The janitor hurried off. Agent “X” deposited the black-eyed girl on a couch and made her as comfortable as he could. She was unwounded, unhurt. He had saved her life. But she might be unconscious for hours, and, if she came to, she would be in no condition to talk. He doubted if she would anyway. Whatever her mission into the night skies had been, it was veiled in mystery. He would send Betty Dale to question her in the capacity of a Herald reporter, and later he would come to see her again himself.
He looked around her apartment a moment. There were many pictures of stage celebrities on the walls, some of them autographed. There were some of the girl herself in costume. He found a sheaf of press notices stacked under a paper weight. He scanned them quickly.
The girl was Rosa Carpita, Spanish dancer, who had appeared in many revues and night club skits. The luxury of her apartment attested to the fact that she was successful.
Then Agent “X” gave a start and stepped forward. On a table at the end of a room a large photograph was set between two upright lights. It was the photograph of a man, a face familiar to Agent “X” who never forgot any face that he had once seen actually or in the press.
It was the face of Jerome Davis, one of the three murdered bankers, and on it was an intimate line: “To my dear Rosa from Jerry.”
Chapter XI
Plunging Death
WITHOUT waiting to see more, Agent “X” left the Rawleigh apartment. A doctor would soon be there to take care of the girl. There would be inquiries, perhaps a police investigation. The Agent was wet, uncomfortable. He took a taxi to the nearest of his hideouts.
There he changed his clothes and lay down on a couch for a few hours sleep—an unusual thing for him.
But the close call with death under the merciless flame of the Flammenwerfer, the wild ride in the night skies, and the long swim through icy water had left him utterly exhausted.
When morning dawned, newsboys in the street began crying scare-head editions. Black headlines were spread across the front pages telling of the ghastly bank murders, and the disappearance of two bank employees. There had been another robbery and murder, too, another charred corpse left behind. A jewelry store in an outlying part of the city had been robbed and a cop who had gone to the scene too soon had been killed. The city was in the grip of an appalling crime wave.
Agent “X” visited the scene of this robbery also, saw the safe which had been blasted open by some cracksman who knew his job.
Why, he wondered, hadn’t the same men, raiding the Merchants’ and Manufacturers’ Bank, used a nitro charge, too? If they made a second raid they probably would. He hoped the special guard would be adequate.
There were many other things in the paper to interest Agent “X.” There was the story of a passenger plane leaving the municipal field and not returning, and of another plane being stolen.
Both were insoluble mysteries.
A young woman, Martha Rollins, dark-eyed and exotic, the paper said, had hired the plane the night before under strange circumstances. Pilot Steve Howden of the field’s flying service had flown her. It was feared that they had cracked up somewhere.
The girl then, Rosa Carpita, had used an assumed name on the company’s books. Agent “X” read the other story, the tale of the stolen ship. The paper could ascribe no motive for the theft of that unless some bandit was making a get-away. The plane had belonged to a millionaire’s son named Kirkland.
Interesting also to Secret Agent “X” were the details of the three bankers who had been slain, especially the short life history of Jerome Davis. Davis was married, the paper said. His wife was abroad. From what “X” gathered, their marriage was a social affair with little love between them. He thought again, then, of the dark-eyed girl, Rosa Carpita.
Calling Betty Dale on the phone he asked her if, in her capacity as Herald reporter, she would go to the Rawleigh Apartments and make a few inquiries. Betty did so, but her report was disappointing. Rosa Carpita had left her home early that morning. The doctor had been in attendance upon her. It was believed she had perhaps gone away to the country as she had taken a grip with her.
He called next on the families of Spencer and Cox, the vanished bank employees. The police had been unable to locate these men. For hours their families had been besieged by detectives and newspaper reporters. Spencer had a wife and six children. His absence was a tragic mystery. But Agent “X” had heard of other bank employees, married and apparently honest, who had embezzled funds and left.
