Rice laughed harshly. “You better tell me now.”
“X” decided to draw a bow at a long shot. “All right. It was Sam Slawson!”
The effect of his announcement was far greater than he had expected. Rice’s face became paper white. He began to gasp for breath. “Sam Slawson!” he repeated. He bent closer to the coffin. “You mean—Slawson—knows—”
“X” waited breathlessly for the next disclosure. He had suspected all along that there were ramifications to this business that went far beyond Rice. Now, he felt, he was going to learn something of tremendous importance. Rice himself was in fear of something—perhaps of a greater, more ruthless criminal than himself.
But Rice did not go further. He stood up, strode up and down in the narrow garage, reflectively. “It’s possible,” he muttered. “Slawson could have acted the part of Burks. He has the ability. There is no one else who could have done it, except—” he stopped and faced the coffin. “How much more do you know, Kyle? Do you know where Slawson is now?”
“X” said, “No.”
Rice came close to the coffin again. “I’m sorry, Kyle,” he said softly, “but if there was a chance of my going easy on you before, there is none now. You know too much. You have to die.”
He turned to Fleer and Jurgen. “Go and prepare the niche in the mausoleum that I pointed out to you before. Then come back here one at a time, and move the coffin. If anybody stops you on the grounds, tell them you’re the new caretakers. Take off those black coats, roll up your sleeves. Go ahead now, get started. Then take the hearse out of here and get rid of it. I’ll be in the house if you need me.”
As he was about to go, Fleer asked, “How about some dough, boss? We’re broke.”
“I’ll bring you some in a little while—before you’re through. I have to go back now—there are some people at the house.”
“Can’t you get rid of them?” Jurgen asked. “This is a hell of a job to do with people around. Suppose he yells while we’re carryin’ him?”
“I’ll worry about that!” Rice exclaimed impatiently. “They won’t pay any attention to yells. I can’t get rid of them. I’ve got distinguished company. There’s John Hanscom, boss of the Conservative Party, State Senator Thane, and Cyrus Gates, the public utilities man. You don’t tell people like that to get out.”
Fleer shrugged. “You’re the boss. Let’s get to work.” He motioned to Jurgen, and they went out with Rice, after removing their coats and hats.
Rice cast a single nervous look behind at the coffin. “You sure he can’t get out of there?” The Secret Agent heard him ask the question from outside the garage door. And he heard Fleer answer, “No chance. He’s clamped in tight.”
“He’s a dangerous man with a gun. If he ever got loose, after what we’re doing to him—” Rice’s voice died away in the night.
SECRET AGENT “X” was alone in the coffin in the garage. The things he had just heard gave him ample food for thought. It was queer that Rice should have three such men as those he had mentioned, as his guests here tonight, when he was engaged in such treacherous work. “X” considered the possibility that they were all involved in the crime with him.
But “X” put these thoughts from his mind, and turned to seek a solution of his immediate predicament.
First he donned a pair of thin rubber gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints. Then, in the confining space of the coffin, he strove to wriggle around so that his hands could get to the receptacle in his vest where he kept his kit of tools. He finally managed to get the vest open, and the kit out. Though there was light in the garage, it was dark within the coffin, for practically no light seeped in through the two bullet holes in the wood.
He opened the kit on his chest, and felt around till he found what he wanted. It was a keen, broad-toothed file, that would saw through wood. His intention was to insert it in one of the holes and work away with it till he had an opening large enough to smash through.
This, however, would probably take a good deal of time—more than he expected to have. For if they were in a hurry to get the hearse out, they would return immediately after preparing the niche; and preparing the niche would not take them more than a matter of minutes. On the whole, the chances were slim of his getting out of the coffin before Jurgen, or Fleer, or both, returned.
He turned his head toward the hole, and raised the file. It would be a difficult task at best, for he had nothing to rest his arm against while he worked. He couldn’t even turn on his side, as the height of the box prohibited that.
