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Title:  Murder Monster
Author: Emile C. Tepperman
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Secret Agent "X" in The Murder Monster
Brant House (Emile C. Tepperman)

December, 1934 (#10)



CHAPTER I

STORM CLOUDS OF CRIME

THE setting sun cast a cold, hard glint across the waters of the
Hudson. Brittle spearheads of light flashed athwart the waves that
rippled at the bank of the river below the somber walls of the State
Prison.

The chill of early November dusk was in the air; almost it seemed to
reflect a spirit of dreadful foreboding, to presage the approach of
calamity. Somehow, the air seemed charged with thunderbolts of doom,
poised and waiting to be hurled at the grim walls of the gloomy pile
that loomed above the river, imprisoning fifteen hundred bitter men.

It was Sunday afternoon, and the inmates were being given a glimpse of
life in the world beyond their cells. They were being treated to a
football game between their own team and the team of Ervinton College,
an institution that played the State Prison once a year.

The players on the field, convicts and college boys alike, were lost
in the excitement of the game. But the convict spectators displayed
only a listless half-interest. Behind the high wire screen that
separated their section from that of the visitors, they sat tensely,
eyeing each other furtively, shifting nervously in their seats. Over
the whole prison there seemed to be an air of tension, of taut
expectancy.

That sixth sense that is so highly developed among men who are
confined alone for a long time seemed to have divined that death
hovered near. Many cast glances backward toward the main building,
where were confined the more recalcitrant prisoners--dangerous
criminals, untamed by their imprisonment, who were denied the
privilege of witnessing the game.

The closing whistle blew, interrupting the play at nothing to nothing.
Rousing cheers came from the section set apart for the visiting
college spectators. The convicts cheered half-heartedly. They were
casting furtive glances around the field and toward the grandstand
where the warden sat, entertaining the faculty of Ervinton. The
keepers, who were stationed ten feet apart across the front of the
prisoners' seats, called out, "Everybody remain seated till the teams
are off the field!"

The visiting team deployed from the field, trotted into the basement
through the side entrance of the main building, where showers and a
locker room had been set up for them. The convicts watched them
gloomily, in marked contrast to the hilarity of the college boys. For
they were not going home to well-cooked meals in comfortable dining
rooms, to the fond glances of proud parents, to the arms of
sweethearts. They were going in to a dreary supper and dismal cells,
to their lonely thoughts and gnawing memories.

An inch of fiery red sun showed over the top of the wooded hills to
the west, across the river. Dusk had come quickly. It was growing dark
fast, and the guards now hurried the convicts into a double line and
marched them toward the main entrance. The warden, with two of his
deputies, stood in the grandstand talking to several of the faculty of
Ervinton College who had come down to see the game.

The warden was a tall man, with a lined, wrinkled face topped by
iron-gray hair. The weight of responsibility for all these prisoners sat
heavily on his shoulders. Moodily, as he talked, his eyes rested on
the leading ranks of convicts marching dispiritedly toward the
building.

In a moment that front rank would step through the entrance, would be
led to the mess hall. Another dreary day would be done, a dreary night
would commence.

But that marching line never reached the entrance.

For there erupted, at that moment from the basement exit in the side
of the building, a disorderly swarm of men. The Ervinton college
players, the substitutes and the coaches, were being herded out, still
in their football uniforms. Some stumbled, others ran, and it was
evident that something terrible had happened inside.

The warden leaped from the grandstand to the field, started to run
toward the basement exit, followed by his deputies. Several guards
swung in after him. The long marching line of convicts had halted at a
command from the head keeper, and stood silent, watching the strange
exodus.

And suddenly the warden, who had been running across the field,
stopped short in his tracks, his face white, his hands trembling. For
right behind the college players, forcing the boys ahead at the point
of submachine guns and rifles, there appeared other men--men who were
dressed in the street clothes which the college boys had left in the
lockers, but who did not look like college boys.

The warden exclaimed, "God! It's the lifers! They've gotten loose
somehow--and they must have broken into the armory; they've all got
weapons! Look, there's Gilly, and Furber, and--" he named others of
them whom he knew by sight. "Quick, Turner," he addressed the deputy
immediately behind him, "signal the gatehouse guard to close the gate.
Have the two tower guards enfilade them with machine gun fire!"

The deputy turned to obey. At the same moment, one of the armed
convicts raised a Thompson gun to his shoulder and directed a stream
of lead into the gatehouse. The guard there was flung against the wall
of his little enclosure, his body riddled by a dozen slugs; the gate,
which had been opened to permit the egress of the visitors, remained
open.

And now was demonstrated the devilish ingenuity behind this well-planned
escape. The convicts, their faces screwed into snarling masks
of defiance and hatred, were herding the college players along in
front of them, pushing them toward the open gate. No shots were fired
at them from the wall towers; for the very good reason that the
college boys, being in front, would be the first to be hit.

The warden could do nothing. He stood there helpless, his face bleak,
and watched the most dangerous criminals in his charge march through
that gate to freedom. He said hoarsely to the deputy, "Good God,
Turner, they're using the Ervinton boys as shields!" His hands
clenched and unclenched spasmodically. "We can't fire at them now.
Those innocent boys would be the first to be hit!"

And Turner did not signal the tower guards. A small group gathered
about the warden, gazed spellbound at the vicious faces of the
escaping convicts. Turner and the other deputy flanked their chief,
hands hovering over the service revolvers holstered at their hips, not
daring to draw them, lest such an overt act provoke the vicious lifers
to let loose again with the machine guns and mow down innocent
spectators as they had killed the gatehouse guard. But after that one
burst of fire from the Thompson, the escaping convicts rushed grimly
across the yard toward the gate. The long line of marching prisoners
proceeding toward the main building had stopped without orders from
the keepers who flanked them. The marching convicts cast envious
glances at those who were escaping, but they made no move toward a
break for freedom themselves. They had no living shields, like the
others. The warden raised his voice, calling hoarsely to some of the
armed convicts. "Gilly! Renzor! You can't get away with that. You'll
be caught before you get a mile from here. Drop those--"

He stopped as Gilly, one of the two he had addressed, swung snarling
toward him, bringing the submachine gun around to bear on the little
group. The warden and those with him dropped to the ground to avoid
the threatened barrage. But Gilly did not fire, for a tall, heavyset
convict who was running alongside him shouted, "Never mind that stuff,
Gilly! Keep on goin'!"

Gilly grumbled, but obeyed. The convicts hustled the terrorized
college boys along through the gate. Outside, there waited a huge
closed truck, with motor running. The convicts piled into this, the
motor roared, and the truck sped away, leaving the Ervinton boys with
their hands in the air.

Now the guards in the towers directed a withering fire at the swiftly
moving truck. But no damage was done; its sides were of sheet metal,
and wheels were equipped with solid tires. In less than three minutes
it had rounded a bend in the road to the south, and disappeared from
view.

Inside the prison grounds, bedlam reigned. The hundreds of excited
spectators were shouting and gesticulating, running aimlessly around
the ball field. In the yard the keepers were herding the remaining
prisoners into the main building, while the warden uttered crisp
commands to his deputies.

"Shut the gates! March the men to the cell blocks--we'll feed them
later. Turner, go into my office and start the siren; then phone all
the towns along the roads; get out the state police." He addressed the
other deputy, "You, Seely, see the men safely in their cells, then get
out every available keeper and guard--organize a posse. I'll lead it
personally."

One of the professors from Ervinton College, who had joined him at the
first sign of the break, tapped him on the shoulder. "I am afraid,
warden, that you will not be successful in catching those men. This
was a well-planned escape."

There was a look of desperation in the warden's face. "We must get
those men back, Professor Larrabie!" he exclaimed. "They are the most
vicious criminals in the state. Gilly, the one that wanted to mow us
down with the machine-gun, is a killer many times over. He was about
to be transferred to the death house!" The warden went on, his words
tumbling out with hysterical speed, "And the others--Dubrot, Renzor,
Gerlan---the brainiest, most ruthless fiends we've ever had here! Can
you imagine what it means--a gang like that at liberty?" He shuddered.
"If I don't bring them back I--" his voice broke, "there'd be nothing
left for me. I couldn't face the governor!"

"Nonsense!" the professor retorted. Professor Larrabie was a tall,
kindly man. He was extremely wealthy in his own right, but was also an
enthusiastic scholar. Though he had no need for the income, he loved
his scholastic work. He held the position of associate dean of
Ervinton, and was far from a worldly man. But he showed that, for all
his unworldliness, he had a well-developed sense of observation. For
he said, "I believe this was done by one of the visitors, Warden. Just
prior to the end of the game, I noted that someone from the visitors'
stand arose and entered the building. He came out immediately before
the escape. I believe that person to be responsible. But the sun was
in my eyes, and I could not see his features."

JUST then Turner, the deputy, came running out of the main building.
He was breathless, and his face was ashen. He exclaimed, "The siren
doesn't work, sir--it's been tampered with. And the phone is dead! I
can't get a connection to notify anybody!"

The warden turned a haggard face to Professor Larrabie. "Ten minutes
ago, Professor, I'd have staked my life that a thing like this was
impossible." He seemed to have aged ten years in those ten minutes.
"It's a perfect jail break!"

Professor Larrabie nodded. "It would be. The deliverer of those men is
very clever. He foresaw everything!" The professor's gaze wandered
over the field where the crowd of visiting spectators was milling
around, shouting and gesticulating excitedly. He indicated a figure
running toward them across the field. "Here comes Harry Pringle, the
son of the deputy police commissioner of New York. Harry is a school
chum of my own son, Jack. They are both alumni of Ervinton." The
professor stared near-sightedly at the running youth. "He seems to
have something momentous on his mind!"

Harry Pringle reached them, breathless, greeted the professor, then
swung to the warden. "Look here, sir!" His thin, ascetic face was
burning with intense excitement. "I saw somebody leave the stand a
little while ago and enter the building, then come out in about ten
minutes. I've been searching through the crowd for him, but I can't
find him now. I thought you ought to know about it."

The warden nodded. "Thanks, Pringle. Professor Larrabie has told me
the same thing. But the sun was in his eyes, and he couldn't tell who
it was. Did you recognize him?"

Harry Pringle shook his head. "It was nobody I know. But," he added
eagerly, "I'd recognize him if I saw him again. I'll never forget that
face--now!"

The warden said, "Then I shall have the gates closed and give you an
opportunity to examine every person on the grounds. But," he put his
hand on young Pringle's shoulder, "I'd advise you to be careful. If
the person who aided those criminals to escape should learn that you
saw him, your life wouldn't be worth two cents, my boy."

An armed file of guards emerged from the building at this moment. The
warden said to Turner, "I'm heading the posse. You take charge in my
absence. Nobody is to leave the grounds until Mr. Pringle here has
seen his face."

The guards piled into three or four cars, the warden got into the
first, and the posse started out. Professor Larrabie watched them go,
and shook his head sadly. "He will never catch them," he said to
Turner. "They have too much of a start."

The professor was right. Late that night the warden and his men
returned. They had not been able to pick up a single trace of the
truck. Nobody had seen it. He sighed deeply, tired and worn from the
long, fruitless search. He asked Turner, "Did that young fellow
Pringle have any luck?"

"No, sir. He looked everybody over, but not a face like the one he
saw. The police are going to have him go through the rogues' gallery
in the morning on the chance that he may recognize one of the
pictures."

The warden looked hopelessly at his deputy. "He won't, Turner, he
won't recognize it. Whoever that man was, he's too smart to have his
picture in the rogues' gallery. This whole thing has been done too
cleverly and ingeniously."

He sank wearily into the chair behind his desk. He seemed to have
shrunk within himself. His whole bearing was that of a beaten man.

"I am afraid, Turner," he said, "that there are bad days ahead."



CHAPTER II

Mr. VARDIS OF NOWHERE

ON a night, some four weeks after the sensational escape of the
twenty-five convicts from the State Prison, a quiet, strikingly
handsome gentleman might have been seen seated alone at a table in the
Diamond Club.

