Читать книгу Legion of the Living Dead - Brant House - Страница 4

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TURNING from the shower room, Secret Agent "X" disguised as Krausman the jeweler, encountered the redheaded clerk who had conducted himself so courageously throughout the encounter with the criminals. His hair was a tangled mop, and his jaw was swollen.

"What happened to that scar-face?" he demanded excitedly. "I've seen that man before. He looked like a hood by the name of Fassler. But Fassler is supposed to be dead. You should have let me shoot him, Mr. Krausman."

"No, Hobart. I wanted him alive," declared Agent "X." He conducted Jim Hobart to the closet in the shower room, and showed him the hole in the floor. "That will bear investigation, Jim. I hadn't the slightest idea there was anything of that nature in here. It seems to be an avenue of escape well known to that criminal."

Frowning, Jim Hobart looked from the opening in the floor to the swarthy face of the man who had employed him. Perhaps he was thinking that it was extremely odd that Peter Krausman did not know every detail of his own office.

"Did they get much loot?" Secret Agent "X" asked of his aide.

Hobart shook his head. "But that policeman was badly wounded. One of your customers, a Mr. Stinehope, was knocked out. That's about all at this end of the line."

"What do you mean by that?" inquired "X."

"Why, Commissioner Foster is outside there now with a group of police and he told me that the officer who was shot got in an alarm before he entered the store. One of those special squad cars was on its way here when they encountered that mysterious black roadster with the mounted machine gun—the car that's been made so much of in the papers."

"X" seized Hobart by the arm. "Did it—"

* AUTHOR'S NOTE: Followers of the "X" chronicles have probably recognized the redheaded clerk as Jim Hobart, the young man who directs the Hobart Detective agency, one of the units in the Secret Agent's vast crime fighting organization. Though the Hobart group resembles any other private detective bureau in that it is at the service of the public, Jim Hobart's first duty is toward Agent "X", who befriended him in a time of need. In as much as Hobart knew "X" only in the character of A. J. Martin, a newspaper correspondent, it is little wonder that he failed to recognize his friend when "X" adopted the identity of Peter Krausman.

Hobart's nod interrupted him. "The police car was completely wrecked. Only one of the men is expected to recover. No clues at all as to the mystery car. In fact, the mystery has deepened. It seems that the sole survivor of the police car wreck insists that he got in several shots at the driver of the death car. Two of the shots went home, he is certain. Yet the car steered unerringly on its course, the machine gun spitting death."

"Maybe the driver of the black roadster wore a bulletproof vest," the Agent suggested, "just as you and I did."

Hobart nodded. "Possible, of course. But this cop, who's expected to pull through, swears that he sent a bullet straight through the forehead of the driver of the mystery car. The driver didn't so much as budge, he says. What is more, the cop recognized the man as Slash Carmody—who was executed in Sing Sing only a day or so ago."

Frowning, Agent "X" turned toward the door of the office. On the other side of the broken glass, he saw a grave-faced man of medium height whom he recognized immediately as Police Commissioner Foster. Foster's thin lips curved into a smile. He nodded at the man he supposed to be Krausman, opened the door and walked in.

"One of your customers informs me that you managed to frustrate this attempt to rob your store, Mr. Krausman. You are to be congratulated."

Agent "X" shrugged. "I am afraid that your praise has fallen in the wrong place, commissioner. If it hadn't been for Mr. Hobart, here, I wouldn't be talking to you at this moment."

THE police commissioner nodded at Hobart just a bit reservedly. Though the Hobart Detective Agency was rapidly making a name for itself, Foster habitually regarded all private detectives with suspicion.

Another man appeared in the office door. He was small, gray-eyed, and thoughtful looking. "X" recognized the man as one who had entered the store only a few moments before the robbery. The little man stroked thin, blond hair nervously, and glanced from Foster to "X."

"Commissioner," he said hesitantly, "what is to be done? I declare, the police make no headway against this mob of killers! Mr. Krausman has done more to check them than the police." The man opened the door of the office, and approached "X" with his thin right hand extended. "I would like to shake your hand, sir. Stinehope is my name."

Agent "X" took Stinehope's limp hand. Stinehope was a name that had been famous in the banking world. For the past year, however, the bank which Stinehope had directed had been closed. Nevertheless, little Mr. Stinehope seemed to retain an envied position in the realm of finance.

