Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2

by Paul Chadwick

  The take-off was a thing of swift, effortless beauty. The plane’s blue wings slanted up toward the sky. Its engine, snarling now in throaty, gusty power, pulled it into the air. The ship hurtled upward toward the feathery, early morning clouds with the speed of the wind.

  Forty minutes passed. He came down out of the morning sky, landed on Boston Airport, gave his plane into the hands of a mechanic who also knew him as Martin. Immediately he went to a Boston garage where he kept a car.

  The tracing down of the telephone number was a relatively simple job. In so far as its mechanical details went, he could have trusted it to a subordinate in the crime-combating organization he was beginning to build up. But he dared not risk a slip-up in this, the most promising clue he had yet come upon.

  A half hour later he had traced the number down, driven to the address behind it. It was the residence of a prominent attorney named P. T. Van Camp. The Agent called up a newspaper office; spoke to a reporter who knew him as Martin, and got the low-down on Van Camp.

  “One of the cleverest criminal lawyers in the country,” was the report.

  Van Camp then was a mouthpiece, a man who used his brains and his education to save criminals from jail and the chair.

  The Agent drove quickly to another part of the city; visited a small boarding house. Here he called upon a middle-aged private detective. The man was one of two partners whose business had gone on the rocks in the depression. His name was Sloan. He was fat, slow-moving, but ploddingly patient and reliable. He could be trusted to carry out orders to the letter.

  Agent “X” transported him back to within a block of Van Camp’s house and there posted him. Sloan, like McCarthy, was ignorant of the identity of his employer. He thought “X” merely a smart young reporter on the trail of some special scoop story.

  “Shadow Van Camp today,” the Agent said. “Stick to him like a burr, but don’t let him get wise. Find out all you can about him—and be careful. I’ll give you a buzz some time this evening.”

  Agent “X” had another important task ahead of him. The commissioners’ conference was scheduled to take place tonight in his home city. He had intimated to Betty Dale that he was going to attend that conference. Impossible as this seemed, he had every intention of doing it.

  From the same reporter who had given him the low-down on Van Camp, Agent “X” got the names of the various commissioners from New England cities who planned to attend the conference. One from an obscure city near Boston interested him. This was Commissioner Baldwin of West Foxbury. All of them, including Baldwin, must have received official invitations. Otherwise they would not be permitted to attend.

  AROUND noon that day, Police Commissioner Baldwin of West Foxbury received an unexpected visitor. A tall, somber-looking man with piercing eyes and shaggy brows was ushered into his office.

  There was an air of mystery and ponderous gravity about the stranger. He took a seat before the commissioner’s desk, eyed Baldwin steadily, not speaking until the secretary who had showed him in had left. Then he leaned forward in his chair and presented an engraved card to the commissioner. Baldwin took it wonderingly.

  The card said: “L. Landors Sinclair, Special Representative of the Governor.”

  Baldwin looked up quickly to meet the stranger’s steady gaze. Baldwin was tall, dignified himself; but somehow Sinclair seemed to tower over him.

  “What can I do for you?” the commissioner said. There was a slight edge of uneasiness in his tone. The light in the stranger’s eyes and his manner seemed faintly accusing.

  Sinclair cleared his throat importantly. “Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “There is no direct implication in my visit to you. You must view this purely in the light of an investigation.”

  Commissioner Baldwin tensed. “An investigation, Mr. Sinclair? I don’t quite understand.”

  Sinclair leaned forward, tapped the desk impressively. “Unknown to those most concerned, commissioner, the governor of this State is making a private check-up on police graft in this and other cities. Certain rumors have brought me to West Foxbury.”