The Diamond Club was the swankiest resort of the New York City
underworld. During prohibition it had been a carefully conducted
speakeasy, so elaborately rigged up with safety devices and
complicated alarm systems that, though it had been raided a dozen
times by prohibition agents, not a drop of liquor had ever been found
on the premises.

The proprietor of the club was "Duke" Marcy, former beer baron. Marcy
had always been too clever to get into the toils of the law, and now
he was able to secure a liquor license, and to operate the Diamond
Club as a legitimate enterprise. He took particular pleasure in
exhibiting the various devices by which he had frustrated raids in the
old days, and these secret liquor caches, light signals and false
doors were a never-ending source of attraction to the crowds which
nightly thronged the place.

"Duke" Marcy's floor show was the talk of the town, his prices were
exorbitantly high, and he did a thriving business. With it all, people
wondered why Marcy, who was said to have reaped a fortune out of his
former illegal activities, should bother with comparatively small-time
stuff like running a night club; they wondered if its purpose was not
to cover up some darker, more insidious operations of the underworld
czar.

The handsome gentleman who sat alone at the table near the dance floor
watched with detached interest while Leane Manners, the star of the
floor show, pirouetted expertly through the steps of a complicated and
exquisitely delicate dance, with the spotlight following her every
graceful movement.

At the end of the dance a thunder of applause filled the room, mingled
with cries of "Encore, encore!"

The dancer's eyes swept over the gay, flashily dressed audience,
flickered for an instant as they met the gaze of the quiet gentleman,
and then she swept into motion once more as the orchestra swung into
the rhythm of the music for her encore.

When the encore was over, she was compelled to take three bows before
retiring. She did not go back to the dressing room, but threw a cloak
over her shoulders, stepped off the floor. Half a dozen unattached men
rose enthusiastically, inviting her to their tables. But she favored
the quiet gentleman who had also risen and was bowing to her with the
innate courtesy of an old world aristocrat. She made her way toward
his table.

"How do you do, Mr. Vardis?" she said. She knew this man only as Mr.
Vardis, a quiet, unobtrusive gentleman of wealth, with powerful
affiliations. It was he who had been instrumental in bringing her to
the attention of influential booking agents, resulting in her
engagement by "Duke" Marcy for the Diamond Club.

She was not aware--nor was anybody else in the world, for that
matter--that the firm mouth, the aquiline, masterful nose, the high
forehead and the coal-black hair of the mysterious Mr. Vardis were an
elaborate disguise masking the features of a being even more
mysterious. For the person behind that disguise was--Secret Agent
"X." [1]

[1 AUTHOR'S NOTE: Regular readers of these exploits will need no
introduction to Secret Agent "X." The man who hides his identity
behind that symbol of the unknown quantity has figured in previous
chronicles. Little is known about him personally, except that he saw
active service during the War, was wounded in action, and later
entered the Intelligence Service. In this branch he so distinguished
himself that the value of his special resources and abilities was
recognized by the government to be as necessary in peace times as in
time of war. Accordingly, after the Armistice, a remarkable
proposition was made to him by an official high in government circles.
He was made a free-lance agent, commissioned to combat crime wherever
it reared its ugly head in the country. It was guaranteed that his
anonymity would be preserved.]

Mr. Vardis courteously held a chair for her.

The orchestra struck into a waltz, the lights were dimmed, and couples
left their tables to dance. As a waiter approached within hearing, Mr.
Vardis invited Leane to dance, but the beautiful red-haired girl
laughingly refused.

"I'd much rather sit and talk to you," she smiled. Her voice was
musical, cultured, bore out the impression one somehow got that she
was a girl of refinement and education.

Mr. Vardis smiled depreciatingly. "That will be as great a pleasure
for me." He seated himself, and gave the hovering waiter an order for
wine, selecting it from the wine list with the care of a connoisseur.

Leane maintained the attitude of a careless young dancer having a good
time. She continued to smile at her host; but her voice took on a
quick urgency. "I'm so glad you've come, Mr. Vardis. There are some
things you'll want to know."

Leane Manners had not been introduced to the Diamond Club by
accident--nor had Secret Agent "X" become interested in her by
accident. She was the fiancée of another of the Agent's lieutenants,
and he was given carte blanche to proceed in any manner that he saw
fit, reporting to no one, responsible only to himself. The powers
granted to him were unprecedented but they were warranted by the wave
of unlawfulness that swept the land after the War, rendering the usual
law enforcement agencies almost helpless.

Secret Agent "X" as he became known, fully justified the confidence
that had been placed in him. He never betrayed that trust, no matter
what personal sacrifice his duty entailed. To finance his activities
ten wealthy men, who were unknown to him and to whom he was unknown,
subscribed an unlimited fund which is on deposit to his credit in the
name of Elisha Pond at the First National Bank. As this fund becomes
depleted by his necessary expenditures in the battle against crime, it
is replenished by these wealthy men, who never ask an accounting,
never know how it is used. But they feel that it has been well spent
when they read in their newspapers of the destruction of another
criminal gang, or of the capture of some vicious master criminal whom
the police have been unable to cope with. Always, in these cases,
there remains at the end an element of mystery, for the police
themselves do not know how the discomfiture of the criminals was
brought about, except that some mysterious force entered the situation
at the opportune moment. Reading these accounts, those wealthy men
smile knowingly, and feel that their money has been put to good use.

The young man was named Jim Hobart. Hobart did not know Mr. Vardis; he
knew Secret Agent "X" by another name. The Agent never permitted his
assistants to know more than one of the various identities he assumed
in his operations.

When Jim Hobart had mentioned that Leane, who lived in a middle
western town, wanted to come on to work in New York, "X" had concurred
in the idea, had sent for her, referred her to "Mr. Vardis." As
Vardis, he had gotten her the introduction to the booking agents, had
maneuvered so that she came to the Diamond Club. In addition to the
salary she received here, the Agent maintained her on his own payroll.
Her duty was to watch for information that would be useful to him. All
over the country he had such representatives, received stray bits of
information that often helped him to prevent crime before it was even
committed.

Now he nodded somberly. "I expected that you would learn something of
interest here." Then casually lighting a cigarette, he threw a side
glance at the occupants of the near-by tables who were regarding him
and Leane with curiosity, and leaned over the table, his lips smiling
as if he were whispering a soft compliment.

In reality he was saying, "So that you will be able to work
intelligently for me, I will tell you what brought me here tonight.
You have read, of course, about the jail break from State Prison last
month?"

She nodded.

"Those escaped convicts," the Agent told her, "have not been seen or
heard of since the escape. They were not the average run of criminals.
Among them were fiends like Dubrot, who has a giant mentality--
perverted strangely toward evil; men like Gilly and Renzor, who take
human life without blinking an eyelash.

"And there were twenty-five of them--twentyfive vicious, depraved
criminals who can no more rid themselves of the urge to evil than a
leopard can change its spots. Those men are loose somewhere in the
country, hiding out, planning death and destruction!"

THE Agent had spoken forcefully, eloquently, with a purpose. Now,
Leane sat tensely, gripped by the picture of menace that his words had
evoked. She listened raptly as he continued.

He was still smiling for the benefit of those at the other tables. But
his words were in deadly earnest.

"It goes without saying that they did not escape without outside help.
Therefore there must be some one, somewhere, who knows about them,
perhaps holds the secret of their present hiding place. So far all the
forces of the law haven't turned up a single clue." His voice dropped
even lower than before. "I want to find those men! I am asking
everybody with whom I have contacts to keep their eyes open--to watch
for any little hint that may be of help. I am asking you to observe
carefully everything that happens here in the Diamond Club; and for a
very good reason--Baylor and Nagle, two of the escaped convicts, used
to be 'Duke' Marcy's private gunmen. It is just possible that Marcy
may have had something to do with the escape. Keep constantly alert,
report everything to me, no matter how trivial--"

She interrupted him, her face suddenly flushed.

"I think I can tell you something, Mr. Vardis. Baylor and Nagle--I've
heard their names mentioned here, but it slipped my mind until you
just brought them up. It was on the very day of the jail break, too.
Linky Teagle had come in to see 'Duke' Marcy. You know Linky Teagle?"

"Yes. I've seen him around. He used to be Marcy's pay-off man."

She nodded nervously. "That's right, Mr. Vardis. Teagle and Marcy came
out of the private office in back, past the dressing room. I had come
in early, and I was resting there. They thought they were alone, and I
heard Teagle say, 'Baylor and Nagle are in on it, too, Duke.' Marcy
said something I couldn't hear, and then they stepped out of the hall.
At the time, the names didn't mean anything to me, so I paid no
attention. But now--"

The Agent leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the table.
"Teagle!" he repeated. "Teagle would never talk. However, it's worth
trying. Thanks, Leane."

"Another thing," she went on swiftly. "Marcy had been staying away
from here more and more, until a couple of days ago. Just yesterday he
began spending more time here. His old girl friend, Mabel Boling, with
whom he's supposed to have broken off, has been here to see him twice
today, and twice yesterday. She comes in the back way, and goes right
to his office. Everybody is supposed to think they're angry at each
other, but it's not so. They're up to something, those two."

The soft music of the waltz hardly made it necessary to raise the
voice above a whisper. Leane watched the calm face of Mr. Vardis as he
cogitated the information she had just given him. She felt almost as
if she were under a spell beneath the keen, penetrating eyes that
burned in that otherwise austere face. Though she knew nothing about
Mr. Vardis, except that a friend of her fiancé's had recommended him
highly. [2]

[2 AUTHOR'S NOTE: This feeling of Leane's was amply justified by past
events. Jim Hobart had been a young policeman, discharged from the
force in disgrace when the agent had met him. "X" had known that
Hobart was innocent of the charges upon which his dismissal had been
predicated, and he had befriended the red-haired, good-natured young
man, given him employment. Hobart didn't suspect the true identity of
his employer. He knew only that his benefactor was a newspaper man by
the name of A. J. Martin, and that Mr. Martin could do wonderful
things, and had many strange powers. Jim Hobart received credit for
capturing the criminals. Due to this Hobart had received the
commendation of the police commissioner and had been permitted to
obtain a license as a private detective. He now operated the Hobart
Detective Agency, the most profitable client being Mr. A. J. Martin.
It looked very much as if Leane Manners would shortly become Mrs. Jim
Hobart. It was thus that the Agent requited faithful services.]

Only recently, on a case that the Agent had solved, he had so arranged
it that She felt that she could trust him, that the fortunes of
herself and her sweetheart were secure in his hands. She started to
speak again. "If Linky Teagle should come here again--" Suddenly she
stopped, lowered her eyes, and her voice changed to a casual,
conversational tone. "I'm so thankful that I have this job, Mr.
Vardis. It's easy work, and the pay is good--"

No muscle of Mr. Vardis' face moved to show that he was aware of the
reason for the sudden change of tone. But he had noted as quickly as
Leane, the shadows that suddenly stood near the table. One was their
waiter, carefully carrying a musty wine bottle which he held in a
napkin. The other was a huge man, faultlessly attired in evening
clothes--"Duke" Marcy himself.

WHILE the waiter poured the wine, "Duke" Marcy bowed first to Leane,
then to Mr. Vardis, as Leane introduced him. Marcy spoke in a soft,
unctuous voice that went ill with his tremendous physique. He said,
"Forgive me for taking the liberty of stepping over to your table. I
was eager to meet this friend of Miss Manners, who displays such an
excellent taste in ordering wines." His eyes followed the almost
caressing hands of the waiter who handled the bottle. "Only a
connoisseur of the first rank would order Montrachet of the vintage of
1904. It is the only bottle we have. I had hoped to preserve it for my
own use."

Mr. Vardis, who had arisen, said politely, "You will join us, of
course?"

As "Duke" Marcy seated himself in the chair which the waiter brought,
he said with a grand gesture, "No, Mr. Vardis, I am not joining you.
You are joining me. This bottle of Montrachet comes with the
compliments of the house!"