Just as he was about to insert the file in the hole, he stopped, holding his breath. Something had obstructed the light that seeped in through the hole. Some one had come into the garage out of the night.
“X” heard cautious steps, then some one was close to the coffin. The footsteps stole away toward the hearse, then came back. There was silence for a second, then “X’s” heart leaped. Whoever it was, was working on the clasps that held down the lid of the coffin.
The low sounds of a wrench being cautiously employed came to his ears. One clamp came off. Then another. Quick, jerky breathing came to him from above.
In all there were six clamps on the coffin. “X,” lying in anxious silence, had heard five of them removed. Now the sounds of the working fingers became faster, the breathing became quicker.
The sixth clamp came off, was placed on the floor.
Now the cover was lifted, slid over on the floor. Light partly blinded him. “X” started to sit up, and stopped. He was staring into the cold muzzle of an automatic. Behind the automatic was the intent stare of the person he had least expected to see here—the Princess Ar-Lassi.
SHE was still dressed in her red evening dress, with the coral necklace hanging from her throat as she bent forward over the coffin. There was no panic in her eyes, only a deadly sureness. She held the automatic steadily. Her hand did not shake.
“X” waited for her next move, expecting at any moment to see Jurgen or Fleer materialize out of the darkness outside.
The princess’s eyes burned into his. Her red lips formed into a taunting smile. “So the famous Killer Kyle,” she said, “is at last in a spot that he cannot escape from! From jails, yes. From the police, yes. But—from a coffin of living death—no!” She stepped back a pace. “Sit up,” she ordered. “And keep your hands in sight.”
“X” obeyed. He breathed easier on one point—she did not suspect that he was other than Killer Kyle. He said, “What the hell, lady—”
“Stop!” she interrupted. “I’ll do the talking!”
He noted now, that she spoke without accent. It had been an affectation, then, back there at the Clayton Hotel, when she had been present at the interview with Governor-elect Farrell. It had been a pose, assumed for a purpose.
She took a step backward, and ordered, “Get out of that box. And keep your hands in the air!”
“X” obeyed her. He stood outside the coffin, hands above his head, watching her closely.
She said, “Kyle, I can kill you now—or I can let you go free. It depends on you.”
He said nothing, waited to hear more.
She went on. “You do not know me, but I know you. I know that you are fearless—a brave man!” Her eyes were large, admiring. She was a consummate actress. Suddenly she asked. “Kyle, are you a man of your word?”
“X” said, “What is it you want?”
“There is something which must be done—tonight. I can’t do it. You are the kind of man who can.” She smiled at him warmly, though she held the gun steady. “I will do you a good turn and release you—you will repay me by doing this thing for me. Is it a bargain?”
“What do you want done?”
“You will kill a man!”
“Who?”
“Does it matter? It is your life for his!”
“X” was waiting for an opportunity to wrest the gun from her. But she was too far away. She was no fool, this woman; she had stepped back to be out of his
reach. He said, “You want Rice killed?”
“No, no! Not Rice. Another man. The man who—”
She was interrupted by the sound of footsteps outside.
She glanced away, and “X” took a step toward her. But she turned quickly and menaced him with the gun. “Stay where you are!” She backed slowly to the light switch against the wall. The footsteps came closer—one man’s.
The princess said, “I must not be found here—it would mean my death!” She put a hand on the light switch and clicked it off.
The garage was plunged in darkness. “X” heard the voice of Jurgen raised in astonishment. “Who’s in there?”
He didn’t answer, but waited for Jurgen’s form to appear in the doorway. The princess was lurking somewhere in the garage, he knew.
Suddenly he saw Jurgen’s dim form, gun in hand, outlined in the doorway for a second, then Jurgen disappeared into the deeper darkness of the garage. A moment later his flashlight came on, swung around, and bathed “X” in its light.
Jurgen’s astonished voice exclaimed, “Kyle! How the hell’d you get out?”