  The commissioner started visibly. The ruddiness of his face paled a trifle. “There must be some mistake,” he said. “My term in office, Sinclair, has been a spotless one. I challenge—”

  Sinclair held up a formidable hand. “Your subordinates must be considered, commissioner. I’m making no charges. I’m investigating. But remember that the chief executive of this State holds you responsible for the inspectors, captains and lieutenants under you. The board of trade of this city has made a request that I—”

  Commissioner Baldwin’s face turned white. “Good God! It can’t be! I—”

  “If you don’t mind I suggest that you come with me, commissioner, and hear what the members of the board have to say. I want to record their assertions and your answers. Then I will have something to show his excellency, the governor.”

  COMMISSIONER BALDWIN, now thoroughly on the defensive, picked up his hat and left word with his secretary that he did not know just when he would be back.

  “This is most unfortunate, Mr. Sinclair, coming today,” he said. “I plan to leave this afternoon for the commissioners’ conference. I have an invitation in my pocket.”

  “We’ll try to get the investigation over with as quickly as possible,” said Sinclair gravely.

  It surprised Commissioner Baldwin to see that Sinclair drove his own roadster. The governor’s representative maneuvered expertly through West Foxbury’s main street, drew up before the one modern hotel.

  “This isn’t the Board of Trade Building,” said Baldwin in puzzlement.

  “For the purposes of privacy, the gentlemen have agreed to meet in my room, commissioner. You’ll appreciate that, I think.”

  “Good lord, yes; if a whisper of this gets to the papers I’ll be ruined politically. Thanks for keeping it under cover. I can’t imagine what the Board of Trade is thinking of.”

  Commissioner Baldwin was even more puzzled a moment later. An elevator whisked them up to Sinclair’s room. Sinclair opened the door for him, ushered him in. But no one was there, and there seemed to be no preparation for any sort of meeting. The commissioner looked around uneasily.

  “I don’t understand. When are the others coming? You said—”

  The commissioner’s tongue seemed suddenly clamped to the roof of his mouth, for the man who called himself the governor’s representative had drawn a gun. A look of fear and frenzy appeared on Baldwin’s face. He sensed suddenly that he had fallen into some sort of trap. This man wasn’t the governor’s representative. There was no investigation.

  He stepped back, trying to jerk free the police special that he carried in a side holster, the only reminder of the days when he himself had been a cop.

  But before he could even lay a finger on the butt of the gun the other man had fired. A cloud of vapor went full into Baldwin’s face, throttling the cry that rose to his lips.

  Quietly, painlessly as a man going to sleep under an anaesthetic, his muscles went limp and he collapsed to tbe floor.

  Sinclair pocketed his gas gun, crossed to the door, locked it. He came close and soberly contemplated the man at his feet. There was a shadow in his eyes. He regretted that he had been forced to trick and humiliate the commissioner like this. Baldwin seemed an honest, straightforward official. But daring and unconventional acts on occasion had always been a part of the Secret Agent’s technique.

  The tall, gray-haired “Sinclair” whose make-up was just another of “X’s” ingenious disguises, believed that what he’d done was justified if it would in any way aid him to run down the vicious, nation-wide organization of criminals now preying on society. Baldwin would lie unconscious but unhurt here—and Secret Agent “X” would attend the commissioners’ conference in his stead.

  Chapter XI

  Trapped By Silence

  ARMED and vigilant cops stood outside the commissioners’ room that night. Each member of the conference was asked upon
arrival to give proper identification, also to show the signed letter of invitation responsible for his being there. This letter was submitted to close inspection by an expert on counterfeiting and forging.

  The police heads of a score of cities were getting a taste of their own medicine. They were learning how careful the law could be in excluding undesirables.

  A police cordon efficiently ringed the building. Reporters were not even allowed inside. Behind the smiles and good humor of each commissioner there was realization of the serious import of this conference. Somehow they must arrange for a new and concerted drive against crime.

  Agent “X,” disguised as Commissioner Baldwin, presented Baldwin’s credentials and invitation. He got in without trouble. Arriving early, he took a seat near the platform. Many other commissioners who knew Baldwin shook hands with him. But Agent “X” was guarded in his speech, careful to say nothing that might betray him.