Mr. Vardis accepted graciously. Leane Manners fidgeted as they sipped
the exquisite Burgundy. Marcy's eyes were veiled throughout the
conversation that followed. As he turned from Vardis to Leane in the
course of the talk, the huge muscles of his shoulders and upper arms
showed in rippling undulations through his dress jacket. The corded
veins of his thick, squat neck moved as he spoke. He seemed capable,
should the occasion arise, of taking a man like Mr. Vardis and
breaking him in his hands.

Leane's hand shook as she sought Vardis' eyes. Had Marcy heard her
utter the name of Linky Teagle? Was he playing with them?

The waltz ended, and as Marcy turned for a moment to view the next
number of the floor show, Leane caught a distinct flicker of the
eyelid from Mr. Vardis, and a slight nod of reassurance. She smiled
once more, relieved. She trusted him implicitly.

Marcy evinced no disposition to leave. He seemed bent on outstaying
Mr. Vardis.

When this became apparent, Mr. Vardis rose, excusing himself. There
was no point in his remaining now. The single name that the girl had
uttered had been sufficient for him. There were some other things that
he wanted to know, but he could get the other information elsewhere.
He bowed in courtly fashion over Leane's hand, shook hands with Marcy.

Marcy's huge paw encircled his own hand, and Marcy, grinning, with his
eyes narrow-slitted, began to exert pressure. It was his favorite
means of instilling respect in men he met. That crushing bear grip of
his brought sweat to men's foreheads, left them weak and tingling,
with their right hand useless for hours afterwards.

But now, Marcy's brows contracted in surprise. This man was his match.

Leane, who knew that trick of Marcy's, watched breathlessly, helpless
to stop the pain she knew was going to be inflicted on her friend. But
suddenly she sighed in relief as she saw Mr. Vardis' hand wriggle
slightly, clasp itself about Marcy's big paw, and contract.

Mr. Vardis' hands were slim, long fingered and powerful. The tips of
the fingers barely met behind Marcy's knuckles, yet Marcy winced. Only
a second did Vardis continue the punishing grip, then he suddenly
released his hold, still smiling courteously. Once more he bowed to
Leane, and made his way leisurely toward the door.

Marcy gazed after him with a puzzled expression. He said to Leane,
"Say, girlie, that friend of yours is no slouch." His lower lip
protruded slightly, his eyes became pinpoint. "I'll have to pay more
attention to him in the future!"



CHAPTER III

LINKY TEAGLE

MR. VARDIS had excused himself at the Diamond Club, stating that he
had an appointment for which he was late. But upon leaving the place,
he no longer seemed to be in a hurry. Instead, he strolled down
Broadway in a leisurely manner, and entered a cigar store. He stepped
into the telephone booth and dialed a number that was not in any book.
Almost at once, a precise voice came over the wire. "Bates talking."

Vardis asked, "Who is on duty tonight, Bates?"

Bates recognized the voice, answered quickly, "Stegman and Oliver,
sir. They are here now, awaiting orders."

"Good," said Mr. Vardis. "Have them go out and inquire around
cautiously. I want to know where Linky Teagle can be found tonight. I
will call back in an hour." [3]

[3 AUTHOR'S NOTE: Secret Agent "X" did not depend on any one
organization, such as Jim Hobart's detective agency, for all his
information. At a good deal of trouble and expense, he built up the
organization headed by Bates. "X" has steadfastly refused to disclose
to the author just where the office is, or where Bates is located, or
what the telephone number is. Men all over the country report to
Bates, who is more or less of a clearing house for news of national
importance. That "X" has other agents besides those headed by Bates
there is no doubt. He often uses a man from Jim Hobart's outfit, one
or two from Bates' office, and, perhaps, others whom I do not yet know
about. The reason for this, I understand, is so that they may not be
able to check with each other to discover his identity. One thing is
very definite: though these men are from every walk in life, they have
been thoroughly investigated by the Agent, and are absolutely
dependable.]

Bates repeated the orders crisply to be sure he had them right.
"Information is wanted as to the whereabouts of Linky Teagle. It is
wanted within an hour." He paused a moment, and "X" heard him issuing
swift instructions at the other end. Then his voice came again. "Okay,
sir. Stegman and Oliver have left. Anything else?"

"Yes," said Mr. Vardis. "What reports have you on the robot murders?"

"Nothing helpful, sir," regretfully. "All the witnesses of the crimes
who have been interviewed by our men swear that the murderers are a
strange race of robots. They did not talk, and they walked stiffly, as
automatons do. The four murders reported have netted them large sums
of cash and were all attended by an absolute lack of mercy. In no case
were the victims warned, or threatened. In fact, no word was spoken.
The robots merely shot to kill, then walked off with the money."

"I know all that," Mr. Vardis said shortly. "I will call you back
every hour from now on. Have the men circulate in the underworld; let
them try for any kind of lead to these robots. Any further reports
now?"

"Only one, sir. The man who is shadowing 'Duke' Marcy reports that
Marcy has done nothing suspicious today, in fact seems to be busy
running the Diamond Club. The only thing of possible interest was a
short conversation that Marcy had only a few minutes ago with a
stranger named Vardis. Our man recommends looking up this Vardis."

"Vardis is all right," said Mr. Vardis. "I know all about him. Proceed
with the investigation of the robot murders, and with the matter of
Linky Teagle."

Mr. Vardis left the telephone booth and walked east, purchasing an
evening paper on the way. He turned in at a dilapidated brownstone
house west of Sixth Avenue. This was one of a row that had
deteriorated into boarding houses for down-at-heels theatrical people.
Mr. Vardis had been able to secure the basement floor at a nominal
rental, and he lived here alone, coming at odd times, going as he
pleased, with no one to note his actions, which were, at times, more
or less surprising. Now, in the seclusion of an inner room, he set
himself to scan the paper carefully, studying the reports of the
so-called "robot murders."

A great deal of space was devoted to them, for they bore all the
qualities of sensational terror that aided in the building of
newspaper circulation.

The first of them had occurred the day before yesterday, and had been
attended with an exhibition of daring, ingenuity and ruthlessness that
had left the city gasping.

At eleven-thirty at night, four figures had strutted stiffly into the
office of the cashier on the mezzanine floor of the Grand Central
Station. This was the office where all the ticket clerks brought their
cash from the ticket windows on the upper level of the station. It was
estimated that the cash on hand exceeded twenty thousand dollars.

The four figures might have been men---they had the faces and bodies
of men--except for the fact that they moved stiffly, jerkily, like
automatons, and never uttered a word. They bore a striking facial
resemblance to each other--so much so, that they might have all been
cast from a single mould. Their faces were youthful in appearance,
pleasant and harmless looking. But they quickly demonstrated that they
were far from harmless. For they drew automatics with silencers
attached, and shot to death the cashier, the assistant cashier, and a
guard on duty in the office.

Then they scooped up the cash in sacks which they produced from under
their clothing, and boldly marched out through the lower level exit.
It was not until they were well away that the bodies of the murdered
men were found in the office. The assistant cashier lived long enough
to tell the story to the police.

The police might not have believed the story in its entirety, even
though the four robots had attracted attention in their march through
the station, had there not come in swiftly upon the heels of this
crime, the news of three other robberies committed at almost the same
time by men answering the same description. In one case a patrolman on
the beat where the robbery took place had seen them escaping with a
sack of loot from a local post office, and had emptied his service
thirty-eight at them. Bystanders swore that every one of the patrolman's
shots had struck the robots, yet they were not wounded. Instead,
one of the robots turned as if impelled by some mechanical device,
raised its gun and fired at the policeman, killing him instantly.

FOR three days now those robberies had continued with impunity, the
robots striking in parts of the city where they were least expected,
always avoiding spots where the police had massed to trap them. The city
was growing panicky. Deputy Commissioner Pringle, in charge while
Commissioner Foster was away in Europe, had cancelled all leaves, had
every available man on duty.

Mr. Vardis put down the paper, clenched his hands tightly. His eyes
were bleak, almost fathomless. This menace of inhuman robots devoted
to crime was a possibility that he had often envisaged with dread--not
for himself, but for the community where they would strike. For it was
inevitable that at some time or other there would arise a criminal
with a mind of such scientific skill, of such devilish ingenuity, that
it might develop such robots to do its work.

Such a criminal would be difficult to combat, for he would be clever,
dangerous; he would remain hidden in security while his machines
robbed and killed. And even if some of those machine-like fiends of
man's creative skill should be caught or disabled, the criminal
himself would still be free to continue in his diabolical traffic.

If this thing had arisen now, it was a most inopportune time for the
agencies of law enforcement, because of the added menace of those
twenty-five hard-bitten convicts who were still at large, and who
might be heard from at any moment now--also with reports of pillage
and murder.

The newspaper flares about these escaped criminals had not died down
yet, even after a month. The accounts of the nation-wide search being
conducted for them shared honors with the robot murders. In addition
to the rewards offered by the government, many individual newspapers
were offering large sums for information leading to their capture--
dead or alive. But no amount of tempting cash reward had so far
succeeded in coaxing a single hint as to their whereabouts. Were they
out of the country? The editorial writers hoped so--for, though it
might reflect on America's penal institutions that these convicts had
been able to make a clean getaway, yet thousands of citizens would
sleep easier if they were sure that those vicious men were no longer a
hidden menace to their families.

"X" was almost certain that they were still somewhere in the country,
hiding in some extremely clever retreat until they were ready to make
their presence felt. The task of locating them, however, seemed
utterly hopeless. He had reports from his agents everywhere--with not
a single helpful hint among them.

So far, the only lead he had was the name which Leane Manners had
spoken--that of Linky Teagle.

"Duke" Marcy's former pay-off man. "X" knew him as a crook of a low
order of intelligence, who, since Marcy had turned from bootlegging to
other, possibly more subtly insidious enterprises, had existed as a
hanger-on at the fringe of the aristocracy of the underworld.

It was his business to "spot lays" for daring hold-ups, to "put the
finger" on likely looking victims for kidnap plans; it was quite
likely that a man like him would know where those escaped convicts
were hiding out--but very unlikely that he would impart this
information to a casual questioner. His very value to the underworld
lay in the fact that he could be relied upon not to talk under any
circumstances. Many a time had he been sweated in headquarters, "put
through the mill," but never had he uttered a word of betrayal. Teagle
must be handled in a skillful manner to be induced to disclose
information.

Mr. Vardis opened a cunningly concealed door in the wall of his room.
A closet was disclosed, containing a row of filing cabinets. From one
of the drawers labeled "G," he took a thick folder, and proceeded to
examine its contents carefully.

The name on the edge of this folder was "Gilly"--a name he had good
cause to remember. It was also the name of one of those twenty-five
vicious criminals who had been released from State Prison. [4]

[4 AUTHOR'S NOTE: The name of Gilly will be recalled be those who read
the recent exploit of Secret Agent "X" related under the title of
"Servants of the Skull." Gilly was one of the vicious gunmen who
acknowledged the criminal known as the Skull as his master. Gilly
almost caused the Agent's death during those exciting days of
hairbreath adventure; but when the Skull's plans were disrupted, and
his headquarters were invaded by the Police under the guidance of the
Agent, Gilly had been captured with the others. Gilly had been serving
a life sentence for his part in the Skull's crimes when the jail break
took place, and he was one of the twenty-five to escape.]

Delving into the folder, Mr. Vardis picked out several sheets which
were clipped together. They were headed, "Friends of Gilly." Among
them was a sheet containing photographs, side and back, of one John
Harder, once an associate of Gilly's. Harder was a fugitive from
justice in the Middle West, and there was very little likelihood of
Gilly's having been in touch with him recently.

