Agent “X” grinned and nodded. “Thanks for the tip, Tom—but I happen to know about it already. There’s only one thing wrong—the press is barred. This commissioners’ conference is strictly secret. There’s been a lot of crime lately—and they’re going to see what can be done about it. Any newspaper man who tried to break in would get shot.”
McCarthy winked. “I’ll speak to McGrath, anyway. Maybe I can pull some strings and get you a side seat. You’d get a scoop on all the other sheets in town then.”
Agent “X” shook his head, patted McCarthy’s arm. “No use, Tom. It’s private, I tell you. Unless you’re a commissioner you don’t get in. Don’t go getting yourself in hot water on my account.”
McCarthy did not know that, because of the alarming spread of crime throughout the United States, the police heads of a score of cities had come together to work out some unified method of combating the criminals. He did not know either that Professor Norton Beale was classed as the cleverest, criminologist in America.
Agent “X” left McCarthy posted, returned to his parked car, and headed back into the city. As he drove he wondered about that important conclave scheduled for the following night. The public at large would never know what transpired behind those locked doors. The police were desperate. They would be instantly suspicious of any outsider seeking to gain admittance.
Secret Agent “X” knew that. But he also knew that he would find out what happened at that meeting—by a method all his own. He doubted that even the combined brains of a score of police heads and a great criminologist could trap the nationwide organization of criminals now operating. He’d had overwhelming proof of their originality and daring already tonight.
IT was just two hours after the raid on the Union Bank & Safe Deposit Company when Agent “X” drove once again to within a few blocks of that institution, parked his car and walked forward. Several yards from the bank he stopped in the shadows. Police were still outside. Newspaper men still hung about. Inside all was confusion and activity as insurance investigators and special men from the bankers’ association went about their work.
Agent “X” made no attempt to re-enter the bank till nearly two thirty in the morning, when the building was again left alone except for two special watchmen outside and one within.
The city lay dark and still; and this time Agent “X” advanced slowly along the street on which the bank faced. When the patrolling bank guard came opposite, “X” swiftly drew his gas pistol and fired it in the man’s face.
The guard collapsed as the harmless gas instantly took effect. Agent “X” carried his inert body to a vestibule near by, propped it up. The guard would be out for at least half an hour—long enough for “X” to work. He waited at the corner till the other guard came around it, disposed of him in the same way.
Then he once more went to the bank’s doors. A special chain and heavy padlock now protected them. Agent “X” easily opened this with his tool kit. The slow steps of the third guard sounded inside. Agent “X” gave this man a dose of the anesthetizing gas.
Quickly then he continued the secret work that the criminals had interrupted, the daring and unconventional activities that he believed were necessary tonight, justified by the fact that he was on the track of something so vast and dangerous in scope that a whole nation lay helpless in its grasp.
All valuables had been taken from the big vault upstairs, but the safe deposit vault was intact. He went directly to the latter, opened the grille, and found a metal box marked 3071. Guarded by the bank and the full majesty of the law, this box nevertheless contained the property of a former underworld character, a gambler known as Bill “Diamond” Quade because of his fondness for headlight-size diamonds. A special tool with pivot extensions was necessary to open this box.
With eager fingers Agent “X” went through its contents. There was the deed to Quade’s house, his will, a packet of receipted bills. The Agent passed by these, came at last to several books of stock certificates. They had all been issued by the Paragon Cosmetics, Inc., a small wholesale firm, the shares of which were not even important enough to be listed on the exchange. Yet Quade had seen fit to buy many hundreds of these shares. Why?
That was what Agent “X” sought to find out. It was the tip-off that Quade was receiving a fabulously big income from a certain obscure stock that had brought “X” to the bank in the first place. Quade in a drunken moment had boasted to an underworld crony. A whisper of that boast had reached the Agent’s ears.
He pocketed one certificate, slipped the others back into the box and closed it. In a moment he was shutting the grilled doors of the safe deposit vault behind him.
