Читать книгу The Fear Merchants - Brant House - Страница 5

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ABOVE the screams of the victims of the strange bloating death there sounded the sinister humming of the murder plane. The Agent raised his eyes. The striped ship was just disappearing in the swirling, crimson mist.

He looked around him. The scene in front of the burning factory was like a glimpse into some hideous torture chamber at the mouth of hell. Men were stumbling, falling, crying out in anguish. Men were pulling their bloated, pain-wracked bodies over the pavement where the light of the flames shimmered in a weird devil's dance of doom. Men with livid skins and features puffed beyond all human semblance, lay gasping out their lives.

The Agent stood with clenched hands, eyes dark with horror. This was something he had not reckoned on. He had come on the trail of mysterious, undercover crime. He had come to investigate the activities of an arson ring which he knew was active in the city. Now he was faced with the fact that the arsonists were also murderers, killers as fiendish, as merciless as any he had ever known. Death was holding high carnival around him. The firemen who had dared to interfere with the incendiaries' work had themselves become targets for destruction.

And the flames, like fiends rejoicing in newfound freedom, were leaping higher. Their livid light was reaching out across the street. The factory was doomed.

An ambulance clanged noisily down the block. It came nosing through the tense crowd and whirled up to the fire. Interns, their white suits turned red as blood by the light of the burning building, bent over the dead and dying and lifted them on stretchers. A half dozen of the hideously bloated bodies were borne away. Other ambulances joined the first. Following them came a long car filled with police detectives.

A big man with a pale, aquiline face and black eyebrows jutting menacingly above cold, piercing eyes was the first to alight. His features were familiar to the Agent. He was Inspector John Burks of the city homicide squad. Murder as well as arson had taken place. Burks, grim dealer in murder mysteries, was on hand.*

[* AUTHOR'S NOTE: Though they both work for justice, against the underworld, Inspector Burks has always regarded Secret Agent X as a particularly desperate criminal. This is because no public recognition has ever been accorded the Agent's battles against crime. He has the secret sanction of a high official in Washington, who prefers to be known only as K9. But even this representative of the government cannot publically recognize the Secret Agent's work. For X's methods are daring and unconventional, often outside the law. Aware of the constant danger of his position, he is ready at all times to accept the consequences of his acts.]

He was followed by a group of experts from headquarters. Fingerprint men, official photographers, an assistant medical examiner.

In long, jerky strides, Burks walked to one of the bloated corpses. X saw his face grow tense, saw his hands twitch as he stared down. The Agent drew closer and watched the medical examiner begin his gruesome work.

But his attention was distracted in a moment by the arrival of two more cars. A limousine and a yellow taxi pulled up simultaneously close to the fire zone. From the taxi a small man with a sharp-featured, wrinkled face and snapping eyes alighted. His mouth was working, his gaze riveted on the factory fire. The Agent heard his shrill voice even before he could distinguish what the man was saying. The stranger came closer, talking vehemently, gesturing passionately with his skinny arms.

"I own that building!" he shouted. "I'm Herron—Jason Herron! Why isn't something being done to stop the fire? What are the engines here for?

"What are these men doing? I pay taxes! Why don't I get protection?"

No one paid any attention to the man's shrill tirade. He stopped suddenly as he glimpsed the police gathered about the bloated corpse. But their legs and shadows prevented him from getting a detailed view. He continued angrily in a moment:

"I don't care what's happened, or whether men have been injured. It's their job to see that property owners aren't ruined. That's my building burning up!"

The passengers from the limousine were approaching. One was a tall, middle-aged man with glasses, a brick-red face and a commanding bearing. His companion was younger, efficient looking, alert. The man with glasses spoke to Herron.

"Your property's covered, isn't it, Mr. Herron? You're all right. It's we insuranee people who should do the worrying. This is the third incendiary fire in a week."

HERRON turned on the newcomer with angry violence. "Mathew Monkford!" he snarled. "You've got a nerve to show your face here! If you'd done what those criminals asked you this wouldn't have happened. My building's covered, but that won't make up for what I'm going to lose in business. It'll take months to build another factory. Meanwhile I'll lose orders. As president of the Great Eastern Insurance Company it was your place to protect your policy holders' interests first and foremost—even if you had to give in to the incendiaries."

The tall insurance man frowned. "Do you expect me to encourage crime by surrendering to criminals? This city has its police force, hasn't it!"