Mr. Vardis placed these photographs on a little dressing table in one
corner, turned on a strong daylight bulb, and spread out the contents
of a flat black box which he withdrew from a drawer. This box
contained all the material necessary to change the appearance of his
face; a wide range of pigments, specially prepared plastic material,
face plates of different sizes and degrees of concavity, nose plates,
even sets of plates of various sizes to slip over the teeth. [5]

[5 AUTHOR'S NOTE: To the reader these disguises which the Agent assumes
may appear to be simple matters, requiring little effort or
expenditure of energy; just as, in hearing a pianist playing a
difficult number, we may watch his fingers racing across the keyboard
and imagine that it is easy. On the contrary, each disguise that "X"
assumes requires a degree of skill, or artistry, of sheer genius that
it is impossible to estimate. It is known how difficult is the
modeling of a head by a sculptor working at his ease with clay.
Imagine then, how much more difficult it is to model upon one's own
face the likeness of another man, duplicating facial muscles,
pigmentation, and the thousand other details that make the
individuality of a man.]

The long, facile fingers worked swiftly. Under their deft
manipulation, the face of Mr. Vardis began to melt, finally
disappeared, revealing for an instant the true features of that man of
mystery--Secret Agent "X." They were young, strong features,
expressive of indomitable will, high intelligence, keenness and
courage. They were features that no man now living could boast of ever
having seen.

Only for a moment did that powerful face remain under the glare of the
daylight bulb. The long skillful fingers worked surely, efficiently,
and shortly there appeared the face of John Harder---the fugitive from
justice, the friend of Gilly, the gunman.

AN hour later of that same evening a man might have been seen making
his way west across Times Square, hat brim pulled down and coat collar
turned up against the steady drizzle that was slanting downward out of
a pitch-black sky. Any policeman in New York would have recognized the
features of that man if he had looked into his face; for they were the
features of the notorious John Harder, wanted for murder in three
states, whose picture had been broadcast in every newspaper in the
country.

But Secret Agent "X" passed unmolested across the world's busiest
thoroughfare, proving once more the truth of the old adage that the
best hiding place is generally in the most conspicuous spot.

The clock on the Paramount Building said ten o'clock. Electric signs
flashed all along Forty-second Street, announcing burlesque, movies,
legitimate drama, penny arcades, restaurants, special sales,
announcing, in fact, every possible attraction to lure pennies,
quarters, halves and dollars from the pockets of the amusement seekers
who thronged the streets. None of those amusement seekers was aware
that here, almost at their very elbows, was being staged a greater,
tenser drama than any they could pay their good money to see in the
gaudily lit theatres. Secret Agent "X" made his way over to Eighth
Avenue. The rain was increasing in intensity, and he lowered his head
to allow the water to slide off his hat brim. But he kept his eyes
ever watchful, eyeing passers-by and loiterers, appraising them
swiftly, certainly. The unknown foes that he was setting out to pit
himself against were diabolically clever. They might even be shadowing
him already. At the corner of Eighth Avenue and Forty-second, a man
stood looking into the window of a cheap clothing store.

The Agent came up beside this man, but did not look at him. Instead,
he glanced in the window, appeared to be interested in the display.
After a moment, "X" began to run his forefinger along the front of the
window, tracing an idle pattern. He noted that the man was watching
now, out of the corner of one eye, and the Agent swiftly wrote the
word, "Bates" on the wet pane. The man saw it, but made no motion to
indicate that he understood. After a moment, though, he turned and
walked unconcernedly around the corner and up Eighth Avenue.

He stopped in the middle of the block before the brightly lit window
of Haley's Bar and Grill. There was a colorful display of bottles in
the window, accompanied by the sign, "Licensed to serve wines and
liquors."

The man who had led "X" around the corner stopped for a moment, nodded
almost imperceptibly in the direction of a second man who stood close
to the doorway of Haley's, and continued on his walk.

The Secret Agent turned toward the entrance, drawing a cigarette from
his pocket. At the door he stopped, asked the man standing there for a
light. The man obligingly produced a book of matches, lit one and
cupped the flame from the rain while "X" lit his cigarette. He
murmured, "Teagle is in the rear room in the third booth on the left.
Stegman and I picked him up easy. He's all alone; seems to be waiting
for some one." [6]

[6 AUTHOR'S NOTE: These two operatives of Bates', like all the others,
had no idea who their real employer was, or what was the ultimate
purpose of the various queer tasks.]

"X" said, "Good work, Oliver. You and Stegman are relieved for the
night. Report back to Bates, then you can go home."

Oliver said, "Right, sir," and left, walking in the direction Stegman
had taken. If he recognized the face of the man he had just spoken to,
he gave no sign of it. Those who were in the employ of Secret Agent
"X" were trained never to ask questions, never to wonder at the
sometimes curious things they were ordered to do.

THE Secret Agent, meanwhile, entered the barroom, walked through, past
the long bar lined with drinkers, and into the rear room. This was
equipped with tables set into booths along both walls.

Linky Teagle sat in the third booth, as Oliver had said. He was
glowering moodily at a glass of beer, half empty, on the table before
him. Teagle was a man of medium size, with a thin, pinched face, small
eyes that never rested and never looked directly at any one. Sparse,
muddy-colored hair was combed back from a low forehead in an effort to
conceal the fact that he was almost bald. He was dressed in a tight
fitting double-breasted blue serge suit, and the automatic holstered
under his left armpit made a visible bulge under his coat.

He looked up with a start as the Agent slid into the seat opposite
him, and frowned when he found it was not the person he apparently
expected. His frown changed to a look of consternation as "X" removed
his hat, and he recognized the widely advertised features of John
Harder. He glanced around furtively, made sure that no one had
noticed, and muttered without moving his lips, "Put that hat on,
quick! You nuts?"

"X" obeyed, smiling grimly. His ruse was thus far successful.
Everything depended now upon whether Linky Teagle was really in
possession of any information about those escaped convicts, as Leane
Manners had suggested in the hint she had dropped.

Teagle said, "You're Harder. What the hell you doin' in this town?
You'll get spotted inside of half an hour!"

[?] that they were called upon to perform. All they knew was that their
work was dangerous but not illegal, and that they were extremely well
paid. Their loyalty to their unknown chief was above suspicion, and
they never asked questions. Many of them, like Oliver, were reformed
criminals; some, like Jim Hobart, were ex-policemen. There were even
numbered among those on "X's" payroll a former sword-swallower from a
circus side-show, and a general of the old Imperial Russian Army.

"X" said slowly, his voice assuming a toughness that went well with
the character he was impersonating, "That's my lookout, Teagle. I got
to talk to you."

"Not here, damn it. Wouldn't I look swell, bein' found with you? The
cops would ride me for ten years. There's a law in this state about
consortin' with known criminals. Who sent you to me?"

"I've heard o' you," said "X." "I got to get in touch with an old pal
o' mine by the name o' Gilly--" he watched the other keenly as he
mentioned Gilly's name, and detected a quickly suppressed start of
alarm. "He broke outta jail a while ago with some more guys, an' I
gotta see him. I've been told you know where he is. How about it?"

Teagle made to rise. "We can't talk about that here. Let's get out
some place--"

"X" put out a hand, restrained him. He was close to victory. By his
very attitude, Teagle had half admitted that he knew where Gilly was.
Taken by surprise, his mind had failed to react quickly enough so that
he could make immediate denial. By failing to make that denial, he had
implied that he knew what "X" wanted to know.

"X" spoke tensely. "We don't need to talk about it. You know me. You
know I'm one of the boys. Take me to Gilly."

Teagle's face was pale, but there was a crafty gleam in his eyes.
"Forget it. I don't know a thing about it; ain't heard from Gilly
since he broke outta State Prison with the rest of the boys. Whoever
told you I know where he is was givin' you a sleigh ride." He glanced
around the place nervously, and gulped the rest of his beer. "Better
scram, big boy. I can't help you, an' you'll only make it bad for me
if I'm found wit' you. Besides," he added urgently, "I'm expectin'
some one here any minute now--an' it wouldn't be so good for you to
meet--that person."

The Agent made no move to leave. His eyes bored into the other's as he
said slowly, very low, "Teagle, I know you can put me wise where Gilly
is. I need to see him bad. If you hold out on me, I'll figure you for
a wrong guy. And, Teagle, you know how I handle wrong guys!" He waited
a moment, watched Linky Teagle's hands move aimlessly, nervously on
the table. The go-between knew Harder's reputation, knew that Harder
had killed often in the past on very little provocation.

The Agent went on gently, "On the other hand, I'm a great guy to my
pals. Anybody who treats me right don't suffer by it. I got plenty of
dough, Teagle, an' I'm willing to pay for favors!"

Teagle's hands stopped moving on the table. There was a greedy,
appraising look in his eyes. He wet his lips. "How--how much would it
be worth to you--supposin' I could dig up the dope on Gilly?"

"How does a couple of grand sound to you, Teagle?"

The Agent saw the light of avarice dissipate the sullenness from the
other's face.

Teagle hesitated a moment, then said, "I--I think maybe it could be
managed. I'd have to get in touch with some people, an' maybe it would
take a couple of hours. Tell you what--" he was almost eager now--"you
meet me in front of this place at twelve tonight, an' I'll tell you if
it's okay. Better go now, before my friend that I'm expectin' gets
here."

The Secret Agent rose. "I'll be here at twelve," he said shortly.

Teagle looked up at him, said, "I ain't tryin' to give you advice or
nothin', but you better put on some work clothes, an' grease up your
face. You're takin' an awful chance walkin' the streets this way."

"I'll worry about that," the Agent told him. He leaned over the table,
acting out the character of the tough John Harder. "You wouldn't be
thinkin' of any kind of a double-cross, would you, Teagle?"

Linky Teagle stared back into the hard face above him. "I got a
reputation," he exclaimed indignantly, keeping his voice low with an
effort. "Nobody can say that Linky Teagle ever squealed!"

The Agent nodded. "See that you keep that reputation."

H E walked through the front bar, with his hat brim turned low.
Outside, the rain was coming down fast. But the Agent did not hurry
away. Instead, he turned into a nearby doorway, and with swift fingers
he remodeled the lines of his face. John Harder, the fugitive from
justice, disappeared. Working in the dark, by the sense of touch only,
the Agent smoothed away the lines of dissipation that had marked the
features of Harder, removed the plate from his teeth, inserting
another. He discarded the slouch hat, replacing it with a cap which he
produced from an inside pocket, and took off the brilliant-hued
necktie he had worn, donned, instead, a staid green tie. He reversed
his topcoat. The inside became the outside now, and being of
waterproofed tweed, gave the appearance of a raincoat. [7]

[7 AUTHOR'S NOTE: For the necessities of quick change, When he emerged
from the doorway, he was no longer John Harder, but a pale, anaemic
looking clerk in search of a drink. Once more he entered Haley's
Grill, made his way to the rear, and seated himself in a booth
commanding a view of Linky Teagle's table. Teagle's expected guest
had already arrived. "X" tensed as he recognized the broad shoulders,
the bull neck, and the dominating features of "Duke" Marcy!]

Marcy was talking very low, almost inaudibly, and Teagle was bent
forward, ears straining to catch his words. When Teagle spoke in
reply, his voice was just as low. It was impossible to overhear their
conversation, impossible to get any closer without arousing suspicion.
The subject of their talk would have to remain their secret for the
present.

The Agent ate a few bites of the sandwich he had ordered, drank part
of the coffee, and left. He would have given much to know what Marcy
and Teagle were discussing, but there were many things he had to do
yet tonight. He felt somehow that he was drawing closer to the heart
of the mystery surrounding that ruthless jail break. If Teagle kept
his appointment at midnight, he might reach to the very core of it. He
might, too, be walking into a trap--especially in view of the fact
that Teagle was intimate with Marcy. But that was a risk that Secret
Agent "X" was always prepared to take. [8]

[8 AUTHOR'S NOTE: From the very first, upon entering into his strange
career, the man who is known as Secret Agent "X" had decided that his
life was forfeit to the cause he was espousing. He knew that peril
would beset his every step, that there would await him around each
corner the danger of a death without honor or acclaim--a death that
might be lingering, full of agony. But long ago on a battlefield in
France, when he recovered from a wound that should have killed him, he
considered that his life was no longer his own; so he risked it daily,
feeling that already he was living beyond the span of time allotted to
him in the scheme of things. His sole regret upon the contemplation of
death would be that he could no longer be of service to humanity in
its constant struggle against evil.]