HE drove swiftly to the vicinity of another hideout now—one that was far uptown. He had not had cause to visit it for weeks. But it contained the most complete equipment of all. He parked his car blocks away, walked along a wide drive that skirted the river, turned down a side street by a high wall.
Over the wall rose the roofs and gables of a stately house left vacant by the litigation of heirs. This was the old Montgomery Mansion.
For a moment his body seemed to blend with the shadows along the wall. Then he inserted a key in a hidden lock, passed through a low door. He entered a once beautiful garden, now fallen into ruin. He crossed this to a rear door of the old house, entered through the basement, and continued till he was close to the butler’s pantry. Now suddenly he swung a tier of shelves outward, slipped through the opening, and closed it after him. He was now in a small and windowless chamber, the existence of which no one searching the house would ever guess.
He clicked on an overhead light, disclosing shelves and cabinets of complex chemical and electrical paraphernalia. Here also was a small, dark room for developing photographic films and prints. Here were microscopes and equipment for studying fingerprints. Here were the things that made the Secret Agent master of a dozen sciences.
He brought out the one stock certificate he had taken from the bank’s vault, set to work immediately. His eyes shone with a bright, eager light as he studied that harmless looking oblong of paper. The company’s name was carefully engraved upon it, together with the date of issue, the dividend it was supposed to pay, and the corporation rulings.
With a small hand-glass Agent “X” went over every inch of both sides, but he raised his head unsatisfied. Next he took a bottle of colorless fluid end applied it deftly over the face of the stock issue. This liquid was mixed to bring out secret inks. But nothing showed.
The Agent applied heat now; patting the stock on a flat electric warming plate, careful not to burn it. Still no writing or marking was revealed.
He nodded to himself, turned to a square glass cabinet that reposed on a shelf. He took this down. It was air-tight, with a small motor and air pump attached. He placed the stock certificate inside the cabinet face upward, started the motor pump going, and exhausted the air within.
When a small dial showed that a vacuum existed inside, the Agent dropped some white crystals in an attached receptacle. Carefully he fitted a screw cap over the receptacle, lighted a small burner under it, then opened a tiny valve in the slender brass pipe that passed into the cabinet.
He was submitting the stock certificate to the most delicate test known to detect secret writing—the sublimated iodine test used by Captain Yardley and others of the American Secret Service during the World War.
A heavy, purplish vapor appeared inside the glass cabinet as the iodine crystals heated. The vapor descended sluggishly on the face of the stock certificate. It settled into the very pores of the paper; filling every minute depression in its fibers. And, when the vapor lay like a dark, unwholesome smoke barrage over the face of the stock certificate, Agent “X” opened the cabinet and took the document out.
Then breath hissed between his teeth. His eyes became like pin-points of polished steel. For, on the white surface of the stock issue, something had appeared. It was the lifelike, spine-chilling outline of a horrible creature�
�an octopus with tentacles extended and beak thrust forward. This was the secret marking that the other tests had failed to show up until the sublimated iodine vapor had forced its startling revelation.
Chapter VI
Night Visitor
FOR seconds Agent “X” stared down at this ghastly symbol. There was no name, no number—only this hideously realistic outline of the octopus. It set the stock issue apart as though some devilish curse had been laid upon it. “X” guessed it had significance far deeper than appeared. The mark had been placed there by a masterly brain to guard against the possibility of forgery. It appeared as a sinister warning to any one bold enough to attempt an imitation of this paper.
Agent “X” put his vacuum cabinet away. In the fresher air of the room, the iodine vapor evaporated, and the strange mark was slowly vanishing. At the end of two minutes it had entirely gone. The stock appeared unmarked, innocent again. Agent “X” pocketed it.
It was now nearly four in the morning. The Agent had had no sleep. But, while working on a case, he seldom indulged in rest. Dynamic, indefatigable forces appeared to drive him on.