  Commissioner Foster, an old enemy of the Agent’s, was the master of ceremonies. It was he, with Professor Beale’s aid, who had arranged the conference.

  Foster, tall, distinguished, with graying hair, and a black, close-clipped mustache, was dressed in full evening clothes. He spoke sonorously when the body of police heads was finally assembled.

  “Gentlemen, we have come here tonight in response to a national emergency. We have come to discuss crime and crime prevention. We have come to review what has been done and to work out new methods of combating criminals along all fronts. As you know, gentlemen, major crimes throughout the United States have shown an appalling increase during past weeks. It seems almost that the lifting of the great depression has given our criminal elements new impetus.

  “Whatever the cause, we are able to observe the effects. Bank robberies, kidnapings, extortions, murders, have all increased. This chart, gentlemen, behind me, will show you the statistics in graphic form.”

  Commissioner Foster stood aside to let them see the huge chart on the wall in back of him, marked off in squares. Red and blue lines zigzagged across it. The red line at the top showed an ever mounting curve. A network of smaller red lines followed it.

  “The small lines indicate the various types of major crimes,” said Foster. “The large line is crime in the aggregate. Both lines rise as you can see. And because of this emergency I have arranged to have our conference addressed tonight by a man outstanding in the field of practical criminology. Allow me to introduce Professor Norton Beale.”

  The man who had been sitting in a chair on the platform while the commissioner made his introductory speech now arose. He was short, thick-set, with thin legs and immensely broad shoulders. He had the huge, leonine head and forceful air of a scholar.

  There was applause as he stepped forward. Most of those present had read his books. All knew him by reputation. They were eager to hear his opinions on the alarming increase in criminal activities, hoping that he could suggest new and efficient methods of law enforcement.

  But Agent “X,” watching and listening intently, doubted if even Professor Beale and this distinguished body of police officials knew quite what they were up against. Had whispers reached them that criminals had actually incorporated themselves and were selling stock to finance their vicious schemes? “X” was anxious to find out. He wanted to learn how much the police knew; see what methods of attack they had devised.

  But Professor Beale’s speech was disappointing to “X.” Commissioner Foster hadn’t mentioned the possibility of the underworld organizing. Neither did Beale. He submitted his own statistics, showing the increase in crime. He traced sociological trends. He enumerated economic influence which made some of the commissioners yawn. Obviously, no one had seen the dread mark of the Octopus. Heavy-hearted, “X” watched as Beale directed two cops to bring out the latest police equipment.

  Riot guns, gas guns, small and large caliber machine guns, were among the paraphernalia. Glittering, complex optical instruments of the latest design. A bullet microscope which could give conclusive proof as to what pistol a piece of lead had been fired from. The Greenough microscope for the scientific detection of dust. A micro-camera to give comparison of forgeries. A pressure microscope which could reveal numbers that had been filed off metal.

  Professor Beale explained them all in precise tones.

  “Criminals, my friends,” he said importantly, “grow more clever with every passing year. They employ science to outwit the law. We must employ science in turn to outwit them. The present crime wave is a challenge to the police forces of the entire country. We must press into service all available resources, moral, psychological, physical.”

  BEALE walked to the back of the platform and drew forward a bulky apparatus on wheels which had been standing against the wall.

  “Here, for instance,” he said, “is one of the most recent scientific aids in the field of practical detection. Two of my students helped me build it. Plans submitted to a number of European police departments have been approved. It will shortly be adopted in this country. I call it a fingerprint projector.”

  Members of the conference tensed and leaned forward.

  “There is a ground-glass screen here,” said Beale, tapping the top of the strange-looking box. “It’s surface is admirably suited to receiving fingerprints. The oily marks on the glass interfere with the refraction of light rays inside the box. They are picked up and magnified by a powerful lens in the projector and can then be thrown outward. Let me demonstrate.”

