The top of a heavy table was smashed, too, and something lay on it. This was the splintered cabinet, the broken tubes, the scattered fragments, of a small radio set. Seymour, the tutor, had smashed the set as though in a frenzy. Then he had blown his brains out.
With a stifled exclamation Agent “X” bent over these broken pieces. He saw the blue and red coloring of two separate dial panels; saw that there had been double sets of controls. Here was a radio set similar to the one Van Camp had owned.
He picked something out of the splintered fragments. It was a small clockwork mechanism which could be wound with a key. This he quietly slipped into his pocket.
The implication of the thing was plain. Seymour had been in the pay of the Octopus. The mysterious message had been sent to him. Now, in a fit of remorse, or in rebellion against an evil force that he had submitted to, he had killed himself.
Deputy Inspector Grogan was swearing fiercely. “The kidnaping was too much for this poor guy. He went nuts—put a bullet through his head.”
“X” said nothing to enlighten Grogan. Let the police put whatever significance they chose on this occurrence. His own conclusions were already formed.
The night was almost over when Agent “X” finally left. His heart was heavy for the Mandels who must suffer hours, perhaps days of anxiety. But his own mind was filled with grim resolve. The small clockwork mechanism in his pocket, coupled with what he already knew concerning the Octopus’s broadcasts, might lead him along the right trail.
The Octopus had mentioned two projects on that night of the board meeting. One had already been carried out. What was the other?
Agent “X” went back to Deputy Inspector Dulany’a house. He felt called upon to take steps to see that Dulany did not talk for a week at least. If the man made report of the mysterious Dillon—as he surely would—news of Dillon’s visit would reach the ears of the Octopus. He would instantly surmise that Secret Agent “X” was still alive.
Reluctantly the Secret Agent took out his hypo needle again and put into the barrel of it a small, colorless liquid. The Agent, a master of pharmacology, had synthesized this liquid himself from a peculiar blend of narcotics. It had power to create temporary amnesia, or loss of memory, from one to two weeks. After that the patient recovered all his mental powers. It wouldn’t hurt Dulany. It would only perplex and embarrass him. Until he regained his memory his friends on the force would merely think the excitement of the Mandel kidnaping had deranged him.
The Agent gave the deputy inspector the full dose of the drug; then quickly changed his disguise and left by the fire escape.
Hours of research followed. Hours in which “X” bent over Seymour’s clockwork mechanism, tore it apart wheel by wheel and screw by screw, reassembled it and studied its purpose. At the end of that time Agent “X” raised his head, satisfied. He now understood the secret of the Octopus’s strange broadcasts.
These broadcasts were sent out on two different wave lengths, alternating every other syllable. The sentences were chopped in two to anyone listening in. They were practically incomprehensible. The fact that certain words happened to fall on certain syllables only made them more mystifying.
The clockwork mechanism of Seymour’s had been a device which automatically changed the wave length every other syllable. It connected the loudspeaker first with one radio set, then with the other, so that a clear, uninterrupted message came out. The path which “X” had to follow was now plain. He must learn the nature of the Octopus’s next “project.”
IT was four days later that the Secret Agent’s energy and patience were rewarded. Back in his Chicago hideout he had kept constant vigil.
On the table before him stood two of the powerful all-wave superheterodyne sets now. The tubes, dials, and controls of both sets were identical. An automatic, clockwork wave-alternator, such as the one Seymour had possessed, connected them. This the Agent had himself constructed.
Hour after hour he had waited before his sets, keeping them switched on with the dials set for short wave lengths. Sometimes he had snatched winks of sleep. Sometimes he had eaten a scant meal in the hide-out But ceaselessly he had kept close to the radio sets with infinite, inexhaustible patience.
And now one of the mysterious interrupted messages in the Octopus’s voice was coming in. The Agent, tense and bright eyed, bent over his dials.
“Tee — ee — en — s — en — a — red — off — brose — watch — for — nal — will — low —”
The jerky, spaced syllables came out of the loudspeaker. The Agent found that the massage was being repeated every ten minutes. He switched the first set off, turned on the other. Combed the ether eagerly till another strange message came in.