He left the hideout as he had come, walked swiftly to his parked roadster. Once more he headed the car toward the suburbs. He had another definite objective now. The discovery of the octopus seal on the stock had opened up a new line of investigation.
The whole city was cloaked with the chill darkness that precedes dawn. Somewhere far away the dull rumble of a truck sounded. Fitful wind stirred the branches of the trees as he came to the suburb. All else was still.
Bill “Diamond” Quade’s address was in the secret file of the Agent. He had taken pains to learn it when the mysterious tip-off had come. Quade, luxuriating in new-found prosperity, had bought a huge house in a fashionable suburb of the city. He had sold his gambling establishment, joined a country club, taken to bridge, golf and horseback riding. Many of his new friends were unaware of his shady past.
Agent “X” left his car a block away. He vaulted over the stone fence surrounding the Quade estate, strode quickly across a dark lawn toward a big house.
Somewhere a chain rattled. Agent “X” stopped. He listened for seconds, then gave a low, peculiar whistle. It was faint, musical, with a ventriloquistic quality. It was the whistle of Secret Agent “X”—unique in all the world.
In the darkness beyond a dog growled softly. Agent “X” repeated his strange whistle. It was not loud enough to carry inside the house. It was meant for the dog’s ears only. The animal’s growl changed to a low whine. Agent “X” approached quietly.
A huge police dog was chained in front of a kennel. “X” walked forward confidently, patted the dog’s head, spoke a few low-voiced sentences. His uncanny ability in making friends with animals had stood him in good stead often before.
“Quiet, old fellow,” he whispered. “Stay out of this.”
He strode on toward the house, leaving the dog gently thumping its tail on the ground.
There were double locks on the doors of the Quade mansion, tightly closed shutters on the windows of the ground floor. Quade’s contact with the underworld had made him suspicious, apparently. These locks gave Agent “X” trouble. He discovered, too, by probing with his small flash that the doors and windows on this first floor were protected by a delicate alarm system. The wires of it were deep inside the framework.
He shrugged, glanced about him. Huge trees towered over the big house on the west side. He glimpsed the dim outlines of a porch roof.
His rubber-soled shoes, of special pliant leather, were light, skid-proof. He crossed quickly to a big tree, studied its branches for a moment. Crouching low, muscles tautly balanced, he leaped suddenly straight upward, swift and dexterous as a cat, and caught the lower branch of the tree. In a moment he had pulled himself up.
HE climbed to another branch higher still, swung along hand over hand, dropped lightly to the top of the porch roof, landing on his toes.
This window was unshuttered; but a minute inspection showed that the same complex electric alarm system was wired here.
The Agent took out his tool kit, selected a small diamond-set glass cutter. Quickly but quietly he drew this around the glass just inside the sash. When the lines were complete he took a small rubber suction cap from his pocket, pressed it to the glass. It clung closely as a burr to clothing.
Delicately he pressed with his fingers against the glass. There came one faint, quick snap as the glass broke along the lines he had cut. It did not fall inwards, for his suction cap held it. He turned the glass edgewise, lifted it out and laid it down on the roof away from the window. In a moment he was inside the house.
There was a bed in the room he entered; but it was unoccupied. There were many vacant rooms in this big house which Quade’s egotistic love of display had made him buy.
Agent “X” tiptoed out into the hallway. A thick carpet deadened his footsteps here. He came to the top of a flight of stairs, moved softly down them. When he reached the bottom he clicked his flash on again for a moment, fingers held over the small lens so that only the thinnest ray of light came through.
With this to guide him he prowled about the lower floor of the house till he had located a room which gave evidences of being Quade’s den. There was a liquor cabinet here, smoking paraphernalia, a big roll-top desk. The Agent’s eyes gleamed brightly as they fell on this.
Before opening it, he crossed the hall outside and located the hidden, inside switch which disconnected the burglar alarm. He opened it, unlocked a side door. This would give him a quick exit in case an emergency arose.