Cox had only a brother living. He was the operator of a garage. From him “X” gathered that the other bank employee had been a rather fast-living fellow, a bachelor who liked his good times. The papers, he noticed, played this up. It was even whispered that Cox was fond of the races.
In connection with this, and in the guise of an enquiring reporter, Agent “X” called on the two surviving bankers, von Blund and Marsh. Grave-faced and strained-looking, they were in their offices in the bank.
“You will understand,” said von Blund, “that after such an experience as we have been through we cannot give you much time. You are the twentieth reporter who has already—”
Agent “X” nodded and waved the protest down. He stared into the clean-cut, smooth-shaven face of von Blund. The piercing blue eyes, aristocratic features, and blond hair showed the banker’s Germanic stock.
“Tell me,” said Agent “X.” “It is a highly personal question. You may not care to answer it. But it is being hinted in newspaper circles that there were things in one or more of your deceased partners’ lives that their families would wish to cover up.”
For a moment von Blund started. “What do you mean?”
“Women, for instance. Unconventionalities.”
“You’re talking rot. My partners have unblemished records in every way.”
“There are reports that Mr. Davis was seen—”
Von Blund struck the desk sharply. “It is true that Mrs. Davis is in Europe. It is true that they spend a great deal of time apart. But that is neither here nor there. To my knowledge Jerome Davis was a man of impeccable morals and highest honor.”
Agent “X” nodded. He thanked the banker and left. Von Blund’s manner indicated that he knew nothing of any intimacy between Davis and the dancer, Rosa Carpita. But, since Davis had been married, and since his profession was such that he couldn’t risk any breath of scandal, it was quite natural that the affair should be kept under cover.
There were other lines of inquiry Agent “X” wanted to follow. He visited the family of the slain bank guard and questioned many people employed in the vicinity of the bank.
Then Secret Agent “X” did a strange thing. Retiring to one of his hideouts he disguised himself as a prosperous, middle-aged business man—a ruddy-faced individual with gray hair, eye-glasses, and lumpy features. He dressed himself in a suit of clothes to match the type and got from a near-by garage one of several cars he kept.
In a smart, expensive coupé, he drove directly to the building which housed the Merchants’ and Manufacturers’ Bank.
Business was going on as usual The bank’s doors were open. An armored truck stood close to the curb. A load of cash was being taken in, while grim-faced guards watched alertly from a distance. Depositors and business men were displaying their faith in this bank which had withstood the bandits’ raid.
Agent “X” went to the renting manager of the building. He presented himself as Andrew Balfour of the Midland-Central Utilities Company and, under this guise, rented an office on the fourth floor—one he had previously noticed was vacant.
IN the next hour, posing as Andrew Balfour, he acted the part of a slave driver. Like a man accustomed to getting things done at high pressure, he ordered immediate deliveries of typewriters, desk equipment, and office stationery.
He had a letterer put the name “Midland-Central Utilities Company” on the frosted glass of the door. He had his own office marked: “Andrew Balfour, Private.”
Then he
visited an employment agency and hired several girl office workers.
As a business man of apparently substantial resources, Secret Agent “X” wandered again into Banton’s office, just across the corridor.
The private detective’s manner showed that he had already checked up on the building’s new tenant. He was suave and deferential with the oiliness of a man who hopes to get a new client.
Puffing a cigar, hands in vest pockets, Secret Agent “X” leaned back in the padded chair that Banton courteously provided him.
“There is a chance,” he said, “that I may need some investigating of an intimate nature done for me. I would like an idea of your fees and facilities.”
Banton was more than willing to oblige. While Agent “X” watched, listening and sizing the man up, Banton talked.
“My regular policy,” he said, “is one half down and one half when the case is finished. But for a man of your standing I’ll be willing to undertake any investigation with no thought of remuneration until the affair is finished. I have many competent assistants.”