If "X" had continued to shadow Linky Teagle, he might have heard a
very illuminating conversation. For Teagle, after a short talk with
Marcy, arose, while the ex-gangster waited for him, the Secret Agent
has several stock disguises which are simpler than most of the
other's, and which he has used so often that he can build them even in
the dark, by the sense of touch alone.

[?] and went outside, crossed the street to a phone booth in a drug store.
The rumble of the subway drowned most of his conversation, but some
fragmentary phrases were audible. "--wants to join up...not a
chance?--how'll I stall him?...what! You sure Harder died last
month? Then this guy must be phony...I'm meetin' him at twelve...
will you have some men around?...I don't know who he can be--say!
There's only one guy I ever heard of who could pull a make-up like
that to fool me! I bet it's..."

When Teagle returned to the booth where Marcy awaited him, his cunning
little eyes were shining with excitement. He could not repress his
news. He leaned over the table, whispered confidentially to the big
ex-gangster...



CHAPTER IV

IN THE NAME OF CHARITY

SECRET Agent "X" was also making a telephone call at a booth not a
block away from the drug store where Teagle was talking. "X's" call
was to another of his lieutenants, perhaps the most trusted--Betty
Dale. [9]

[9 AUTHOR'S NOTE: Betty Dale is already well known to readers of
previous annals. The daughter of a police captain who was killed in
action, she was left alone in the world but for Secret Agent "X," who
was a friend of her father's. "X" aided her to finish her schooling,
then saw her well placed as a reporter for a daily newspaper. Many
times in the past had he found occasion to enlist her services in his
battle with crime. And Betty had grown to care more than she liked to
admit for this strange man, whose true features she had never seen.
She was always glad to help him, eager to hear his voice.]

Often weeks passed during which she did not hear from him, during
which she lived in an agony of uncertainty as to whether or not he
still lived; for she knew that his chosen career carried him ever into
the byways of danger where a man's life is, more often than not,
measured by the speed of a lethal bullet or the flashing arc of a
sharp-edged knife.

Only when she heard his voice on the wire after such a period did she
breathe a sigh of relief, only to give way once more to concern over
his safety--for she also knew that when he called her he was again
engaged in some stupendous battle with crime and required her
services.

She wasted no time in banalities now, for she knew what matter the
Agent was working on, recognized the urgency in his voice.

"I haven't been able to dig up a thing on the jail break," she told
him regretfully. "My paper is going to increase its offer of a reward
to ten thousand dollars; but I'm afraid it won't do any good. If there
are people in the underworld who have information, they are too much
in fear of their lives to try to sell it.

"I know, Betty," the Agent said. "But there is another angle I want to
look into, and I think you can help."

"What is that?" she asked eagerly.

"Didn't you do some publicity work last year for a Broadway show?"

"Yes. The name of it was, 'Woman in Black.' Mabel Boling was the
star."

"Exactly. You got to know Mabel Boling pretty well, didn't you?"

Betty sounded puzzled. "Why, yes. Mabel feels she owes me a lot; her
show would have been a failure without the publicity I developed for
her. But--what has she got to do with this--"

The Agent's voice interrupted her "Mabel Boling is very close to
'Duke' Marcy. And there may be a connection there with this matter I'm
investigating. I'd like to meet Mabel Boling, Betty."

"You couldn't have called at a better time," Betty told him. "I can
arrange for you to meet her tonight if you wish!"

"How?"

"There's a bazaar at the Grand Central Palace. It's a society affair
and is being given to raise a fund for the relief of the unemployed.
Mabel Boling is going to be there."

"Mabel Boling--at a society bazaar?" the Agent asked.

Betty laughed. "It may sound funny, but Mabel's up in the world these
days. She doesn't see 'Duke' Marcy any more--at least, not in public.
She hangs out a lot with young Harry Pringle, the deputy
commissioner's son--he's crazy about her. And, since Harry is on the
bazaar committee, Mabel will be there, too.

"I see," said "X," reflectively.

"I was just dressing to attend the bazaar myself. I am covering it for
my paper. If you'll meet me there, I'll introduce you to Mabel."

The Agent figured time quickly. His appointment with Linky Teagle was
for midnight. It was not ten-thirty. He'd have ample time to stop in
at the bazaar, meet Mabel Boling, and still keep the appointment.

"I'll be there," he said.

Betty's voice was troubled. "How will I know you?" [10]

[10 AUTHOR'S NOTE: Though Betty Dale was perhaps closer to him than
anybody else, in the world, she had never been allowed to meet Secret
Agent "X" in any of his permanent assumed personalties, such as Elisha
Pond or A. J. Martin. Thus, she never knew in what guise he would next
present himself to her. This man whose face she had never seen, she
admired and loved for his kindliness, his courage, his bravery and
strength. And she often wondered if it would ever be vouchsafed her to
talk with him for an hour without having the shadow of some horrible
crime looming over them, calling him into perilous paths.]

"Don't worry," he chuckled. "I'll make myself known to you!"

Betty Dale did not know at the moment that by her eager invitation she
was unwittingly placing the man she admired most in the world in the
greatest danger he had ever faced in his career.

THE 1934 Unemployment Bazaar was the most lavish undertaking in years.
Society had subscribed heavily, men and women of wealth entered into
the spirit of the affair with the greatest of enthusiasm. It was as if
these favored of fortune were seeking by some means to ease their
consciences of the burden of the knowledge that thousands of families
went without food and clothing while they basked in the lap of luxury.

Limousines were parked down the length of Lexington Avenue and in all
the side streets. Fully five thousand people were circulating upstairs
in the huge bazaar room, which had been equipped with booths all
around the four walls. Manufacturers of everything under the sun had
rented booths here, content to display their names, to give out
samples of their merchandise, and to have it known that they supported
the cause.

Other booths had wheels of chance at a dollar to five dollars a throw.
And at these booths the elite of New York's wealthy class amused
themselves, winning baby dolls and trinkets of no intrinsic value. One
man, immaculate in his evening clothes and accompanied by two ladies
in dresses that must have cost enough to feed a hundred families,
spent fifty dollars at one of the wheels before he got a winning
number and won a stuffed kewpie. He presented it to one of the ladies
with him. She carried it around with her proudly. The man was Roderick
Pringle, wealthy banker, who was serving as deputy police
commissioner. He was the father of Harry Pringle, the young man whom
Betty Dale had mentioned. The lady to whom he had presented the kewpie
was his daughter, the other was his wife.

The daughter said, pouting, "It's a wonder, dad, that Harry doesn't
pay some attention to us. He's one of the committee here and supposed
to be busy, but he does nothing except hang on to the skirts of that
Boling woman!"

Roderick Pringle, frowning, followed with his eyes the glance of his
daughter, across to where a handsome young man of perhaps twenty-nine
or thirty stood in earnest conversation with a beautiful, hard-faced,
dark-haired woman at least five years his senior.

The face of the portly deputy commissioner became choleric. "He's at
it again, in spite of what I told him! He has no consideration for his
official position. The woman's not even a good actress--and she
consorts with underworld characters." His voice became caustic. "A
fine crowd for the son of the deputy police commissioner to hang out
with!" He clenched his fist. "Wait till we get home--I'll give it to
that young pup. This has got to stop, once and for all!"

His daughter, perhaps regretting that she had called his attention to
Harry's companion, tried to change the subject. She tugged at his
sleeve. "Dad! Who's that terribly attractive man who just came in over
there? Isn't he handsome? And he looks so dignified!"

Roderick Pringle swung his gaze from his son around to the entrance
towards which his daughter was looking. "I don't know the man, Irma.
Never saw him around before." He bent bushy brows on his daughter.
"Now don't you go getting interested in strange men. I've got enough
on my hands with Harry!"

Irma Pringle laughed. "I'm sure he's somebody important, dad. Look, he
seems to be coming in our direction!"

The tall, dignified gentleman was indeed approaching them, having
noted their presence as he entered. When he came up to them, he bowed
in courtly fashion, spoke with the modulated accents of good breeding.
"I beg your pardon, sir. You are Commissioner Pringle, are you not?"

Pringle nodded.

"My name is Vardis. I am a stranger in New York, but my friend,
Commissioner Foster, wrote me before leaving for Europe that if I
visited the city I was to look you up. I took this opportunity of
making myself known to you."

Pringle thawed out at mention of Foster's name, and introduced Mr.
Vardis to the ladies. The conversation drifted into various channels,
and as they talked they moved around, examining the interestingly
equipped booths. Mr. Vardis was an engrossing conversationalist when
he wanted to be, and his listeners were entranced by the swift flow of
anecdote and comment that came from his lips.

They stopped before one booth in the line of brilliantly lit stalls
along the wall that was not open. The wooden shutters were still in
place. It bore the number, thirteen. Pringle nodded toward it.
"There's a generous contributor to the cause of charity. The people
who rented that booth contributed five thousand dollars to the bazaar
fund."

On the closed shutters was a sign reading as follows:

This booth donated by anonymous benefactor. It will be opened shortly
before midnight, and a surprise is promised to all. Be sure to stay
for the opening.

"It's probably the contribution of some manufacturer or department
store," Pringle said. "It'll make good advertising for them when it's
opened."

Mr. Vardis noted two young men who approached them across the floor.
They, like Harry Pringle, bore buttons in their lapels announcing that
they were on the bazaar committee.

Irma Pringle exclaimed, "Here come Jack Larrabie and Fred Barton, dad.
I wonder where Ranny Coulter is?"

The commissioner grunted. "Probably up to some mischief. It's a wonder
Jack and Fred aren't up to some crazy stunts, too!" He turned to Mr.
Vardis, explained quickly as the two young men approached, "These two,
together with Ranny Coulter, are chums of my boy. The four of them are
generally always together. I wish some one would take them in hand and
whip some sense into them. They've all graduated from college,
mastered professions, but they won't work. It's a sickness--too--
muchmoneyitis! If I lost all my money, it might be a good thing for my
boy, Harry; and the same goes for Jack and Fred, here, and Ranny
Coulter."

THE two young men came up, were introduced to Mr. Vardis. He noted
that Irma Pringle monopolized young Jack Larrabie in a possessive
manner. Vardis smiled at the commissioner. "Engaged?" he asked.

"Hell, no," Pringle returned. "They want to be, but I won't let them
till Jack goes in practice for himself. He's studied medicine, but he
won't practice--says what's the use, when his dad is worth a couple of
million dollars. His father is Professor Larrabie of Ervinton College,
you know. A millionaire in his own right."

"I seem to recall the name," said Mr. Vardis. "Wasn't it Professor
Larrabie who was present at State Prison at the time of the jail
break?"

"The same. My son was also there. Harry actually saw the man who is
suspected of having killed the guards and paved the way for the
escape. I'm worried about Harry's safety on that score. But the boy's
stubborn--won't have a bodyguard; says his three pals are all the
protection he needs."

The crowd before booth thirteen had grown much larger now, and there
was a buzz of excited comment and speculation as to the identity of
the donors of the five thousand dollars.

Fred Barton, who had been left somewhat alone while his chum, Jack
Larrabie, was engrossed with Irma Pringle, joined Mr. Vardis and the
commissioner, and the talk turned to the news of the day. Mr. Vardis
tried to broach the subject of the escaped convicts, but the
commissioner was already answering a question of Fred Barton's about
the robot murders.

"I don't think, Fred," the commissioner said with a note of authority
"that there is any chance of the robots attacking this bazaar. There
are uniformed officers on guard at all the entrances downstairs and at
the doors up here. Anybody who looks like a robot wouldn't stand a
chance of getting near this place."

"That's a consolation, anyway," Fred Barton remarked. "This would be
tempting pickings for them. I bet there's a hundred thousand in cash
here tonight."

Mr. Vardis was listening closely now. "Do you believe they are robots
or mechanical men?" he asked. "I understand they were shot at, but
couldn't be hurt."

