“Right, sir. If there’s anything new, I’ll shoot it out to you.”
“Use code A.”
“Code A, sir,” Bates repeated.
“X” left the phone booth and got into his car. The broadcast equipment was one that he employed very infrequently, in cases of emergency, or where it was impossible to phone for reports. It was a powerful sending set located in Bates’s headquarters, sending on the same wave-length as the New York police calls, and for that reason the Agent did not make frequent use of it. But more than once in the past it had been the means of bringing him to the scene of action in time to thwart well-laid criminal plans.
Now the Agent cut over to the East Side in his car, and crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. Everywhere, as he passed, he saw police patrolling the streets, with drawn, taut faces. Squad cars toured the city with riot guns ready. These men were bravely preparing to meet the next onslaught of the monster, knowing in advance what little chance they had of surviving.
The Agent stopped for a moment to buy a newspaper and saw the headline, “Governor to be asked for troops to reinforce police. City in dread of next attack of murder monster!”
The Agent increased his speed a little after crossing the bridge. Suddenly the radio in his car came to life. The voice of Bates came over the air, speaking slowly. “Station ‘X’ calling! Station X calling!”14
At once the Agent drew a pencil from his pocket, wrote on a pad attached to the dashboard as the voice of Bates continued, speaking in Code A. The Agent drove with one hand, hardly slackening his speed as his pencil wrote down only those words of the message that counted.
Finally the voice of Bates ceased. The message which “X” had written on the pad stared up at him: “Fowler reports ‘Duke’ Marcy entered house on Belvidere Road. Fowler returning to empty house next door. Expecting you.”
As the Agent drove on, he tried to puzzle out why “Duke” Marcy should be calling on Runkle and Brinz in this out-of-the-way section of Brooklyn.
He left his car in front of a drug store a block from Belvidere Road, and started to walk toward the corner. Number Twenty-two, he knew from a directory he had consulted, would be just around the corner to the left, and he did not want to attract undue attention by driving right up to the house.
This was a quiet residential section, with few people about in the streets. When the Agent was halfway up the block, he noted a large green coupe turning the corner from Belvidere on two wheels. The coupe roared down the street, gathering speed as it passed “X.”
The driver, who was the sole occupant of the car, had his hands tightly on the wheel and gazed straight ahead without glancing to either side. “X” started as he recognized that driver. It was Ed Runkle!
In a flash the car had sped past and roared down the street out of sight. But in that instant “X’s” eyes had been busy. His keen senses, constantly on the alert, had caught the license number of the coupe. He waited a moment to see if Runkle was being followed by Grace or Fowler, who were supposed to be watching the house on Belvidere Road. But when no other car appeared, the Agent acted instantly. It was important that Runkle should not be lost sight of at this time. It would be impossible for “X” to return to his own car in time to take up the chase. Accordingly, he turned and raced back to the drug store. The clerk behind the counter gazed at him curiously as he tore into the telephone booth and dialed Bates’ number. When he got the connection, he spoke swiftly.
“Runkle has just left the house on Belvidere Road, driving a green Stutz coupe, license number L 27-2. He is not being followed by Grace or Fowler. He is probably headed back for Manhattan, so send out men in cars to cover all the bridges. If he crosses into Manhattan, they can pick him up and trail him. This is important, Bates!”
Bates repeated, “Green Stutz coupe license number L 27-2. Right, sir. I’ll have the bridges covered inside of five minutes.” He said anxiously, “Wonder what’s the matter with Grace and Fowler.”
“We’ll know soon enough,” the Agent told him. “I’m going there now.”
“X” walked up the street again, turned the corner into Belvidere. Number Twenty-two was the second house from the corner and seemed peaceful enough. So did the one next to it, which was vacant, with a “For Sale” sign pasted to one of the pillars of the front porch. The Agent walked around to the back of the vacant house and tried the rear door. It was unlocked—probably left that way by the watchers.