Commissioner Foster winced slightly. "I am sure we all commend Mr. Krausman most highly, Mr. Stinehope. However, we can all feel somewhat relieved. The police force is about to be firmly reinforced by one of the greatest criminologists this city has known. I had a long talk with my old friend and former superior, Major Derrick. Derrick, you will remember, was the police commissioner who retired in my favor some time ago. He has promised to give us every assistance. He should be here by now."

Stinehope nodded thoughtfully. "Ah, yes. I remember Derrick. Splendid man, he was. A hard worker; a straight thinker. No offense intended, Foster."

"X" said nothing, thoughtfully studied Stinehope.

"And now, Mr. Krausman," said Foster, "can you give us a description of some of the men who took part in this attempted looting of your store?"

Agent "X" frowned. "Perhaps I can. I think there were four of them. That right, Hobart?"

"The leader," Agent "X" continued, "had a long scar down his left cheek—or perhaps it was his right."

He knew that it would not do for him to give too accurate a description. In the character he was playing, he would not be expected to show as much accuracy in matters of detail as a trained criminologist would.

Commissioner Foster fumbled in his pocket and brought out a picture. "This the man?" he asked. He handed the picture to "X."

The Secret Agent took the picture. It was indeed the photograph of the supposedly dead Scar Fassler. He nodded slowly. "Undoubtedly, that is the man."

At that moment, the door of the office snapped open. A wiry, blond little man who seemed a bundle of nerves stepped into the room. He jerked a bird-like glance from first one to another of the men in the room. The nostrils of his little nose spread, and he inhaled quickly and noisily as if he were taking snuff.

"Foster!" he rapped.

The commissioner turned, a smile lighting his usually grave face. He seized the newcomer's hand, began pumping it up and down. "Major Derrick! You're just in time to help us out!"

"Glad to, glad to," Derrick sputtered. He nodded at Stinehope. "Hello, hello." He turned on "X," looked him up and down. "Mr. Krausman, I suppose. Hello. Most unfortunate circumstances." He sniffed sharply.

"Derrick," said Foster, "Mr. Krausman has positively identified the man who led this mob as Scar Fassler!"

Turning abruptly to "X," Derrick rapped out: "And what would Mr. Krausman say if I told him I saw Fassler executed in the electric chair five years ago?"

AGENT "X" regarded the blond Lt. Major Derrick for a moment. "I would be inclined to say that one of us had made a mistake."

"Possible, possible," Derrick whipped out. "But I don't make mistakes of that sort, Mr. Krausman. And, I might add, you do not appear to me as a man who makes mistakes."

"How does it happen that you were prepared for this holdup, Mr. Krausman?" asked Stinehope curiously.

Agent "X" laughed. "When you have half a million dollars tied up in rare gems, you don't take chances, Mr. Stinehope. I always have some one in the store to watch things. Today, it just happened to be Jim Hobart."

Foster turned to his former superior. "What would be our best first move, major?" he demanded.

Derrick sniffed. "Reward, first off. Post a reward for a starter. We need a responsible citizen, some one the people respect to head a committee to post a reward." His birdlike eyes jumped at Stinehope. "The very man!" his voice lashed like a whip. "Stinehope, will you head the reward committee? Advise you to make the appointment, Foster, if Stinehope will accept. And you will, eh?"

Stinehope considered a moment. Then: "Certainly. I will be glad to do anything."

"Good!" declared Foster. "Will talk with you in a moment, Stinehope. And now, Krausman, can you give us any further information concerning the men in the criminal group?"

"X" shook his head. "I'm afraid I'm not very observant. I suggest that you interrogate Mr. Hobart. He is trained in such matters. I'm rather tired now. If you don't mind, I'll look around the store, and see if there has been much damage or anything stolen."

WITHOUT waiting for permission, "X" strode through the door of the office. He had sighted a group of news-hungry reporters, and among them a young girl. She was undeniably beautiful. From beneath her jaunty hat, he observed wisps of golden hair. Her starry eyes were deep blue. Her smart attire became her perfect figure.

As the man who looked like Peter Krausman entered the store proper, the reporters came at him in a body, waving notebooks and clamoring for permission to take pictures. "X" endured the searching rays of photoflash lamps, and then tried to get past them toward the door.

"Statement for the press, Mr. Krausman?"

"Sure, give us a story, Mr. Krausman."

"Yeah, tell us how it feels to sock a gunman."

Agent "X" smiled: "Try it yourself and get first hand information," he suggested.