Agent “X” got a glimpse of these—shifty-eyed men of the stool-pigeon type, men who could be trusted to climb in porch windows and steal evidence if it could not be obtained in any other way.
He thanked Banton and left, with the detective’s card in his pocket.
Darlington didn’t show up that day. Inquiries revealed that he had been released from headquarters. But Agent “X,” in the role of Balfour, stayed on in his office after his girls had left. To spy on Banton and Darlington without arousing suspicion had been his purpose in renting the place. Through Banton he expected to check up on Rosa Carpita, also. His engaging of an office force had been an elaborate blind.
In his shirt sleeves, surrounded with papers and files, he appeared to be furiously busy. Banton wandered in once to exchange pleasantries with the new tenant who gave promise of becoming a client. At intervals Agent “X” went to the mail chute in the corridor and kept his eye on both men’s offices.
It was toward nine that he saw again the flickering blue light in Darlington’s transom. The crank had returned.
Agent “X” ran up and knocked at Darlington’s door. When the elderly crank thrust his head out Secret Agent “X” bent forward excitedly.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I saw an odd light. I thought perhaps there was a short circuit—danger of fire, you know.”
“Who are you?” rasped Darlington.
“A new tenant—a neighbor of yours on this floor. I moved in today. Sorry if I disturbed you.”
Darlington was clad again in his stained smock. He seemed as busily absorbed as he had the night previous.
“You’ll learn to mind your business,” he snapped. “Good night, sir.”
With that he slammed the door in the Agent’s face.
For nearly an hour the wavering light in Darlington’s office continued while the crank pursued his nocturnal labors. Then, as Agent “X” made a trip to the mail chute, he saw that Darlington’s transom was black. The crank had apparently left.
All the offices on the floor except Banton’s were empty. The corridor was still.
Agent “X” walked quickly to Darlington’s door and knocked. There was no answer. He paused a moment, listened, then took a cleverly shaped pass-key from his pocket. With a twist of his wrist he opened the door and entered.
A window was raised, but the office was deserted.
Swiftly Agent “X” searched the place with his flash light. The probing beam covered every part of the room. It fell on the rows of books, the scientific instruments, the retorts and jars of chemicals.
Over these the Agent lingered longest, a questing glint in his eyes. The terrible Flammenwerfer gun was a chemical weapon. Was there sinister significance in the hidden researches of Darlington?
In a worn notebook Agent “X” discovered figures that Darlington had jotted down. They seemed to pertain to the velocity of light. Apparently the man was what he claimed to be. And apparently he had completed his investigations for the night.
Then Agent “X” saw an open leather case belonging to some sort of instrument—a camera it seemed, but one equipped for special purposes. There were holders for lenses and ray filters, metal frames for film packs. Where was the camera itself? Had Darlington taken it with him?
“X” left the office, went back to his own. When he came out again, Banton’s office, too, was dark. Agent “X” took a chance and slipped into it, but the papers in the detective agency gave no clew as to the man’s connection with Rosa Carpita.
Agent “X,” still in the role of Balfour, left and descended to the street. There were a half-dozen lines of investigation open to him—one to learn the whereabouts of Miss Carpita. He didn’t doubt his ability to do so. He anticipated a night of feverish activity.
Then suddenly he held his breath, pressed back against the side of the bank building. The blood in his veins seemed to run cold. From the darkness above him came a bloodcurdling human cry. It was a cry of fury and stark fear. The Secret Agent looked up.
He could see nothing, but echoes of that hideous cry whispered along the face of the building.
Then something that seemed like a giant bat with outspread wings hurtled down out of the darkness. It was ghastly, uncanny. The Agent stepped back, and as he did so something slapped the pavement at almost the precise spot where he had stood. It was the body of a man—the body of A. J. Darlington.