He entered the narrow foyer behind the kitchen to which this door opened, and was assailed by the musty atmosphere that is peculiar to houses that have been long untenanted. He pushed through to the kitchen, then stepped into the dim hallway. Little light entered here from outside, but his sharp eyes detected a huddled form close to the wall.
He stopped short, scrutinizing the shadows at the far end of the hall, the deep blobs of blackness that lay under the stairway to his left. He discerned nothing lurking there, and took a quick step forward, knelt beside the prone body. It was a dead man. He had been shot through the head at close range; there were powder marks around the wound. The floor beneath the man’s head was sopping wet with blood.
The lips of Secret Agent “X” compressed grimly as he recognized the body. It was Fowler, one of the two men who had been shadowing Runkle. Fowler was still warm; the wound was still bleeding. He had died within the last few minutes.
The Agent’s fists clenched involuntarily. These men whom he employed were not just impersonal names to him. He had investigated each one thoroughly, knew them, had met them under one or another of his disguises. Fowler had died in his service—another score to be settled with the murder monster.
Despite the possibility of pressing danger around him, “X” stopped here a moment, paying silent tribute to the man who had died in the performance of his duty. Then, tearing himself back to the business in hand, he stole noiselessly along the hall, seeming to merge with the shadows. His shoes made not the slightest sound as he explored the other rooms on the ground floor, found them empty and deserted.
Still silently, he went up the stairs. At the upper landing he paused, listening intently. No sound greeted his ears. It was lighter here, and he could see that the hallway was empty of life. But an open door at the right drew him toward it. This room was unfurnished, like the rest, but there was another body on the floor.
Brilliant morning sunlight poured into the room, playing upon the face of the dead man, and “X” did not need to kneel beside him to tell how he had met his death. For the gaping, bloody hole in his forehead spoke for itself. And the man was Grace, Fowler’s co-watcher.
Fowler and Grace had been killed cold-bloodedly, no doubt to allow the killer or killers a free hand in the house next door. The Agent’s eyes were bleak as he stepped to the window through which Grace had been watching, and looked across the narrow driveway to Number Twenty-two.
He saw a room there, corresponding to the one he was standing in. It was furnished as a sitting room—evidently Runkle thought that a ground floor sitting room might be too accessible to eavesdroppers.
At first glance it appeared that the room in there was vacant. “X” wondered if Runkle’s guests had also departed with the little attorney—but if they had, they certainly had not come in the green coupe with him; for there had been no one else in the car with Runkle.
And suddenly, from that room across the driveway there came a deep moan as of a man dying in agony.
Almost before that moan was ended, the Agent had swung himself over the sill and leaped to the ground. He landed on his toes, and was in motion at once, running around to the front of Number Twenty-two. The front door was unlocked, and “X” hurled himself through into the dim hallway within. He raced up the stairs to the upper floor, and as he reached the top landing, he saw the bloody, wabbling figure of a man stagger out of the sitting room. In the uncertain light it was impossible to identify him, but the Agent saw tha
t the man held a gun. The gun came up, wavering, pointed at the Agent, and the narrow hallway rocked with the heavy explosions as the man in the doorway fired again and again, keeping his finger down on the trigger.
But “X” had dropped to the floor at first sight of the gun in the man’s hand, and the slugs whined over his head harmlessly, burying themselves in the opposite wall. Eight times the gun roared in quick succession; and then, when the Agent knew that the clip was empty, he launched himself from the floor in a flying tackle that brought down the man in the doorway, landed them both in a tangled heap inside the sitting room.
Secret Agent “X” grappled with the man, was surprised to find him offering no resistance; the man lay flat on his back, breathing heavily, gasping, almost sobbing. High above his heart was a bullet wound, and it was miraculous that he had lasted long enough to stagger through the doorway.
It was lighter in here, for the sun came in through the window on the driveway, and “X’s” lips compressed as he saw the man’s face. It was “Duke” Marcy!