"Ah, give us a break!" a young reporter appealed.

"Very well. But I dislike talking before a crowd. One of you, that young lady, perhaps—I'll see in private. She can give you all the story when I'm through."

Smiling, the golden-haired girl came forward. This was Betty Dale of the Herald. Little did she know that this swarthy-skinned man with the broken nose was her old friend, Secret Agent "X."

*AUTHOR'S NOTE: Daughter of a former member of the police force, it seemed a natural course of events that Betty Dale should turn to police reporting when she became old enough to select a career. Though left alone in the world, she was not without friends—many of them detectives who knew her father. But her staunchest friend, and the man she admires most, is Secret Agent "X". Together, they have encountered many perilous adventures, previously recorded. Her admiration for the Agent has grown to a beautiful, unselfish love.

"Where can we go, Mr. Krausman?" she asked.

"X" indicated a little room apart from the store proper. There were a number of similar rooms in the building. Some were used as showrooms to display gems of rarest quality to prospective buyers. Others were small offices set apart for certain members of Krausman's staff.

"Don't hold out on us, Betty," cautioned one of the reporters good naturedly as "X," steering Betty by the elbow, entered the tiny room. The Secret Agent closed the door, and quietly twisted the key in the lock. He turned toward Betty, a smile on his thick lips. If the girl wondered at his locking the door so carefully, there was no sign of alarm on her lovely face.

"Please sit down." The Agent indicated a chair behind a small walnut telephone desk. She complied with his request, spread her notebook before her, and regarded the man she believed to be Peter Krausman inquiringly.

"If you don't mind, I should like to hear the story of the robbery as you observed it, Mr. Krausman. Just when did you first realize that the store was being held up?"

"X" seated himself on the edge of the telephone desk. "I knew that it would be held up nearly ten hours ago. I really don't know just how I would have managed to be here at the exact moment, if it hadn't been that Krausman left town this morning."

Betty's white forehead crimped into a tight frown. "You knew it ahead of time? I—I don't quite understand."

"Then don't bother your pretty head about it any longer. Perhaps this will clarify matters for you, Betty." Secret Agent "X's" forefinger traced the letter "X" on top of the desk.

"No!" she exclaimed excitedly. She smiled happily. "I should have known! But—but I never do. I had no idea that these strange robberies were so serious as to attract your attention."

*AUTHOR'S NOTE: It should be explained for the benefit of those who meet the Agent for the first time herein, that though Betty Dale has met him often enough to know him probably more than any other person, she has never seen his true face. Her love for him is not based upon romantic dreams revolving about this man of mystery; it is the underlying, thoroughly human qualities of the man that attract her. For always, Agent "X" is kindly to those who merit kindness; never has he willingly harmed the defenseless. Even his enemies attest the quality of his mercy.

"Not serious, Betty? Do you realize that in the last two weeks nearly a score of police have met death in conflict with that black car?"

"Then there is a definite connection between the mystery car and these robberies?"

"Assuredly. As soon as a robbery call goes out over the radio, that black, torpedo-shaped car puts in its appearance. With total disregard for the lives of innocent bystanders, the machine gun on the killers' car opens up. Slugs rake the squad cars hurrying to the scene of the robbery. Not once have the police reached the scene of the robbery in time to prevent the crime from being committed." The face of the man who looked like Krausman became suddenly grim. "It is the most ruthless butchery I've ever encountered! The man behind it all must be bent on wiping out the entire police force. And through it all, he remains hidden, as invisible as a black panther at midnight and far more dangerous."

"Have you any idea who the hidden criminal may be?" Betty asked.

"Not the slightest," replied "X" without hesitation.

A WORRIED frown crossed Betty's face. "Commissioner Foster thinks he knows," she said. "I was in his office this morning when he received a mysterious note. He permitted me to make a copy. But I just can't turn it into the Herald. It's too absurd!"

"May I see it?" "X" asked.

The girl reached into the pocket of her jacket, and took out a piece of paper. "It—it frightens me," she said simply as she handed the note over to "X."

The Secret Agent opened the paper and read through the letter quickly.

Dear Foster:

This is an open challenge. Dare you pick up the glove? For every man who has met death at the hands of the law, I shall take the lives of ten members of the police force. A vaster army than you can muster is behind me. It is the Legion of Corpses. The secret of life eternal is mine; yet to my enemies, I mete out certain death. Dare you take up the glove?