  Beale walked forward, took down the statistical chart. Behind it on the wall at the rear of the platform was a four-foot square of silverized material. The professor switched out the main lights, focused the lens of his projector on this screen. Laying his hands on the surface of the glass, he displayed his own magnified fingerprints clearly outlined. The swirling convolutions glowed sharply for a moment in the darkness. Then he switched on the main lights again, and took a small leatherette case from his pocket.

  “This instrument not only projects one set of prints,” he continued. “It shows two full sets—giving a chance for comparative study. It may surprise you all to know that I have here on file the prints of every man in this room. Commissioner Foster kindly helped me collect them for my demonstration. Glass slides have been prepared of them all. And—” Beale once again tapped his large box—“here at the side of the projector is a holder and another magnifying lens so that the prints on the slides and the fresh ones on the ground glass can be shown simultaneously on the screen. You follow, gentlemen, I believe?”

  Agent “X” was irritated at this detailed rigmarole which, in the long run, would be only of superficial aid in the running down of criminals. He had come to this meeting with eager interest, hoping to find that the police were ready with some plan to check the terrifying wave of crime mounting daily. But it was plain that these men, who represented the keenest brains, on the forces of the law, were ignorant of the real gravity of the situation. Absorbed in his own thoughts, he hardly heard the Professor’s words. But Beale’s next announcement startled him to alert attention.

  “As a concrete and visible proof of the practicability of this instrument I’m going to ask each of you gentlemen to step up on the platform in turn and have your fingerprints tested. Let us pretend, for the sake of argument, that there is an imposter in this gathering.

  “Let us say he is the exact image of one of the commissioners invited, and that he stole that commissioner’s pass and credentials, even murdered the man he is impersonating. Such things have happened, gentlemen, in the history of crime. But fingerprints cannot be successfully imitated or duplicated. If such a man were here he would be quickly exposed.”

  CHUCKLES went up from several quarters of the room. Professor Beale’s dramatic display of scientific detection was evidently taken lightly. But Secret Agent “X” had grown tense. Here was an unforeseen happening that had suddenly placed him in a dangerous spot—a spot where exposure and the end of all his plans might ensue. He had gained nothing by
coming here. The police knew less than he did about the new menace that had arisen. But, because Beale had a scientist’s passion for visual demonstration, Agent “X” was up against it.

  He hoped that some of the commissioners would laughingly dismiss the Professor’s suggestion. But, impressed by his eminence, or anxious to see how their prints looked on the screen they, one by one, moved toward the platform. Agent “X” suddenly realized that he was making himself conspicuous by not going up. All the others around him had. Their prints on file and those projected tallied.

  There were only two men left now. They moved up onto the platform. The infallible machine proved them to be the persons they claimed.

  “Only one slide left, gentlemen,” said Professor Beale. “This bears the prints of Commissioner Baldwin of West Foxbury. Will the commissioner kindly step up?”

  Heads turned to stare at Agent “X.” He made no move to rise. The sharp eyes of Professor Beale focused upon him.

  “Well?”

  Agent “X” made no answer. The drawling, sarcastic voice of Beale sounded.

  “One would think, if your identity here were not well known, that you had something to conceal, commissioner!”

  A general laugh went up at what appeared to be a joke. But the eyes of Agent “X” held grim lights in them. This was no joke to him. It was a situation fraught with deadly possibilities. Of all the men in this room, he alone had seen the mark of the Octopus. Nothing must happen to impede his progress. And yet he seemed inescapably trapped.

  His brain raced desperately. This was one of the most ominous situations he had ever faced. Suspicion was growing heavy in the air of the room, blotting out the friendliness. And for Secret Agent “X” to be unmasked now would not only mean the end of his campaign against the Octopus—it might mean the bitter end of his whole career.

  Chapter XII

  Death in the Night

  TENSELY alert, he shrugged when the titters quieted, spoke with magnificent calmness. “You’ve demonstrated the cleverness of your machine, professor. You’ve proved that it is highly efficient. Let us now go on to something else. Fingerprinting is only one phase of criminological work.”