"That is true," the commissioner said slowly, "It is a hard thing to
imagine, but I am forced to believe that they are robots. In no other
way can their peculiar actions be explained."

Fred Barton scoffed. "Impossible!" he declared. "As you know, I've
made a thorough study of chemistry and physics. The creation of
mechanical men is as far-fetched, as impossible, as the discovery of
the legendary Fountain of Youth. It would be physically impossible to
exercise remote control, by radio, or by any other device, of the arm,
leg and head movements of a mechanical man. These so-called robots act
and fight like human beings. They must be human beings."

"And yet," said Commissioner Pringle, with a troubled look in his
eyes, "you know that famous line--'There are more things in heaven and
earth than the mind of man can conceive of!' Anything is possible in
this day and age. How do you feel about it, Mr. Vardis?"

"Naturally," Mr. Vardis replied modestly, "I have not sufficient
information on which to base an opinion. However, I am inclined to
agree with young Mr. Barton, here. Isn't there a possibility,
commissioner, that these robots are, in reality, those twenty-five
convicts who escaped from State Prison?"

Pringle shook his head. "Emphatically no. Those robots were seen to
touch various articles with their bare hands. They left prints. And
those prints match no classification on file anywhere in the world!
The only explanation I can see is that they are robots--that they have
all been created exactly alike by some master fiend who has acquired
more scientific knowledge and skill than our greatest students!"

They were interrupted by the approach of a trimly dressed young lady,
hardly more than a girl. Mr. Vardis' eyes grew kindly as they took
cognizance of her sparkling blue eyes, of the golden blond hair,
showing under the small, chic hat. This was Betty Dale.

She glanced casualty at Mr. Vardis, with no hint of recognition,
smiled at Fred Barton, but concentrated on Pringle. "I hope you'll
pardon the intrusion, commissioner. I am Betty Dale, of the Herald. I
was wondering if you'd grant me a short interview on the robot
murders?"

Pringle smiled. "I remember you well, Miss Dale. You don't need to
introduce yourself to me. Do you know Fred Barton? And Mr. Vardis?"

Mr. Vardis bowed. Betty did not know him, did not guess who he was.
She asked Pringle a number of questions, making notes on a small pad
of paper she produced from her bag. When she had finished, she thanked
him.

"I'm sorry, Miss Dale," Pringle told her, "that there is little I can
add to the news that appeared in the evening papers. We have no idea
where these robots will strike again, but I can assure you that the
men of the police department are doing everything in their power to
protect the residents of the city--from the commissioner down to the
lowliest patrolman!"

SEVERAL other people approached the commissioner, and Mr. Vardis found
himself alone with Betty for a moment--rather, he maneuvered so that
they were alone. "I think, Miss Dale," he said, "that I know a friend
of yours."

She looked at him quickly. He could see that she was not interested in
him, that her eyes were restlessly roving over the crowd as if she
sought some one. She remarked politely, "Really? That is interesting.
Who is it?"

"Someone," he replied in a voice that had suddenly assumed a peculiar
inflection--one that he reserved for her alone--"someone who shall be
nameless!"

Her face paled, her eyes widened. Emotion struggled for utterance, but
was repressed. "You--Mr. Vardis!" she exclaimed. Then her eyes clouded
with concern as he led her farther away from the group around booth
thirteen, toward the center of the floor. "You're working on these
robot murders?"

He nodded. "That--and more. I haven't much time now, Betty. Let's find
Mabel Boling so I can have a little talk with her. Right at this time
I am interested in her ex-friend, 'Duke' Marcy--and, also, in young
Pringle."

Betty's eyes lowered. She uttered a warning sound. "There she is--with
Harry Pringle. It'll be easy; she's coming up to talk to me."

Mabel Boling greeted Betty Dale effusively. She still recalled the
debt she owed to the pretty, blond newspaper girl. Betty knew Harry
Pringle by sight, too; and she performed the introductions.

"X" led them across the floor to a booth where cocktails were being
served in the name of charity at one dollar each. He bought drinks for
everybody, while he covertly sized up Mabel Boling. She was
unquestionably beautiful. In addition she was vivacious, and an
actress of parts. "X" could understand how she would be the perfect
companion, for a man like "Duke" Marcy. But she lacked culture, poise.
"X" wondered what attraction she possessed that could hold a young man
of education and refinement like Harry Pringle.

Betty Dale adroitly managed to engross young Pringle in conversation,
leaving the Agent more or less téte-a-téte with the actress. "X"
skillfully turned the conversation to "Duke" Marcy. Mabel Boling's
face went blank. "I haven't seen him for months," she declared
emphatically. "He was the great mistake, of my life." She glanced
fondly at Harry Pringle. "I don't even like to think of those days any
more."

Though she was a good actress, "X" felt that underlying her words
there was a queer note of insincerity. He sensed that she was on guard
more or less; that there was something on her mind. Keen judge of
human nature, he felt that she could be drawn out at the proper time
and place. So, after a little further conversation, he intrigued her
into accepting his invitation to have lunch with him the next day. He
was a little surprised at the alacrity with which she accepted the
invitation, while she cast a wary eye on Harry Pringle to make sure
that he hadn't overheard.

Was it possible that she was as anxious to talk to him as he was to
talk to her? There was the chance that "Duke" Marcy had spoken to her
of his encounter with Mr. Vardis at the Diamond Club.

The Agent betrayed nothing of his thoughts. His face showed only
pleasure at the prospect of lunching with an attractive woman.
"Suppose I phone you tomorrow?"

She nodded, and whispered her number. And shortly after, she drifted
away on Harry Pringle's arm.

THE bazaar was in full swing now; women shone resplendent in their
gorgeous evening gowns and glittering jewels. Men were spending money
freely, placing dollar and five dollar bills on the wheels, paying a
dollar apiece for drinks. The Agent agreed with Fred Barton's estimate
that over a hundred thousand dollars was being spent in the booths
that evening.

He turned back to Betty Dale to find her conversing with a short,
wiry, hawk-nosed man whose bald head glittered under the sharp
electric lights. Though "X" knew this man, he betrayed no sign of
recognition as Betty Dale introduced them.

"Mr. Vardis, this is Mr. Runkle." Her eyes flickered slightly as she
looked at the Agent in an endeavor to convey some message.

Runkle shook hands enthusiastically, his full red lips expanding in an
unctuous smile. "I saw you talking with the commissioner a while ago,"
he said. "I suppose it was about the subject that is on everybody's
tongue these days?"

"If you mean the robot murders," the Agent replied, "you are correct.
One couldn't help discussing them."

Runkle's ferretlike eyes probed into the Agent, almost as if he were
aware that this, was a disguise. "You don't happen to be a police
officer, do you?"

"I have no connection with the police whatsoever," "X" told him. "What
gave you that impression?"

Runkle shrugged. "One sometimes gets a feeling."

Ed Runkle was a criminal lawyer, probably the shrewdest and most
successful in the profession. It was he who had once defended "Duke"
Marcy on a charge of income tax evasion and got him an acquittal.
Runkle had also handled the cases of many of Marcy's old gang
including some of those who had escaped from State Prison in the
recent jail break. Runkle was saying, "Look at all these people,
enjoying themselves here, while murder and robbery goes on in the
city. Just as I came in they were crying an extra about another robot
murder." He demanded suddenly, "Are you interested in crime, Mr.
Vardis?"

"X" shrugged. "Who wouldn't be--when it is so close to us?" The Agent
perceived that, for some reason, Runkle was making an attempt to draw
him out. "X" would have enjoyed allowing himself to be drawn out,
perhaps even to glean some profitable information for himself in the
process. But he consulted his watch and noted that it was eleven-thirty.
He must leave if he wanted to keep his appointment with Linky Teagle.

He excused himself, and Betty Dale walked as far as the door with him.
She wore a troubled expression. "I don't know what it is," she said,
"but I feel a strange kind of nervousness--as if something terrible
were brewing. It must be recent events. That awful jail break, and now
these robot murders." She shuddered. "It's almost as if some evil
super-mind were enfolding the city in a fog of terror. People don't
feel safe any more. If things like the robot murders can take place
day after day here, and the police be powerless to stop them, unable
to find a single clue, people will take to barricading themselves in
their homes."

Secret Agent "X" nodded somberly. "It's all you say it is, Betty. And
there is no tangible lead by which they can be run down. However," he
murmured as he bowed over her hand, "with a little luck, I may run
into something tonight."

As Betty Dale watched the Agent cross the corridor to the elevator,
she felt a sudden premonition of danger, felt almost as if she had
seen for the last time the strange man who was Secret Agent "X."
Something seemed to tug at her heart.

[?] shouting a warning. But she turned back to the busy bazaar, smothering
that feeling in a sudden access of energy. She had work to do; she had
to cover the event for her paper.

She stepped inside the doorway, and stopped stock still, frozen at
sight of the thing that was happening in the glitteringly lit room.



CHAPTER V

FRANKENSTEIN

BOOTH thirteen--the mystery booth rented by the anonymous donor of
five thousand dollars--had been opened! The crowd of hilarious men and
women had stopped their laughter, remained rooted where they stood,
gaping aghast at the terrifying figures that swarmed out of the
interior of the booth. They were like men, yes. And they were clad
like men, all in gray suits and gray slouch hats. But they moved with
the quick, jerky strides of automatons.

No word was uttered by them, no sound, except for an occasional
unintelligible grunt that might have been expressive of pain or of
sadistic pleasure. They seemed to be obscene beings endowed with the
shapes of men. Each was armed with a snub-nosed automatic equipped
with a silencer, and each walked stiffly to a particular spot in the
room. Within a minute every exit was covered. The pleasure-seeking
crowd of the bazaar was trapped by these manlike beasts.

And then there stepped to the front of the booth, a hideous,
awe-inspiring monster. It walked like a man, but stiffly, as did the
others. Yet it differed from the others; for it wore a peculiar
contraption like a gas mask. The rest of its body was encased, from
the gas mask to the feet in a grayish, rough sort of material that
might have been asbestos. Its torso was round, stocky, the shape and
size of a large barrel. From its gloved right hand protruded a
peculiar sort of tube, ending in a tapering point, not unlike a large
hypodermic syringe.

This hideous figure stood for a long minute surveying the crowd,
silently, grotesquely, like a frankensteinian monster.

Many of the people in the crowd had not yet noticed this monster, for
their eyes were glued in horror to the white, expressionless
countenances of the mechanical-appearing men who had swarmed out
first; and a slow murmur spread through the throng, tinged with sudden
fear.

"The robot murderers!" The word went from one to the other in the
amazed throng. These were the beings who had committed the robot
murders, emblazoned on the front-page of every newspaper in the city
for the past week. No wonder the description was alike in every case.
These beings were as alike as peas in a pod--clothes, features,
bearing--everything!

The whispered word went around, "automatons!"

Betty Dale felt herself brushed aside by one of these creatures who
completely disregarded her as he made for the door, turned and stood
on guard, automatic pointed at the crowd.

But she paid him no attention. For her eyes were now focused on that
awful figure in the booth--that awkward, ungainly monster that stood
silently surveying the room.

The first to regain his wits was a patrolman, one of the twelve
assigned to duty in the bazaar. He pushed through the crowd toward the
booth, shouting to the other uniformed men, "Let's take 'em, boys!
It's the robots!"

He was reaching to his hip pocket as he advanced.

The monster turned its ponderous head toward him as if it were a giant
dinosaur noticing a lizard in its path. Its right arm rose, the index
finger; lined up with that peculiar hypo-like tube, pointed at the
blue-coat.

Only that, and nothing more. No sound, no flash. But suddenly, as if
an invisible giant hand had been placed against his chest, the
unfortunate policeman was brought to a halt. A look of incredible
terror and amazement appeared on his round, moonlike face. And in a
moment, fierce, torrid flames were leaping up all about him; sizzling,
white-hot flames that scorched the clothes from his body, and the
flesh from his face. He screamed again and again--screams of dreadful
agony that made the blood of Betty Dale and every one of the
spectators run cold with horror.