“Eight — four — lev — s — mor — ci — be — ee — am — light — sky — sig — hook — be — ered —”
He started his clockwork mechanism, threw in both radio sets and waited ten minutes. Then, while the Agent listened spellbound, the syllables on both wave lengths came in as the clockwork mechanism alternated the sets. The mystery was at last solved.
“Eight-y-four e-lev-en S S Mor-en-ci-a. Be read-y off Am-brose light. Watch sky for sig-nal. Hook will be low-ered.”
Here in this short message the second “project” of the Octopus was revealed. The Agent listened while the message was repeated. It told plainly that the Octopus had a man designated as 84-11 on the Steam Ship Morencia. Told that a mysterious signal was to flash from the sky when the ship arrived off Ambrose light, that a hook was to be lowered.
The Agent switched on his directional aerial and radio-beam compass. These showed, an entirely different location for the broadcast now. No need even to speed from Chicago to obtain a paralax. The message must be coming from a powerful, short-wave station located on some type of aircraft. By the time he reached the spot his instruments designated, the craft would be miles away.
But, in a frenzy of activity, the Secret Agent began packing up his equipment. In less than an hour he was bound by fast plane for New York City.
Chapter XXIII
Sky Monster
JUST at sundown the next evening an autogyro took off from an air field on Long Island. A rich young sportsman, who gave his name as Musgrave, had arrived at the field that morning and bought it. He had paid spot cash. A bill of sale and a Department of Commerce license had been rushed through.
Musgrave stated that he was flying down to his home in the South. He appeared to have a flare for mechanics. All afternoon he had worked over the gyro inside a hangar. At the last he tossed some bulky luggage into the forward pit.
The craft climbed like a wide-winged moth into the orange and red sky. It mounted steadily, till it was no more than a black dot over New York. Then it disappeared behind a cloud.
No one guessed that Musgrave was not the pilot’s real name or that his inconspicuous features formed another brilliant disguise of Secret Agent “X.”
A few brief inquiries in New York made by Jim Hobart had brought to light facts about the steamship Morencia. She was scheduled to arrive at quarantine about midnight. She carried on board five million dollars in gold from the Bank of France, part payment of an inter-Allied debt to America.
The news of this golden cargo explained the Octopus’s interest in the ship. It explained the reason for one of the Octopus’s paid representatives, No. 84-11, being on board. That a spectacular, daring raid on the ship was planned was certain in “X’s” mind. That it would take place in the air was also a foregone conclusion.
He had paid off the faithful Hobart after his investigating work was done. From now on “X” knew that he must work alone. Hobart was unaware of the sinister forces that existed. “X” could not take the young man completely into his confidence; for to do so would be to reveal his own identity. And he refused to bring Hobart under the shadow of unseen death as he had McCarthy. He must go up against the Octopus single-handed. But Jim Hobart had proven his courage, loyalty and dependability. The Secret Agent,
if he lived through the battle before him, planned to use the ex-dick in other great manhunts.
Light of the setting sun fell on the autogyro’s wind vanes. It had risen high above a piled bank of cumulus clouds. It seemed to float along in a world devoid of any living thing.
The Agent reached forward, pulled a wire attached to a device which he himself had installed. The thunder of the engine was reduced to no more than a hollow rumble as a special, triple-expansion muffler deadened its explosions. More moth-like than ever now seemed the strange sky craft. It was a ghost moth far above the world, its wings touched with the orange flame of the sunset.
Twenty-five miles down the coast Agent “X” descended to a lonely field. The gyro floated down out of the sky with the silence of a wraith. It dropped out of the clouds, descended with the whirling vanes into the small field which was sheltered by barriers of high trees. There it rolled to a stop.
Under cover of the fast-falling darkness Agent “X” got out his radio set again. He wasn’t expecting a message from the Octopus. Twenty minutes of experimental tuning and he had picked what he wanted out of the ether. This was a ship-to-shore telephone conversation from the Morencia.