The paper jerked almost imperceptibly in the Agent's hands. For this open challenge from the lawless to the law was signed, "Secret Agent 'X'."

"X" looked at Betty. A fear that his smile could not dispel was in her deep blue eyes. "You know what that means?" she asked. "Foster will demand your capture, alive or—or—"

The Agent laughed quietly. "There's been a price on my head before. Go ahead and publish that note in your paper. If you don't, some other paper will. It doesn't matter, anyway." He handed the piece of paper across the desk.

As Betty extended her hand for the note, her elbow knocked over the telephone. The girl uttered a startled: "Oh!" and started to recover the instrument.

Agent "X's" hand shot out and closed over her wrist. A strange change had come over his face. His eyes were like bright points of gleaming steel. Gently, he disengaged Betty's fingers from the phone, picked up the instrument, and stared at it a moment before setting it down. Then he slid from the desk, crossed the room on tiptoe, one finger on his lips. He beckoned to Betty. Wonderingly, the girl got up, and followed him. The Secret Agent put both hands on her shoulders, bent his head, and whispered into her ear:

"Go back to the desk, sit as you were sitting, and keep talking for about a minute. Then, newspaper or no newspaper, leave this office immediately. I don't want to hide from you the fact that you are in deadly danger. Avoid all strangers. Take care of yourself, but don't be afraid. Go back now." He gave her a gentle push, and turned toward the door.

AGENT "X" unlocked the door, opened it, and stepped outside. Reporters were waiting for him, eager with questions. With his back to the door, "X" inserted the key in the lock, and turned it. Then he dropped the key to the floor, found it with his heel, and kicked it under the door.

"Where's Miss Dale?" demanded one of the reporters.

"Inside," the Agent explained. "She's putting her notes in some order. Don't worry; she'll not hold out on you." Then he pushed past the reporters, turned abruptly to the left, and entered another office. It was empty. He hurried over to the desk and bent over the telephone. A moment's scrutiny told him what he wanted to know. Beneath the receiver hook of the instrument, was a small wooden wedge driven far enough in to open the telephone circuit. A similar wedge he had seen on the phone in the room in which he had talked to Betty.

It was safe to wager that every phone in the building had been similarly opened so that anyone listening at any of the extension phones on the circuit might have heard his conversation with Betty Dale.

As "X" hurried from the little office he was wondering if the robbery attempt that afternoon had been the failure he had thought it to be. Perhaps there was another motive—one that spelled danger for himself—and for Betty Dale. He wondered, too, if Krausman's absence from the city that afternoon was as innocent as it appeared to be.

Avoiding Commissioner Foster and Major Derrick, who were busy with the police investigation, "X" hurried along the wall of the store, stopping at every door to look in the rooms beyond. All were empty. The police had herded all the store's employees into one group, and were busy firing questions at them.

Agent "X" turned to the back of the store, glanced into Krausman' s office, and hurried on to another room where were the vaults in which Krausman kept certain valuable jewels. The door was locked.

Taking from his pocket a bunch of master keys, without which he never ventured forth, he selected one that would fit the lock. In another moment, he was inside the room. It, too, was empty. But "X" immediately noticed the absence of the telephone which usually sat upon the desk. The phone wire itself passed beneath the slightly raised window and out into the alley.

"X" picked up a straight office chair and quietly tiptoed to the window. Raising the chair level with his chest, his arms shot out like two pistons. The chair crashed through the glass. "X" followed the chair, leaping over the sill to drop ten feet into the alley outside. Recovering his balance immediately, he glimpsed the phone swinging against the outer wall. A small window-washer's ladder leaned against the wall. But these were minor details and the matter of only a moment's observation. Near the window was a sleek, cream-colored roadster. The door was open and a woman was just stepping in. She sent one glance over her shoulder before dropping into the deep cushions.

For a moment, "X" saw her face, though partially concealed by the soft fur that trimmed the collar of her extravagantly beautiful dress. Her face was small, nearly round, and dark complexioned. Her lips slightly voluptuous, were rouged a striking shade of red that was almost like Chinese lacquer. Her nose was slightly up-tilted and her eyes were actually arresting; true emerald green, they were beneath long, penciled brows that curved upwards at the outer extremities.

But what struck Agent "X" as being extremely important was the flash of green in the bracelet about her left wrist. He was certain that the woman wore the jade bracelet that he had watched Dr. Jules Planchard purchase.