Chapter XII
Mystery Clue
WITH a sense of crawling horror Agent “X” stared. The awful smack of Darlington against the pavement told a story of its own. Every bone in the man’s body was broken. He lay face downward, a sprawled and hideous blob, arms and legs spread out. After that terrible cry, after the sight of him falling, the sudden silence that ensued was like a ghastly vacuum of death.
Then the vacuum was punctuated by the sound of thudding footsteps. One of the special guards stationed in front of the bank came running around the corner.
Secret Agent “X,” in the role of Balfour, pointed. He heard the guard’s horrified exclamation. The man’s face was a sickly white. Gingerly he bent over the prostrate form of the crank experimenter. Agent “X” was marshaling his thoughts. This was a development that in his wildest dreams he hadn’t anticipated. But even in that moment of surprise and horror he didn’t forget that he was playing a role.
“It’s Darlington,” he said. “The old gentleman who has an office on the same floor as mine.”
The special guard nodded.
“You’d hardly know him. He must have fallen or committed suicide. His office is right above here.”
It was true. Agent “X” looked up. The windows of Darlington’s room where he worked so late were directly above the spot on the sidewalk where the man had met such a ghastly end.
The guard stood erect, mopping cold sweat from his face.
“I heard him cry—I won’t forget it. This place gives me the creeps. Four guys murdered the other day—and now this bird tumbles out of his window.”
Agent “X” stood frowning, his eyes fierce and bright. He had been in Darlington’s office five minutes ago. He couldn’t tell the guard that. But Darlington hadn’t been there then. Yet here he was, dead, a blob of shattered flesh beneath his own window. It was mystery added to mystery.
The guard drew a whistle from his pocket, blew it. A police detective stationed outside the bank came to the spot also. Agent “X” had seen him before. Curry was his name.
“It’s enough to drive a man nuts,” said the special bank guard. “The old bird on the fourth floor has bumped himself off.”
Curry stood staring down, then began questioning the man he thought was Balfour.
Agent “X” answered mechanically. He was staring at Darlington’s body. The crank’s desperate cry and the sickening sound of flesh striking stone still echoed in his ears. It troubled Agent “X.” Even more than the actual horror of it was a question that
repeated itself again and again. Where had Darlington been when Agent “X” was in his office? How had he gotten back so soon?
“Stay here,” said Curry to the bank guard. “I’ll go up and take a look at his place. Maybe he left a suicide note. He was a nut anyway. They had him down at headquarters last night. I guess the sweating they gave him was too much for his nerves.”
The detective strode off. Agent “X’s” first impulse was to follow. Then something detained him. He stared at Darlington’s body again, stared up at the face of the building. His eye traveled along floor after floor, lingered on the fourth, continued on up. Suddenly he tensed. The answer to his own secret question had come! The law of increasing velocity was at work here. The shapeless hulk that had once been a man formed a terrible and startling clew.
Agent “X” turned, went back into the building. The guard thought he was following Detective Curry.
But Agent “X” didn’t go to the elevator. He didn’t want even its operator to see him. What he had to do must be done alone. Swiftly for a man who appeared as old as Balfour, he began ascending the building’s stairs, going cautiously when he reached the fourth landing.
A light shone in Darlington’s office. Curry was there, searching for a possible suicide note. Eyes glowing brightly, Secret Agent “X” crossed the corridor and continued up. He was convinced that Curry would find nothing. He believed he knew the answer to the state of Darlington’s body. He had seen other men fall—seen them afterwards.
FLOOR after floor he ascended, winding his way up through the building’s interior. Once he tiptoed softly to pass the open door of an office where a scrub woman labored. Once he heard the voices of a group of late workers standing by the elevator. He continued to the building’s top floor. This was dark and deserted. There were two vacancies in it, and two offices that were occupied, but they were closed for the day.
Moving stealthily as a shadow, Agent “X” found a stairway that led to the roof above. It was a metal door and it was unlocked. Agent “X” tensed.
Secret Agent X – The Complete Series Volume 1 (Annotated) Page 34