"The police!" Herron snorted. "They were posted here to guard this building. And what happened? See for yourself! It's burning—burning to the ground. And neither the police nor the firemen are doing a thing about it. I have contracts out calling for merchandise. I can't fill them. I'll be ruined."

Again Mathew Monkford shrugged. "A few more losses like this," he said slowly, "and Great Eastern will be ruined, too."

Herron turned away with a furious gesture. He stalked toward Inspector Burks. His high-pitched voice lashed out. "I know you, sir! I've seen your picture in the papers. You hold down a soft job with the police. We taxpayers hand you your salary. What have you got to say at the disgraceful failure of your men to do their duty?"

Burks lifted a hard gray face and stared at Herron. His cold eyes seemed to bore through the factory owner. His answer was rasping. "Get out! I'm not interested in you or your building. Men have been murdered tonight. That's all that interests me. Take a look at this corpse and stop your yelling. Be glad you aren't in this man's shoes! And if you've complaints to make, make them to the commissioner. I'm here to ran down killers."

Herron gave a startled look at the corpse at Inspector Burks' feet. He gasped. Then he shrank away from the inspector's angry eyes. Hands shoved in pockets, he moved off by himself and stared fixedly at the fire.

The man who had come with Monkford spoke quietly, but the Secret Agent's keen ears caught his comment. "Herron's the type who would set a blaze himself in order to collect. Our records show that he served a jail sentence on a stock fraud charge. Probably he shouldn't have been given any policy. Before the company pays this premium, Mr. Monkford, there should be a thorough investigation."

Monkford frowned and nodded, but his cautious answer was pitched so low that X didn't get it.

Interns from another ambulance moved up with a stretcher to the bloated body sprawled at the inspector's feet. Burks halted them. "We'll take charge of this man," he said. "He's dead. We're going to hold him for an autopsy."

Through the line, which the police were again maintaining, a group of excited reporters pushed. The Agent's eyes turned toward them and gleamed with sudden interest. Among the keen-featured young men who had hurried to the scene of the fire was the slim figure of a girl.

The torchlight of the burning building played over her eager face. It tinged with copper the gleaming coils of golden hair that showed below the close-fitting brim of her stylish hat. It outlined the supple shapeliness of her body.

The Agent knew her. She was a girl reporter from the Herald, Betty Dale, who took her job so seriously that she was usually among the first to arrive where news was hottest. More than that—she was one of the few people in all the world who knew of the Agent's daring, secret work. She was one of the few who had gone with him into the shadow of death during more than one grim battle with crime.*

[* AUTHOR'S NOTE: There is a close bond between Betty Dale and the Secret Agent because of her contact with the press and her cleverness and courage, she has often given him valuable aid. She comes naturally by her liking for action. Her father was a police captain, beloved of the force, until flaming underworld guns ended his life. She played around the precinct stations as a little girl. And it is in the memory of her father's death that has given her a hatred of criminals as keen as the Agents own.]

She and the young men with her crowded close to Burks. She did not wince at the sight of the sprawling body. Her blue eyes darkened with horror, but held steady. Often before she had been a witness to the grisly aftermath of crime.

BURKS maintained a stony silence in the face of the questions the reporters fired at him. Even Betty Dale was unable to make him talk. She caught sight of Matthew Monkford, turned and ran toward him. And the other reporters, knowing that she had an unfailing "nose for news," followed.

The Secret Agent, a faked press card in his own wallet, edged closer. He didn't make himself known to Betty Dale. Even she had never seen his real face, did not know his name. He had appeared to her in a hundred different guises, identifying himself when he chose by signals with which she had grown familiar.

He listened as she spoke to Monkford, heard her questioning him about the messages he had received from the arson ring. The insurance man gave vehement answer.

"I co-operated with the police," he said. "I gave them all the information I had. They knew in advance about the threat to this building. But even they were unable to stop the fire. If this keeps up my company will be bankrupt."

"Do you think the criminals will get in touch with you again?" asked one of the reporters.

Monkford nodded. "They'll call me up and gloat as they did before. They'll make new demands, and name another property to be destroyed if I don't pay up. They'll be sure now that I'll agree."

"Will you?" put in Betty Dale.

Monkford passed a distracted hand across his face. He spoke hoarsely, nervously. "Perhaps. I've tried holding out against them. It hasn't worked. If they don't ask too much, perhaps I'll pay—but only on condition that they promise thereafter to leave my company alone."