The woman's lips parted, emitting a husky, purring sort of laugh.

"X" saw that the motor of the car was running. He sprang toward it in an effort to catch hold of the spare-tire carrier, but even as he leaped, the clutch grabbed and the car scudded off down the alley.

"X" PIVOTED. A trim black sedan, one of the Agent's own cars, was parked directly behind the jewelry store. He made for it, sprang into the front compartment, and plugged at the starter. The motor kicked over, thrummed smoothly. He shifted gears soundlessly and gave the great super-charged motor all the gas it would take. Like a black projectile, his car shot down the alley.

Ahead of him, the woman's roadster nosed through a traffic lane, and turned to the right. "X" rounded the corner, his car whining in second gear. He cleared the broad bumper of a moving truck by a hair's breadth, purposely threw the car into a skid that shied it across the track of a speeding sedan. Ahead, the cream-colored roadster wove through traffic, putting two more cars between its tail-lamp and the nose of the Agent's car.

He accelerated, sounded his horn, and crowded the car in front of him to the curb. A comparatively clear lane ahead, the cream-colored car, with its exotic driver, pulled away. The tweet of a traffic officer's whistle was wasted on unheeding ears. The green-eyed woman could drive, and her car was capable of taking all she gave it.

"X" had seen the green-eyed woman before. Felice Vincart was her real name, but it had given place to the alias she had made famous. Snatched from the variety stage by an ardent young millionaire who had fallen in love with her, Felice Vincart had found herself a widow after a few months. In spite of her wealth, she had not gained a position in the social register. She remained known not by her husband's name but by the alias she had made famous. When the tabloids exploited her voluptuous beauty she was invariably called "The Leopard Lady."

It was an appropriate appellation; for Felice Vincart had a grace and manner that was actually feline. Her act in the theater had consisted of a wild, barbaric dance, revolving about two great leopards which she herself had trained.

How had the Leopard Lady, with all the pleasures that money could buy at her disposal, become associated with the criminal who directed the activities of the sinister corpse legion? Perhaps a life of indolence had held no thrills for the woman who had tamed jungle beasts.

Agent "X" had little time to dwell on how the Leopard Lady had allied herself with the terrible group. He was fully occupied in keeping on her weaving trail that defied every traffic ordinance. Suddenly, quite as if by accident, the cream-colored car swerved to avoid a car coming from the opposite direction. Its front wheel clipped the corner of the curb and the car bounded into an alley.

"X" followed, wheeling his car across the street and into the alley. Ahead of him, the cream-colored car had slowed down. "X" spurted, and in another moment was forced to cram on his brakes with all the strength of his right leg. From a covered driveway, a huge truck had backed across the alley. The Agent was as effectually separated from his quarry as if a stone wall had suddenly been conjured up in front of him. In spite of his quick action and the superior power of his brakes he did not stop until the nose of his car had mashed against the panel of the truck.

Was this opportune intervention a coincidence? The Secret Agent thought not. Everything had fallen in too perfectly with the Leopard Lady's plan of escape. He could almost hear her husky, purring laugh of triumph.

"X" knocked open the door of his car and leaped to the pavement. In a moment his question was definitely answered. It was no coincidence; it was a perfectly laid trap set to catch one man—Secret Agent "X."

From the doorway of flanking buildings poured a small army of men—corpse-faced criminals from out of the past. With the confidence their numbers gave them, they rushed upon "X," blunt-nose automatics firmly gripped in their fists. The Agent drew his gun with his right hand, at the same time sending a short, jolting left to the side of the foremost criminal's head. The man dropped without a groan. "X's" gas gun, that marvelous weapon of his own development, hissed like a snake. A cloud of the powerful anesthetizing vapor blasted a second criminal into oblivion.

Completely surrounded, "X" fought like one possessed of the devil. He hacked at heads with the barrel of his gun, wary of using the gas with which it was loaded lest in the mad, battling maelstrom of humanity some of the anesthetizing fumes reach his own lungs. The gang, he knew, would avoid using their automatics lest the sound of shots draw in police interference.

"X" got a grip around the waist of one of his opponents, lifted the man bodily, and would have hurled him to the pavement had he not at that moment been struck a powerful blow from behind. Off balance, he sprawled to the pavement. Like starved wolves, the mob was upon him, holding him down by sheer weight of numbers. A gun barrel crashed into his head—once—twice. Agent "X" dipped into oblivion.