Back in Quade’s den Secret Agent “X” went to work on the big desk. This was locked, too, but the Agent opened it easily.
He probed his light among the drawers and pigeonholes it contained. The first five minutes of search proved disappointing. The only documents were racing sheets and charts. Quade was evidently an addict of the ponies.
Then Agent “X” paused suddenly. He crouched and turned. To his alert ears had come distinctly the sound of cautious footsteps somewhere on the floor above. The carpet muffled them, but a board squeaked twice. Then he heard movement on the stairs.
“X” CROSSED the den on silent, catlike feet, moving behind one of the heavy brocaded silk draperies by the window. Here he waited while the footsteps roved about the hall. Suddenly a light clicked on in the hallway. Agent “X” reached into his pocket, took out a handkerchief, tied it over his face. There were two reasons for this action. He didn’t want his disguise of A.J. Martin revealed. And, if he were seen by anyone, the handkerchief over his face would give him the appearance of a common burglar or house thief.
Against the light in the hallway beyond the door of the den a bulky figure showed. The man was thick-necked, pink-faced; small, squinted eyes were sunk in rolls of flaccid flesh. He was wearing a blue tasseled dressing gown, thrown over wrinkled pajamas. Carpet slippers were on his feet. A huge, blue-steel automatic was clutched in his stubby fingers. Agent “X” recognized the face and figure of Bill “Diamond” Quade.
There was an ugly scowl on the ex-gambler’s face. The big gun was steady in his hand. He shuffled about the hall, started toward the side door which Agent “X” had unlocked.
Holding his lips in a peculiar position, Agent “X” made a noise in his throat—a dry, deliberate cough. But, because of his mouth position, the sound was ventriloquistic. It seemed to come from the other side of the den.
Instantly the sound of Quade’s shuffling footfalls ceased. For seconds there was complete silence. Then Quade approached the den stealthily. One pudgy hand stole around the door jamb, clicked the light switch, flooding the room with light. Once more Agent “X” made the coughing sound.
There were two sets of brocaded draperies in the room, one on each side of the big shuttered window. Both reached all the way to the floor.
The ex-gambler, Quade, eyes steely bright, pointed his gun at the one opposite “X.”
“Come out of th
ere, rat,” Quads grated. “I hear you. I’ve got you covered.”
Agent “X” was silent, watching this obese product of the underworld through the semi-transparent fabric. He could see Quade’s face plainly, see the great bulbous features, the jowls almost like a dog’s, the glittering eyes. Quade was sure he had his quarry trapped, sure that the sound he had heard came from the drapery opposite “X.”
“Come out, I say, or—”
Still “X” was silent. Quade went forward resolutely, thrust the muzzle of his automatic against the drapery. His back was partially turned to Agent “X.”
At that instant, so quickly that Quade hadn’t even time to turn. Agent “X” stepped out of his hiding place and pressed the snout of his own gas gun against Quade’s pudgy neck. Under its cold muzzle the rolls of unhealthy flesh turned white.
“Drop that gun, Quade!” he said. “Go over to your desk and sit down. I want to talk to you.”
Chapter VII
Black Horrors
QUADE’S whole flabby face had turned a pasty white. The gun dropped from his shaking fingers, thudded to the floor. Accustomed to using his wits to cheat his fellow man, Quade was no adept at physical violence. Now that his mysterious night visitor had the upper hand, the ex-gambler was cowed.
“Who are you?” he croaked. “For God’s sake don’t shoot. What do you want me to do?”
“Answer a few questions,” said “X” harshly. “Sit down.”
The former gambler slumped into the chair before his desk like a sack of meal falling over.
“Take that gun—out of my neck,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll talk—I swear I will.”
Here was the reason for all those locks, shutters and alarm systems that had impeded “X.” Quade was a coward. Soft living had shattered what little nerve he had left. Agent “X’s” eyes gleamed with grim humor. Quade’s craven spirit would make what he had to do easier.
Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2 Page 31