Marcy’s eyes were assuming a glassy look. His chest heaved with each breath he took, and he expelled each with a long wheeze. His lips were moving weakly.
The Agent raised his head, demanded, “Who shot you, Marcy?”
The dying man tried to form words, in fact, uttered several faintly, but so low that they were indistinguishable. There was a raucous rattle in his throat, and his head dropped back. He was dead.
From outside now, “X” heard the sound of a police whistle, of excited shouts. There were heavy steps on the stairs, and a uniformed policeman burst in with drawn gun. He covered the Agent, ordering, “Get up, you, and raise your hands!”
“X” shrugged and obeyed. He knew what the policeman thought—that he had killed Marcy.
He said, “I did not kill this man, officer. I heard him groan and ran into the house. I found him here with a gun in his hand, dying on his feet.”
The policeman lowered at him. “Yeah?” He kept the revolver steady. “That’s a good story. You can tell it to the homicide men!”
Brakes squealed outside, more feet were heard on the stairs. “X” glanced around the room, and for the first time saw another form huddled in a corner where it had been invisible from the window across the street. The man was Brinz—he recognized him from the description Bates had given him.
The Agent’s brow wrinkled in thought. Fowler and Grace killed in cold blood; Marcy and Brinz murdered here—and Runkle driving away at breakneck speed. There were puzzling elements here that needed clearing up. Runkle had been in this very room, according to reports; it was inconceivable that he could have gone across to the empty house, shot Fowler and Grace, and returned to do the same to Marcy and Brinz. He must have had assistance, if he were the murderer. In that case, the thing must have been planned in advance—must have been a trap into which Marcy walked unsuspectingly.
Now the room filled with uniformed figures. A precinct sergeant, several plain-clothes men, and in a few moments, Inspector Cleary, in charge of the Brooklyn homicide division. The policeman who had arrived first made his report to Cleary. The inspector heard it, frowning, then said to the Agent, “What’s your name?”
“I am Arvold Fearson, inspector, a private investigator. I did not kill—”
The inspector interrupted him gruffly. “Stow that. You’re under arrest, Fearson. The charge is murder. I warn you that anything you say may be used against you!”
CHAPTER XVII
VIA SHORT WAVE
Escape was impossible now. The room was filled with police, they were swarming through the house, and more were coming. “X” permitted himself to be handcuffed, maintaining silence. Nothing he could say now would induce Cleary to release him. Later, perhaps, a method of escape would present itself. Now, he remained quiet while a sergeant “frisked” him.
The sergeant felt the texture of the custom-made suit he wore, and frowned, but said nothing. He ran big hands over the Agent’s person, and found the gas gun which reposed in an inner pocket built into the lining of the coat. He examined it curiously, and was about to ask a question, when Cleary, who had been phoning headquarters, returned from the phone.
Cleary told the sergeant, “Commissioner Pringle wants to question this man personally, Frazer. This man, Marcy, was wanted as a suspect in the robot murders, and the commissioner thinks this bird ought to know something about them.”
Sergeant Frazer saluted.
“This gun, sir—” Cleary waved him away.
“Take it down to headquarters with you and give it to the commissioner. I’ve got nothing more to do with the case. It’s been taken out of my hands.”
The inspector was plainly peeved that he had been superseded in the investigation.
His mood saved “X” the immediate necessity of explaining away the gas gun.
Sergeant Frazer and two plain-clothes men escorted the Agent down to a squad car in front of the door. Frazer sat in front next to the chauffeur, while “X” was placed in the rear seat between the two detectives.
“Over the Brooklyn Bridge,” Frazer directed the chauffeur, “to New York headquarters.”
As the car got under way, the Agent saw the medical examiner arrive together with a headquarters photographer. Nobody had mentioned the bodies of Fowler and Grace next door. Apparently they hadn’t got to the empty house as yet.