“X” moved toward him. Jurgen shouted, “Stop! Stop, or I’ll drop you right there!”
There was a rustle of motion in the far corner. Jurgen, panicky, turned toward it, swinging his flash along. The moment the light left “X” he leaped at Jurgen. Jurgen realized his mistake at once, whirled back. He dropped the flashlight and swung his gun in a vicious arc that caught the Secret Agent on the shoulder.
“X” smashed in through the blow, and drove a fist to Jurgen’s face. Jurgen rocked backward on his heels. Before he could recover, “X” placed another blow on his chin, and Jurgen dropped like a stone. The gun clattered away from his nerveless fingers. “X” picked up the gun, felt his way to the switch, and clicked it on.
His eyes darted over the interior of the garage. The princess was gone.
Chapter XIII
Conspiracy
“X” WASTED no time in the garage. Fleer would be there at any moment. He had no desire to engage in battle with Fleer. He wanted to come to grips with Rice, or, perhaps, with those who were behind Rice.
The problem of the princess he dismissed from his mind for the time being.
But she was not so easily dismissed. For when he left the garage, he saw a dim form stealing down the edge of the gravel road toward the gate of the estate. There were no lights on the grounds, but he recognized the sinuous grace of the princess.
Hugging the shadows, he followed at a discreet distance. The princess swung open the gate, and as “X” watched, a man with hat brim pulled low, and coat collar turned up, walked into the grounds past her. They stood in earnest conversation for a moment, then they disappeared into the shrubbery that lined the path.
“X” stole up, careful to make no noise. But when he reached the spot where they had been they were no longer in sight. The only direction they could have taken was toward the mausoleum, which loomed squat and dark some two hundred feet to the east of the house.
“X” shrugged. There were things going on at the house, he decided, that should bring him closer to his objective than the princess and her mysterious visitor.
Hanscom, Thane and Gates—if they were together with Rice, now, their conversation should prove very interesting.
There was the danger that Fleer would come after Jurgen—in fact it was a certainty that he would—and find Jurgen knocked out, and the prisoner gone from the coffin. But that was a chance he had to take. There was no time to waste on small fry row.
He made his way back toward the house. The house was built on a sharp slope, the ground being much lower at the front than at the rear. As a result, the second floor in the front became the ground floor at the rear.
“X” worked his way around to the back. The ground here rose up close to the second floor window of a room in which there was a light that oozed through heavy drapes.
“X” came close, and tried the French window. It was unlocked, and swung outward. He was careful to make no noise in opening it. He peered through the curtains and saw four men in a comfortable library. Across the far end of the room ran a balcony that was shrouded in darkness.
One of the four men was Lieutenant Governor Alvin Rice. He was talking vehemently, excitedly, to the other three.
“X” knew the others. The large man who sat heavily in a deeply upholstered chair was John Hanscom, old-time politician, boss of the Conservative Party. The well-built man with the ruddy countenance and the dangerous eyes was State Senator Anton Thane, president pro tem of the senate, the man who would become acting governor if anything should happen to both Rice and Judge Farrell. Thane was listening carefully to Rice while he extracted a cigarette from a silver case.
THE fourth man was standing near the window, his face a pasty hue, his pudgy, white hands wet with perspiration. His eyes were on Rice in fascinated horror. “X” knew him to be Cyrus Gates, the representative of the power interests that were in back of Hanscom and the Conservative Party. He was nervous, distraught, the weakest of the four. He winced every time Rice’s shoes squeaked as he walked up and down the room.
Rice was saying, “I told them to take the damn hearse out of here. I don’t think it was followed, or the police would have been here by this time. I could fix it up if they did come, but I’d rather not have to.”
Hanscom took the long cigar out of his mouth, and said in his deep voice. “You should never have used that crazy Kyle, Rice. There was no sense to it. You’ll get us all in trouble.”