A placid American business man was telling his wife that the ship was on time. He was saying good night to his children, telling what a gay time he had had on the Continent, promising a more detailed account when he reached shore.
The Agent smiled grimly. This good husband and father didn’t know that the ship carried a passenger who was in the pay of a dread criminal corporation. He had no inkling of the exciting events that were to take place before the Morencia reached port.
Listening in on a code radio message, Agent “X” verified the fact that the ship was running close to schedule. By ten thirty she should be somewhere off Ambrose channel.
UNTIL night shrouded the coast, Agent “X” waited beside his gyro. Then he started the motor again, took off out of the small field. The gyro sailed off up over the tops of the trees, climbed into the black sky. Muffled, it slipped through the darkness with a steady swish of the great wind vanes, like some huge night-flying bird.
Agent “X” headed out over the open sea. The lights of the New Jersey coast were far below him. Still he climbed. Three thousand, four thousand, five thousand feet showed on the altimeter. He was up above the clouds now, up where the wind blew a cool, steady gale. The craft was so stable that she could practically fly herself alone.
“X” reached into the forward pit, drew an object like an old-fashioned talking machine horn from a box. There was a set of ear-phones attached to it by a black, flexible wire; also a powerful battery. He clamped the earphones to his head; cut the gyro’s motor and let the craft glide downward. Now the sighing of the gale in the vanes was the only sound.
The Agent listened tensely. The horn in his hand was another type of sound amplifier. It was a modification of the “electric ears” used to detect aircraft during the World War. Such instruments had warned Paris and London of approaching air raids.
No sound came except the mournful hoot of a steamer far out at sea. Faint starlight fell upon the clouds below “X.” The gyro was gliding down into them.
Twenty minutes passed and the white arms of the ghostly mist flashed by the descending craft. It burst through the clouds at last. “X” had glided two thousand feet lower, and still no sound of another motor in the sky.
Once again he started his own engine and mounted till he was far above the clouds. Seven thousand feet this time, and he cut his engine dead again. The silence of the night was like an oppressive, brooding presence. Agent “X” was in a lonely world of cloud, and air and infinite space.
Then abruptly he leaned sidewise over the coaming of the gyro’s pit. The muscles of his face grew rigid. His eyes narrowed and he made a grab for the slack controls.
He had heard no sound—but directly below him, not fifteen hundred feet distant, a great black monster was rising up out of the mist. Clouds broke from the monster’s back as white foam might break from the back of a whale.
The outlines became clearer now. The thing was a huge blimp. She was not only rising. She was moving ahead under the thrust of her propellers. And, in that instant, the Agent realized that the blimp’s motors were muffled so perfectly that not even his sensitive amplifier could detect the throb of their exhausts.
He snatched the phones from his head, started his own muffled engine. Gently he pulled the gyro’s elevators up, climbed slowly, traveling above that great shape below. His pulses were hammering. The light in his eyes had become like that of a questing eagle. His patience, the infinite pains he had taken during the past week were at last rewarded. Below him, there in the night-darkened sky, with the dim white sea of clouds as a background, was the sinister moving hideout of the Octopus.
The Agent looked at his watch under a tiny light on the gyro’s instrument panel. Ten fifteen.
The blimp below was moving steadily out to sea. The off-shore gale increased. The clouds below began to thin. Far ahead on the horizon Agent “X” caught a glimpse of the lighted portholes of a ship.
The blimp began to descend now. It dropped slowly two thousand feet, passed through the thin veil of clouds. Straight toward the ship it went. Agent “X” waited. Sometimes he lost sight of the craft below. But for a few seconds only. Then his sharp eyes caught again that nosing black shape. To catch the Octopus red-handed was his plan tonight.
The clouds had disappeared entirely now. The ship on the black surface of the sea below had grown larger. Ten minutes more and it was directly underneath.
The blimp made a wide circle. Its silent motors drove it ahead at three times the speed of the Morencia. It came up behind the boat, nosed directly over it. The speed of the blimp decreased until it was flying at the same rate as the boat. Agent “X” cut his gyro motor until its idling speed just kept the craft level.