He rolled on the cement floor, clawed about him frenziedly. No one
dared approach for fear of being engulfed in that raging furnace which
he had become. A wide circle had been cleared about him. And then,
suddenly, he lay still, a pitiful scorched thing, that had just now
been a man, an officer of the law, a human being with a love of life,
perhaps the father of a family.

Men and women stood silent, petrified by the sudden calamity. A
quietness as of the tomb descended upon the assembled company. And
then, strained nerves could stand no more. The sight of that lifeless
thing that had been burned to death before their very eyes released
hysteric floodgates of emotion.

A woman screamed, shrilly, piercingly, and fainted. It was Mabel
Boling. She slid to the floor, inert and unconscious. Harry Pringle,
who was still with her, stooped to aid the senseless woman, as echoes
of her shriek were taken up by women all over the room. The bazaar
suddenly became a bedlam of high-pitched, hysterical voices. People
milled about in panic, shrinking from the awful figure in the booth.

Harry Pringle knelt beside Mabel Boling, shouting, "Give her air! Give
her air! Some water, somebody!"

And in the midst of that pandemonium, the ungainly monster stirred
slowly, and a deep, metallic cadaverous voice issued from somewhere in
the depths of its barrel-like body. "Let nobody move. Stand still with
your hands in the air!"

IT was as if some one at a great distance were broadcasting, the voice
emanating from a receiving set somewhere in the monstrous shape that
dominated the room.

Men and women stiffened to frightened attention as those deep, ominous
tones resounded through the place. The uniformed men, cowed by the
hideous death of their colleague, obeyed the command with the others.
The robot killers who guarded the doors stood motionless, as if they
had nothing to do with what was going on. But their automatics were
trained upon the crowd. It would have been suicide for anyone to defy
the order.

Only Harry Pringle, oblivious to everything, still knelt beside Mabel
Boling, striving wildly to bring her back to consciousness.

The macabre being in the booth raised its hand once more, and without
warning, without repeating the command, pointed at Pringle. From
somewhere in the middle of the room came the agonized cry of Pringle's
mother, "Harry! Harry! My boy!"

Too late.

White hot flames sprang up from the young man. The revolting odor of
scorched flesh once more pervaded the room. He threshed wildly about,
trying to beat out the flames, to no avail, People backed away from
him, forming a wide circle. He started to cry, "Damn you--" but his
voice was suddenly smothered by the flames, as he twisted horribly in
the throes of excruciating agony.

Jack Larrabie, his young friend, was standing close to the far wall.
Behind him was a fire extinguisher, hanging ready for use. Stealthily
he reached up for it, but the murder monster seemed to have all-seeing
eyes. Again that metallic voice, "Don't touch it!"

The gloved hand made a half-move toward Larrabie, stopped as the young
physician stayed his reaching arm in mid-air. He was glaring
murderously at the monster.

All this had taken only a few seconds; and in that short time young
Harry Pringle's agony ended in merciful death. He seemed to shrivel
up, drop to the floor. Flames still licked his pathetic form, and even
though he was dead, his body twitched.

Toward the middle of the room, a white-haired woman struggled
frantically in the restraining arms of her husband, the commissioner,
moaning in a dead voice, "My boy! My boy!"

Roderick Pringle, his face gray, held desperately to his wife's arms.
To let her leap to her son would only mean death for her, too.

Of a sudden, wild, uncontrollable laughter burst from the half-crazed
woman-no mother's sanity could help cracking under the strain of
witnessing such a sight.

But above her strident shrieks of mad laughter, there rose once more
that metallic voice. "Gag her! Stop that noise, or--"

The pointing finger started to swing in her direction warningly.

Frantically, desperately, Roderick Pringle, himself on the point of
breaking down, threw his arms about his wife, smothering, her cries.
At last the surcease of unconsciousness came to the bereaved mother,
and she sagged in her husband's arms. Her daughter already lay in a
merciful faint on the floor.

Mabel Boling stirred, sighed, and opened her eyes. Her uncomprehending
gaze fell on the charred remains of Harry Pringle. She did not realize
yet what had befallen him; she was still dazed, and she weakly allowed
her head to drop back on the concrete floor.

And now the murder monster and his hellish cohorts had the throng
subdued, resistless. From a gay, insouciant gathering, spending money
freely in the name of charity, this bazaar had been transformed to a
grisly scene of murder and terror, with two smouldering bodies,
strangely twisted in death, as mute evidence of the dread horror that
had suddenly come among them.



CHAPTER VI

THE BETRAYAL

THE resonant voice of the gruesome being in the booth now rose in
terse, metallic command to its cohorts of robot killers. "Take up the
collection!"

The automatons snapped into motion at the order. They swarmed from
booth to booth, producing from somewhere in their clothing large
canvas bags into which they poured the cash which had been taken in.

The robbery was proceeding with the timed efficiency of a well-rehearsed
play, every movement of the automatons seeming to have been carefully
planned in advance. The whole thing took very little time. While they
were emptying the cash drawers, that ominous voice of the specter in the
booth spoke again, addressing the cowering throng.

"Make no resistance and you will be harmed no more. The sooner you
learn that resistance is useless, the better off you will be. Remember
that for the future when we appear again!"

Betty Dale tried hard to remember every inflection of that voice. But
she knew it was useless. The voice was disguised, and besides it was
issuing from some sort of metal speaker which made it impossible to
identify it.

An outcry from the doorway behind her made her turn suddenly about.

This doorway opened into the hallway close to the stairs and the
elevator. She saw the two elevator cages open, with the robot killer
who had brushed past her before, standing guard. He had shot the two
operators with his silenced gun, and their bodies lay now, one of them
huddled--in the cage, the other sprawled half in and half out of the
other cage, a pool of blood, seeping along the cement floor from a
wound in the head.

The cry that caused her to turn was uttered by a uniformed man who had
come down the stairs from the floor above, no doubt attracted by the
screams of the women. He was one of the special policemen employed by
the building. His gun was holstered at his side, but he drew it as he
noted the situation through the open doorway.

He raised his gun, fired six times through the open door at the
barrel-like figure in the booth. The heavy slugs from the thirty-eight
whined across the room to the thunderous reverberations of the gun and
buried themselves in that unholy being--without effect!

The figure staggered slightly from the smashing impact of the bullets,
but recovered its balance, raised a pointing finger at the brave
attacker.

But the robot killer at the elevator cages was already in action. He
emptied his automatic into the body of the special, who staggered, ran
a few steps on the concrete floor, and flung headlong down the stairs
leading to the floor below. But the searching finger of the ugly
monster in the gas mask had found him too, and his body burst into
flames, forming a veritable ball of fire that rolled down the steps.

The metallic voice issued an order to the killer at the elevators.
"Guard those stairs. Allow no one up or down. We leave now!"

The robot seemed to understand the order as if it were a human being.
It moved stiffly toward the head of the stairs, and took up a position
there, then proceeded to insert a new clip in the automatic it had
just emptied into the body of the special policeman. Betty Dale had
her hand to her mouth in consternation. She had no eyes now for the
swift movement of the horde of robots and their leader. For she had
seen something that made her blood chill with sharp concern. Just
before the flaming body of the policeman had hurtled downward,
carrying fiery destruction for anyone who might be in its path, she
had glimpsed a face--the face of a man who was running up the stairs.
It was the face of Mr. Vardis--Secret Agent "X"--returning, attracted,
as had been the special policeman who was now hurtling down upon him,
by the screams of the women.

SECRET AGENT "X" had heard those screams as he stepped from the
elevator downstairs and started to cross the lobby to the street. He
turned to go back, but the cage was already rising in response to
insistent ringing from above, where the robot killer was summoning the
operator back to meet his death.

The Agent's sure instinct told him that those screams were not
occasioned by any ordinary accident--he caught the edge of frightful
terror in them.

He noted from the indicator that the second cage was not descending,
and his swiftly roving eyes saw the staircase at the left. Several
people were in the lobby, and he shouted to them, "Call headquarters,
somebody! Send in a riot call!" Then he dashed for the stairs,
sprinted up them with a speed that left those in the lobby agape.

On the way up, as he passed landing after landing on the way to the
fourth floor, he heard further cries, then silence, which was even
more ominous. He passed the third floor, was approaching the fourth,
when he saw the special policeman on the landing, got a swift glimpse
of the room with the hideous figure in the booth, saw the uniformed
officer burst into flame and come tumbling down right at him.

The stairway was narrow, there was no chance of avoiding that hurtling
bundle of fire. It would strike him in a moment, engulf him in its
flaming destruction.

His brain worked with the speed of lightning. He seized the banister,
vaulted over, and hung by his hands on the outside, as the ball of
fire rolled down, thumped on the lower landing, and came to a stop
against the wall.

The Agent easily supported himself by his hands. He hung there for a
moment longer, while the full import of the situation came to him. He
heard the metallic voice from the booth order, "You will all remain
quiet while we leave. Keep your hands in the air."

There was silence within that room, then the voice again, "All right,
we're leaving. File out the back way."

Hanging there by his hands, "X" saw the shape of the robot who had
shot the officer at the head of the stairs.

The Agent realized at once what was taking place. Those beings who had
committed the robot murders had struck again, this time at the gay
throng assembled here in the name of charity; they had brought terror
and frightful death along with them; and now they were making good
their escape. That escape could not be prevented. But there was one
thing that could be done--one of these so-called robots must be
captured if possible.

Without hesitation, "X" leaped into action. He swung over the
banister, dashed up the stairs, at the same time drawing a
peculiar-shaped gun. [11]

[11 AUTHOR'S NOTE: Secret Agent "X" does not use lethal weapons. His
gas gun contains a highly volatile, quick-acting anaesthetizing gas of
his own compounding, which serves the same purpose as a lethal weapon
without inflicting injury or death. It renders the subject instantly
unconscious, and leaves no ill effects.]

The robot on the landing was just turning to depart. From below came
the shrill note of a police whistle, the tramp of many feet on the
stairs.

As "X" reached the top landing, he got a glimpse into the bazaar room,
saw the ghastly figure of the murder monster moving with ungainly,
ponderous motions as it stepped through a doorway at the far end of
the room, followed by the horde of robots who marched across the floor
in its wake.

The robot who had stood at the head of the stairs was just stepping
through the doorway to cross the room and join the others. "X" leveled
his gas gun and pulled the trigger. A stream of gas was ejected from
the muzzle, enveloping the robot's head. The action was a desperate
one, for if the robot were protected and not susceptible to the
effects of the gas, it would immediately turn upon the Agent and loose
a stream of lead from its automatic, which, at that short range, could
mean nothing but death.

"X" poised on the balls of his feet, ready to leap forward at the
figure if it swung toward him. But it didn't. Suddenly, as the gas
struck, the robot sagged, and crumpled to a heap on the floor!

Pandemonium reigned within the bazaar room as the last of the unholy
horde left through the far exit. "X" paid no attention to the riot
within. He stooped swiftly beside the unconscious figure, looked
deeply into the smooth features. He ran his hand along the inert
shape. His fingers encountered metal. The figure was wearing a
bullet-proof vest, and leg, thigh and arm guards of the same material.
No wonder bullets had no effect! He raised his head sharply as a frantic
figure raced up beside him. It was Betty Dale. Her face was flushed
with excitement, and her hands shook. Her voice was barely audible
above the cacophony of sound from inside the bazaar room. "I--I saw
you on the stairs!" she exclaimed. She shuddered, closed her eyes
tight as if to shut out some terrible sight, "I thought you'd be
burned! God! It's horrible! That--that monster--it killed Harry
Pringle, and a policeman. And those robots--" "X" arose from beside
the inert form on the floor. The feet of the police were pounding
closer on the stairs. They were on the landing below now. The Agent
put a hand on Betty's shoulder that seemed to soothe her as if by
magic. His eyes glittered. "That is all over and done with, Betty. The
dead are dead. But this man on the floor here will change the
situation. From now on the police and the public will know that these
are not robots, not mechanical men, not supernatural beings. The
police were rapidly becoming demoralized by the feeling that they had
to face super-human beings. From now on they will fight with renewed
vigor, knowing that their enemies are no more than men."