While they traveled toward Manhattan, Frazer leaned forward and turned on the button of the short-wave radio receiver. Several routine calls came over, and then after a few moments these were drowned out by a powerful sending set somewhere. The Agent stiffened as he heard the voice of Bates.
“Station ‘X’ calling. Station ‘X’ calling.”
There was a moment of silence after the signal, when the regular police calls became audible again.
Frazer swore. “There’s that damn station again! They haven’t been able to locate it yet. Some damn amateur. When they locate him, he’ll get plenty!”
The detective at the right of the Agent started to say something, but stopped as Bates’s voice once more drowned out the police messages.
Slowly the alternate French, German and English words came over the short wave, sounding like nothing but the meaningless jargon of a deranged mind.
Frazer grumbled, “Let him have his fun. They’ll let him fix radios in jail when he’s caught!”
But Secret Agent “X” paid him no attention. He was concentrating on that message, picking out the words that counted—one French, one German, one English; one German, one English, one French, and so on. Decoding the message mentally required a swift-thinking, keen intellect. “X” could not write the words now; he had to remember each one that counted, and at the same time keep track of the progressive changes from one language to another.
He shut out his surroundings, focused his whole attention on Bates’s voice. And while the others in the speeding car made petulant comments, to him those words began to assume significance.
Bates was saying, “Suspicious truck reported opposite home of Randolph Coulter. Have ordered plane number one to go up to circle the neighborhood. Am awaiting further instructions.”
Bates began to repeat the message, but “X” had no need to listen. He had decoded the message as he heard it. A truck in front of Ranny Coulter’s house—and Coulter and Larrabie both staying there. The truck might be innocent enough, but “X” had a vivid picture of the monster stepping into that other truck when it had nearly caught him in the apartment on Eighth Avenue.
Should he tell Frazer? The sergeant wouldn’t believe him, would think “X” was trying some sort of trick. If Coulter and Larrabie were still home, they must be warned against going out, must stay inside the house until the truck had been investigated.
There was no time to be lost. “X” must get away from his captors at once; if the suspicions of Bates�
�s operative were well grounded, then this might be the opportunity that “X” had been waiting for.
In addition, there was another, perhaps more immediate danger looming up. If the Agent were brought to headquarters, he would be thoroughly searched. The things that would be found on him would damn him a thousand times over in the eyes of the police; his bullet-proof vest, his kit of chromium tools, his make-up material. Above all, they must not be allowed to examine Mr. Corlear’s suit too closely.
“X” looked up, saw that they were approaching the Manhattan end of the Brooklyn Bridge, and reached a swift decision. His manacled hands moved inconspicuously. His fingers flicked to his tie, came away with a small glass capsule that had laid in an ingeniously contrived pocket of the lining.
Too late, the detective at his right saw what he was doing and reached out to grip his hand, exclaiming, “Say! What the—” He did not complete the sentence, for the Agent had flipped the glass capsule into the air, over the driver’s shoulder. The capsule struck the windshield, shattered; and the powerful, pungent odor of concentrated ammonia gas filled the car.
Frazer and the two detectives began to cough as the stinging gas entered their throats; their eyes clouded with burning tears. The driver, in a panic of sudden agony, let go of the wheel to rub at his eyes, and the car swerved, careened into the rail at the side of the bridge. All four of them forgot completely about the presence of their prisoner in the abrupt anguish which attacked their eyes, noses and throats.
Secret Agent “X” had taken a deep breath as he hurled the capsule, and now he held it while his fingers dipped into the vest pocket of the detective at his right, emerged with the key to the handcuffs. In a twinkling the steel links were loosened and dropped to the floorboards.
The impact of the car against the rail sent them all flying in a heap to the floor, but it was the Agent who acted with the precision of a machine. He kept his eyes closed as a protection against the gas, heaved himself up, and twisted the knob of the door. The car had come to a standstill as he leaped out. Brakes screamed as the traffic behind came to an abrupt stop.
The Pulp Hero Page 52
