this other man?”

  “An American, sir. A Mr. Rodney Breerton. Rather a queer one, if you ask me. Stayed in his cabin a great deal. Was always ordering drinks. Only came out to hobnob with the ladies. Frankly, I don’t like his looks.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Not much. He’s an explorer, they say. Rather down in his luck, I take it. Returning to America. He has a nasty temper.” The steward dropped his voice, then spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Do you think, sir, they’ll get the bloody murderer that killed poor Caswell, and robbed the vault? It—it was a horrible thing, sir!”

  The Agent rose abruptly, tall and impressive in the captain’s gold-braided uniform. “I can’t say, steward, but I want you to come with me and point out Breerton. And, if you value your job, don’t whisper a word of this to anyone.”

  For a moment the Agent’s eyes flashed full on the steward. The bald-headed man seemed to shrink still more. His tongue rattled in sudden fear of his superior.

  “Oh, no, sir!”

  The Agent stalked ahead with the steward trailing. They moved through the saloons and lounges till the steward suddenly touched his arm.

  “Over there, sir. That’s Mr. Breerton. The man in the black suit standing by himself.”

  The Agent looked where the steward was pointing. He saw a powerful, brown-haired man of medium height. Then he tensed, stared more closely. For Breerton had a high, bulging forehead—and across it, close to the hair line, was a white scar.

  The Agent turned to the steward quickly. “Go over and keep Mr. Breerton in conversation. Hold him till I get back.”

  “X” moved away, not saying where he was going. He drew the passenger list from his pocket. On it, he found the number of Breerton’s stateroom. He went there swiftly, used one of his own master keys, and entered.

  THERE was little luggage about, but it was all packed up and ready. Two gun cases, a small box, and a couple of leather traveling bags. If Breerton had more than this, it must have been in the hold.

  The Agent began his search. He was a past master at this sort of thing. The customs men would look these belongings over; but not with the eagle eyes of Agent “X.” With one of the traveling bags in his hands, he paused and suddenly screwed up his eyes.

  He fingered the leather bottom, measured the distance from it to the top, then to the floor. A brief experimentation, and he had a secret compartment open. Inside were the tools of a dangerous trade. Bottles of chemicals to compound secret inks. Code books in several languages. A box of tablets that exhaled the faint odor of bitter almonds. Deadly cyanide pellets to be used for self-destruction or to abolish clever rivals. A number of forged passports. Breerton was a professional spy.

  The Agent closed the compartment quickly. His eyes were bright. He was certain now that it was Breerton who had attacked Carlotta Rand. He examined the other bag, the box, and the two gun cases, but could find no trace of the vault’s stolen contents. If Breerton had done the job, he had covered his tracks cleverly.

  With infinite care, “X” left the stateroom as he had found it, resolved to keep Breerton under close surveillance. His own expert operatives on shore would be at the dock. A word from him would start a far-flung crime-combating machine in action.

  He went back to the lounge outside and signaled the steward. “Ask Count Cariati to come to my cabin at once. Show him the way.”

  The Agent returned to the captain’s quarters. In five minutes, Cariati entered with the bowing steward behind him. The count wore a glum expression. He eyed the Agent coldly, tapping a monogrammed cigarette.

  “You wish to see me, Captain?”

  The Agent returned his gaze unsmilingly. The name of Cariati had troubled him for a time. Now he had placed it. The count was a dapper, dissipated man, with something sinister in his appearance; a perpetual sneer at one corner of his thin-lipped mouth, a sardonic flicker veiled in his deep-set eyes. He threw up his hands, shrugged.

  “There is no use to talk of the robbery, captain! I have made up my mind as to that. If my things are not recovered, I shall give the case to my very excellent lawyers. I shall have justice at any cost. A Cariati cannot be robbed, you understan’!” The count struck a theatrical pose again. He breathed smoke from his quivering nostrils.

  The Agent nodded. “As you like. We won’t discuss it then. But those jewels—There’s one question I’d like to ask. Are you on the same family branch as Giffredo, the original Count of Cariati?”

  The count’s black eyes became hard as polished agate. He tapped his chest importantly. “Giffredo was my father’s ancestor. He was a great man.”

  The Agent spoke softly, watching the count’s face as he did so. “And he was also a brother of Cesare Bo
rgia, was he not?”

  The count started violently. A sudden combative look sprang into his eyes. His lips drew back in a smile that held no humor.

  “We do not talk of that in my family, captain! You will oblige me most highly by not mentioning it, either. I am not pleased that you ask the question!”

  Cariati was breathing hard. One slender, clawlike hand had closed till the knuckles showed white, as though the Agent’s words had touched some old, raw wound. And the Agent looked closely at this man who was a direct descendant of one of the most sinister families in all Europe. The Borgias—hideous poisoners, and plotters who had once made their countrymen shudder.

  Cariati, too, would be worth watching. He came of a tainted strain and he had deliberately sought the companionship of Carlotta Rand, whose employer had valuable papers in the Baronia’s vault.

  The telephone on the captain’s desk jangled. It was an officer from the bridge to announce that a lightship had been sighted. The Baronia was getting close to port. The Secret Agent had little time on board in which to work.

  Chapter VII

  THE POLICE

  HE rose from the table and nodded to Cariati. “Sorry, count, I had to trouble you. We’ll do our best to catch the criminal.”

  The nobleman’s eyes still gleamed. He did not answer, but turned, and stalked from the cabin stiffly. “X” followed him in a moment, striding toward the bridge—until a clatter of feet sounded, and a blue-coated officer came running up. The man was breathing hard, his face gray with horror.

  “Captain Ferguson, sir!” he choked. “Captain Ferguson! There’s—there’s been another killing! They’ve found a passenger, a man named King, in his stateroom!”

  “X” darted out a clutching hand, swore explosively. The officer’s words were no news to him, but he must play his part.

  “What’s that you say?”

  “Just like the purser!” the officer gasped. “Nothing but dusty bones!”

  “Show me!” barked “X.”