Rice snarled, “What would you want—to sit back quietly till we all got ours, like Crome? I tell you, that’s what would have happened—may still happen! Slawson is a devil; and he’s got this Egyptian poison. My plan was the best. It’s not my fault that it went wrong.” He turned to the others. “What do you think, Thane? What about you, Gates?”
Thane was lighting a cigarette. He took a leisurely puff, let his eyes slide from Hanscom to Rice. “Strikes me,” he said in his cold voice, “that you’ve messed this up. Better not try to be the boss around here—one boss is plenty. Let Hanscom do the thinking for all of us.”
Hanscom rolled the cigar around in his mouth. He grumbled, “This is a nice time to let me take charge. I have a mind to let you boys worry this out by yourselves. Why didn’t you consult me in the first place?”
Gates, the utility man, had listened with growing panic. Now he burst out, “God, don’t sit and talk about it—do something! Now Kyle has failed, and the—”
“Judge,” Thane finished for him, half contemptuously. “You want to say that the judge will ruin us all, isn’t that it?”
Gates nodded, his fat face beaded with perspiration. “I’ve paid you boys plenty of money—but I never contemplated murder! Now Kyle will talk—”
Rice smiled thinly. “Don’t worry about that, Gates. I’ve arranged everything. Kyle won’t talk any more.”
Gates’s face went white. “You—you mean—”
“I’m having him put in a niche in the mausoleum—coffin and all. He’ll never be heard from again!”
Gates exclaimed, “B-but that’s—murder!”
Rice showed his teeth in a nasty smile. He came up close to the utilities man, said, “If you can think of a better way to handle it, go ahead.”
Hanscom boomed from the depths of his chair, “Never mind the quarreling. Rice’s way is the only way—now. We’ve got to get rid of Kyle, and think about something else—where is the judge now? We’ve got to find him, set to him quickly, before—” the big boss’s voice trailed off significantly.
“X” had been following the conversation carefully. It gave him a new light on many things, and made him certain of one thing more—there must be cross currents of crime here that were not apparent on the surface. Hanscom did not seem to know who had kidnaped Farrell. If any of the others knew, there must be a deep reason for withholding the information from the boss.
If Rice and Thane didn’t know w
here Farrell was now, then there must be some other factor in the situation—some other factor that was as dangerous to these men as it was to the judge. A hand of horror, that would crush innocent and guilty alike when its plans were perfected.
THESE men hated Farrell, were planning him harm, had indeed attempted it already, through Kyle. But “X” was convinced that even while they were thus plotting, another, more sinister force was closing in on all of them—had in fact, already closed in on Judge Farrell. “X” wondered where Slawson fitted into that conception of a sinister hand of horror. Was he that kind of man? It would have helped if he had been able to get the convict’s record from Betty Dale. As it was he had to work in the dark.
He was annoyed, more than startled, at the sound of footsteps coming around the end of the house. He had expected that some one or other of the various people who were prowling around the house that night would get to the window, too. He backed away, crouching low, and hid behind a hydrangea bush.
Then he focused his eyes to the darkness, and made out the figure of the Princess Ar-Lassi, sidling along the wall toward the window. She came up close, and listened, her face dimly illumined in the faint glow that came through the curtains.
For several minutes the Secret Agent watched her, while she, in turn, watched those in the room. Suddenly the princess turned and made her way toward the front of the house. “X” wondered if she was going in.
He made his way back to the window.
The four men were close together now, talking low. “X” could not hear all that they said, but isolated words dribbled out to him. Once he heard Hanscom say, “Get Slawson.”
He caught only the name, the rest was lost in an explosive burst of anger from Rice. They were apparently not getting on together so well.
Gates seemed to be protesting volubly against something that Rice said. He was nervous, glancing around fearfully, as if he expected some horrible death to leap upon him in that very room.
Suddenly there was a rap at the door.
Gates jumped, then smiled sheepishly. Hanscom scowled at the door. Rice called out, “Come in.”
Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2 Page 21