The wisdom of his move in using a gyro was now evident. In an ordinary plane he would have had to circle, run the risk of being seen from those on board the blimp. The helium-filled bag of the blimp prevented him from seeing the signal lights that must have flashed.
For a brief instant, through powerful binoculars, he saw a pinpoint signal light on the deck of the Morencia. The watcher below must have had glasses trained on the night sky. The Octopus would never have run the risk of signals that casual eyes of ship’s officers might see.
IN the next fifteen minutes the blimp rode evenly above the harbor-bound steamer. What took place during those fifteen minutes Agent “X” could not see. But he knew that a daring, well-rehearsed robbery was in progress. He guessed that five million in gold was leaving the sea craft below and being hoisted to the aircraft above.
For suddenly the blimp increased its speed, began to rise, and the Agent tilted the vanes of his gyro up also. The robber was leaving the scene of his robbery with his spoils. Once Agent “X” looked back, and saw that brilliant lights had flashed up on the deck of the Morencia.
Searchlights from the ship’s pilot house began to comb the sea frantically. The steamer veered away from its course, wallowed in the Atlantic swells. The theft of the gold had evidently been discovered. Whoever 84-11 was, he had done his part well. But “X” knew he was only a minor cog in that vast machine of crime which the Octopus headed.
He continued to follow the blimp, mile after mile toward shore. To trace it to its secret hangar was his purpose. To take the Octopus and the stolen gold together. But suddenly the Agent’s eyes narrowed. Looking ahead now he could not see the twinkling lights of shore which should have been there. Something vast and gray loomed up. High above the gray mass a whitish rim of starlight was visible. “X” knew what that gray mass was. Fog.
His heart sank. The blimp wasn’t rising. It was heading straight toward the fog bank. Once in that moist gray mass where the cold sea winds had been vaporized by the warm air of the land, and the blimp would be swallowed up. With its motors muffled there would be no way for “X”
to follow. He would lose it and the sinister trail of the Octopus again.
This thought made him desperate. It drove him to consider a plan which was daring to the point of sheer bravado. But there was no alternative now. Either he must take a chance inhumanly great, perform a dare-devil stunt—or lose the Octopus perhaps for weeks or months while his crimes went on. The Secret Agent made his decision there, far above the black, lonely sea.
Grimly he thrust the stick of the gyro forward, brought the craft down toward the bag of the blimp. Down, until he was so close that the wheels of the gyro seemed to hover only a few feet from that great black shape.
THE Agent stared over the edge of the cockpit, stared tensely at the craft below. He saw the woven shroud lines that made a network over the big bag, helping to support the cabin gondola beneath.
The blimp had picked up speed now. Its task accomplished, it was forging ahead at seventy-five miles an hour. Agent “X” swung his gyro slightly ahead of the other craft, came down again till the gyro’s wheels were almost on a level with the top of the big bag. He tested the controls, found them stable. Then resolutely he climbed over the side of the cockpit. The gyro swayed, but did not veer from its course.
Agent “X” stepped on the stubby single wing of the gyro, got down on hands and knees and slid his legs quickly underneath.
He reached up, gave the throttle a deft touch, slowed the gyro’s motor a fraction. The blimp began to catch up. Agent “X” slid down perilously to the gyro’s undercarriage. He snaked his body lower. Twisted beneath the gyro’s fuselage, gripped a cross piece.
Over his shoulder he could see the dark blot of the great blimp. Its bag seemed gigantic now. It was like some great devouring monster of the air. The Agent lowered his feet, hung by his hands.
The nose of the blimp slid underneath him slowly. The gyro’s speed was almost synchronized now. He hung as the blimp’s bag slid forward foot by foot. An air current made the gyro bob once. Ten feet suddenly separated “X” from the blimp’s bag. He was hanging in space between the two crafts. Another air current swung the gyro down. For a moment it seemed that the wind-vane plane was going to crash on top of the other.
Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2 Page 42