"Can you trust their promise?"

"I don't know! I don't know!" said Monkford bitterly.

Jason Herron, who had been edging up, intruded himself into the conversation. "You'd better pay—whether you can trust them or not. You'll lose every policy holder you've got, if you don't. The men behind this thing are desperate criminals. It wouldn't surprise me if the racketeer, Santos, was in on it."

"What makes you say that?" Monkford snapped.

Herron's eyes wavered a moment. Fear crossed his face. His answer was husky. "Because Santos gave me trouble a couple of times when I was building this factory. Labor trouble. He was the head of a racket. He made threats, and I had to meet his demands."

A hand reached out and clutched Herron's arm so sharply that he gave a gasp. He whirled around. Inspector Burks' hard face was thrust forward close to his own. Burks had apparently overheard the conversation.

"If you think Santos is back of these fires why didn't you mention it to the police?"

HERRON quailed. "I shouldn't have said it. I don't know that he is. I only know—"

Burks shook him off as fiercely as a terrier letting go of a rat. He turned to one of his men, snapped a quick order. "Send out word to bring in Boss Santos. Have it put on the air. See that every cop and every cruiser in town is on the job."

A police ambulance drew up and men from it lifted the body over which the assistant medical examiners had been bending. Burks and his squad of detectives moved away. Jason Herron slunk off by himself with fear in his eyes. He got back into the yellow taxi which had been waiting and was whirled out of sight. Monkford ended the interview with the reporters and drew aside with the man who had come with him, evidently an adjuster. Even X could not hear what passed between them.

The Agent reached down under his coat to the left side of his body. Fastened to his belt there, close against his side, was a fine-grained leather case not much larger than a small-size camera. But it contained delicate, complex radio apparatus and chemical batteries with a voltage as high as any in the world in units of the same size. There was a tiny receiver in the Secret Agent's vest pocket with a flexible insulated wire not much bigger than a thread. He plugged this into a terminal in the leather case.

Stepping back a little into the shadows, the first finger of his right hand moved. It pressed a button key at the top of the radio case. He sent out shortwave signals that had a range of twenty miles, signals that Harvey Bates would pick up on another instrument similar to his own. Wherever Bates might be those signals would reach him.

In a moment the receiver in the Secret Agent's pocket reeled off a faint series of dots and dashes. That was Bates' ready call. The Agent's expert finger tapped out a message.

"Get all information possible on racketeer Santos. Have other operatives shadow Jason Herron, owner of burned factory. Get data on him. Report immediately."

The Agent's second finger flicked a small control lever in the side of the radio case. It pitched the instrument to an entirely different wavelength. Bates could no longer hear him, The Agent got in touch with another crime-fighting organization which he maintained.*

[* AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the private detective agency run by the redheaded Jim Hobart, working unknown to, and independently of, Bates. It is financed by the Secret Agent's money; a fund for his special use was subscribed at the outset of his career by ten public spirited citizens.]

He repeated his request for information on Herron and Santos in staccato dots and dashes. These two detective agencies were the backbone of the Secret Agent's investigation activities.

And while his finger sent off instructions to his operatives, his brain was busy planning his own actions. In a moment he had chosen a course for himself that was filled with danger.

He lingered at the scene of the fire, watching Matthew Monkford. There was a strange expression in the Secret Agent's eyes. He noted every gesture that Monkford made. He edged close enough to listen again to Monkford's accents. He carefully stored these impressions in his memory.

The adjuster left Monkford's side in a moment and went off to begin the routine questioning of many witnesses. The Great Eastern Company would obviously not pay Herron until all facts were known. Monkford turned back toward his limousine, and the Secret Agent followed.

This was what he had teen waiting for. He edged through the tense crowd ahead of Monkford. He passed the insurance man's limousine, noted the uniformed chauffeur up front, and moved on almost to the end of the block. Here he stood close to the curb and casually lighted a cigarette. In a moment Monkford's big limousine came nosing along. It was just beginning to gather speed after the congestion in the street.

The Agent moved so quickly, so deftly, that neither Monkford nor his chauffeur guessed what he was about. He stepped to the car's running-board, jerked the door open and plunged inside. While Monkford gasped and stiffened, the Agent crouched. He lifted the blue-steel muzzle of a gun and pointed it at Monkford's chest.