He drew Betty Dale away before the first of the uniformed men came
into sight on the stairs. "It's too bad that I won't have an
opportunity to question this man. I am afraid the police won't get
anywhere with him," He shrugged. "Perhaps I can arrange to question
him later. Now I must get out of here. I have an appointment."

He pressed her hand, left her, and slipped into the throng in the
bazaar room. Betty watched him, speechless, while he mingled with the
hysterical crowd who still kept a wide space cleared around the
smouldering, scorched bodies of Harry Pringle and the unfortunate
policeman who had defied the murder monster.



CHAPTER VII

FOUR WHO WAITED

IT was twenty minutes past midnight when Secret Agent "X" appeared again
on Eighth Avenue outside Haley's Bar and Grill. He had been delayed by
the police investigation at the bazaar, had been compelled to wait while
the names of all those present had been taken. The police had been
puzzled at finding the killer's unconscious body, had been at a loss to
understand how he had been rendered insensible. But no one except Betty
Dale had seen the Agent fire his gas gun at the robot-like killer, and
she said nothing.

Haley's Bar and Grill was still doing a rushing business. Outside the
rain had stopped, but the sky was cloudy and dark. "X" stood near the
curb, away from the light that streamed out of Haley's windows. He was
twenty minutes late for his appointment with Linky Teagle.

Once more he was in the role of John Harder, fugitive from justice,
friend of Gilly, the gunman. He had confidence in the perfection of
his disguise, in his knowledge of the characteristics of the man he
was impersonating, for he had studied them thoroughly. He would have
felt a good deal less confident, however, had he possessed knowledge
of a fact not yet reported to the police--the fact that John Harder,
the man he was impersonating tonight, was dead! Harder had
accidentally shot himself in the leg while examining a machine gun.
Harder had fallen on the Tommy, had for two days lain in the lonely
hut where he was hiding out, until two of his gang returned. But
Harder was dead when they found him--for gangrene had set in. The two
pals took his body and buried it in a barren field near the hut. That
was the end of Harder.

Gilly, many miles away in State Prison, got word of that event by
means of the grapevine telegraph of the underworld, because he was
known to be a one-time pal of Harder's. And so, though Secret Agent
"X" did not know that he was impersonating a dead man, others did...

The Agent strolled up and down the street in front of Haley's,
wondering whether Linky Teagle had been there and gone, or whether he
would soon appear. "X" was not unconscious of the possibility that
this appointment might be a trap of some sort. He kept a wary eye out
for passing automobiles from which a sub-machine gun might spout lead.
He now carried an automatic holstered under his left armpit; and few
could use it with a dexterity to equal his. He did not intend to
inflict death if he could help it--yet it would come in handy if he
were being "put on the spot."

No overt attack was made, however. And soon a shadowy figure
approached out of the misty night, came close. It was Linky Teagle.
Teagle scanned his face, and grunted. "You got nerve, wandering around
the city with a fat reward posted for you in every post office in
town!"

"X" brushed the remark aside. "Well?" he demanded, "How about Gilly?"

Teagle took his time about answering. "You got that two grand you
promised?"

The Agent nodded. "I got it, right here." He tapped the breast pocket
of his coat.

Teagle's face was eager. "Okay. Give us it, an' I'll take you to him!"

"X" brought out an envelope and handed it to the other. Teagle almost
snatched it from his fingers, opened the flap and drew out the
contents. Twenty crisp one hundred dollar bills. He looked up
suspiciously. "This ain't--swag from some hold-up, is it? Will I get
my neck in a sling if I try to pass it?"

The Agent reassured him. "That ain't hot money, Teagle. It's good
cash. You can change it in any bank in the city. Think I'm a sap?"

Teagle pocketed the money. "Okay, Harder. Come along." He turned,
proceeded up Eighth Avenue.

The Agent swung in beside him. "Where do we have to go?"

"Don't ask so many questions!" the other growled. "You'll see."

They walked up two blocks, turned the corner and stopped before a
small store with windows which, had been frosted to prevent passers--
by from looking in. The street was deserted, but "X" noted two
doorways across the street, where the shadows seemed, thicker than
elsewhere. Also, as Teagle rang the bell at the door, the Agent saw
two men appear out of a hallway several doors down.

These men strolled casually toward the store with frosted windows,
their hands in their overcoat pockets. At the same time, the two
shadows on the opposite side moved, resolved themselves into men, and
started across. The Agent did not appear to notice all this, but he
crowded closer to Linky, slid the automatic from his shoulder holster
and put it into his coat pocket. He did not take his hand out of the
pocket, but he looked significantly at Teagle.

Linky looked down at the bulge the automatic made close to his own
side, looked up at "X", and said, "What's the idea, friend?"

"X" laughed harshly. "Just an old habit of mine when I go into strange
places. You can never tell what's on the cards."

The door of the store opened to Teagle's ring, and a big, heavy-set, man
with a walrus moustache looked inquiringly at them, then said, "Oh,
hello, Linky. Come on in." He turned and went back down the short, dark
hall, motioning them to follow him.

Teagle said to the Agent, "This is where we meet your friend. You
don't have to worry about nothin' happening. This joint is okay."

"X" crowded in beside Linky, shut the door behind them so quickly that
anybody outside who might have been waiting for a clear potshot at him
would have been disappointed.

OUT in the street, the four shadows converged before the door. They
did not ring the bell. No word was spoken among them. They seemed to
be acting according to prearranged plan, and waited silently.

In a few moments the door opened, and the big man with the walrus
moustache appeared again, stood aside for them to enter. They filed in
past him and walked down the short hall. The big man closed the door,
followed them into the lighted room at the end of the hall

This was a barroom, with a small bar at one end. Near the bar was
another door, which was closed. This other door led into a private
room where guests could drink undisturbed, transact whatever private
business they had.

The big man stepped behind the bar, saying nothing to the four who had
entered. They stood near the wall now, hands in pockets, unmoving,
their eyes on the door to the inner room. There was something peculiar
about them--something that caused the bartender to shudder. They
looked like brothers--and they walked stiffly, mechanically. There was
nothing to indicate that they were human except four pair of eyes that
glittered out of those faces with a merciless light that made the man
with the walrus moustache feel, somehow, cold and clammy.

The four men waited stolidly, never speaking.

Presently the door of the inner room opened and Linky Teagle came
out--alone. A shadow crossed his face--was it a shadow of fear?--as he
saw those four silent figures. He gulped, looked away from them with
an effort, and said to the bartender, "He took the doped drink like a
fish; he's out cold already."

The bartender grinned nervously, rubbing his hands. "A Mickey Finn
always works, Linky. Only I was afraid that guy was too slick to take
it. He certainly fell fer the whole lay, just like a sap--expectin'
you to lead him to Gilly!" He glanced at the four men. "You can go in
an' get him now, boys." He spoke diffidently, as if he almost thought
they would not understand him. But they did. One of them produced from
his coat a capacious sugar sack, which he unfolded and shook out. It
was large enough to hold an unconscious man. The four of them then
advanced into the inner room.

The bartender peered over Teagle's shoulder, glimpsed the inert form
that lay with head on table, unconscious. He poured out two stiff
jolts of whisky, handed one to Teagle, and downed his own at a gulp,
sighed gustily. "I'm glad that's over. Did you scratch his face to see
if he had make-up?"

Teagle nodded. "It's make-up all right, and damn clever. If I didn't
know for sure that Harder was dead, I'd swear it was him."

The four men closed the inner door behind them as they went about
their gruesome task of stuffing the inert form into the sack.
The bartender shivered slightly. "God! Those guys give me the
heeby-jeebies--they don't seem to have no soul. They don't talk
or anything; they just look at you with those killer-eyes!"

Teagle's eyes were on the inner door. He seemed to share some of the
walrus-moustached one's feelings, but he said nothing. He appeared
tense, alert.

The bartender asked huskily, "What'll they do with that guy in the
sack--after they're through asking him questions?"

Linky Teagle shrugged. "Maybe there won't be anything left of him by
that time." He moved toward the door. "I wonder what's keeping them so
long."

The man with the walrus moustache came around to the front of the bar.
He said, uneasily, "I'm wonderin'--whoever their boss is, how come he
trusts us to see all this? Suppose--" his voice dropped to a whisper--
"suppose he give them orders to knock us off after they finish this
job?"

Linky Teagle said, "I was thinking of the same thing. We better take a
look in there."

His hand snaked inside his coat, produced a gun. He reached out,
opened the door wide. The inner room was empty.

The bartender gasped. "They musta gone out the back way!"

And just then there was the sound of heavy steps in the short hall
that led from the front door. There had been no sound of anyone
entering, but there was the distinct noise of a ponderous tread in the
hall now.

The bartender's face went pale. "They left the outside door unlocked--
so they could go around from in back!"

Teagle swung his gun toward the hallway, just as a strange, monstrous
figure came into view. It was the same horrid being that had struck
terror into the crowds at the bazaar, that had launched invisible
death at Harry Pringle and the policeman. Its barrel-like body waddled
as it walked, and its ghastly gas-masked head peered through the
gloom.

It stopped in the doorway, slowly and ponderously raised its hand,
with the finger pointing at the bartender.

The bartender screamed, started to duck behind the bar. Linky Teagle
had his gun poised. His finger now contracted on the trigger, and
seven slugs--seven livid streams of death streaked from the muzzle
straight at the monster. But the heavy figure was unmoved by the hail
of lead. It was as if those death-dealing bullets that would have been
fatal to any man were no more than pellets from a boy's toy sling.
With a sure, inexorable motion, its pointing finger sought the
bartender, and a flash of flame sprang from the screaming man's
clothing. In an instant he had become his own fiery funeral pyre. His
screams tore through the small room; horrible, hideous screams that
mingled with the echoes of Teagle's gun. He swept his arms in a
desperate, flail-like motion over the bar, and the whisky bottle was
hurled to the floor, shattered, The alcoholic liquid spread, and the
dying man rolled across the floor, right into it. Flames spread, fed
by the alcohol, and the place became an inferno. In the meantime, the
hellish monster had turned its death-finger toward Teagle. But Teagle,
acting with desperate speed, had slipped through the inner door that
led to the back room and kicked the door shut.

The room became bright as the flames spread. For a moment the huge,
ungainly monster stood there, watching its handiwork. If it
entertained any emotion of anger at being balked of its other prey,
any disappointment at missing Linky Teagle, there was no way of
telling. It turned ponderously and made its way out of the short hall,
into the night, where it stepped into the rear of a closed truck that
sped away.



CHAPTER VIII

THE LAIR OF THE MONSTER

A SQUARE room, poorly, lit. Chairs arranged in a semicircle before a
raised platform with, curtains at the rear.

Walls of whitewashed brick, with small windows high up near the
ceiling--a typical cellar room, converted to its present use.

In the chairs were seated beings that resembled men--rather, shells of
men, lacking a human spark. They were awaiting something or someone.
They smoked, but did not talk. Their startlingly youthful, features
bore an uncanny resemblance to each other--as if they were all members
of a single family. And in their eyes there was a ruthlessness, a
cold-blooded killer lust that it was hard to credit. It was as if they
had made a bargain with the devil--trading their immortal souls for a
quality of merciless viciousness beyond human conception.

There were four chairs vacant in the semicircle. None of those strange
beings paid any attention to the empty chairs. They did not even stir
when four of their fellows entered through a side door, carrying a
sack in which something squirmed.

They deposited the sack on the floor, and one of them stooped, cut
open the rope that tied it at the top. They helped out the
half-conscious man who was within it, stood him on his feet. The
doped drink had not yet worn off entirely, and the man was still
groggy, wobbling, dazed.

The face of John Harder stared about the room with swollen,
uncomprehending eyes. He was no longer the desperate fugitive from
justice; he was a man with half his senses deadened by dope, unable to
familiarize himself with his surroundings.

No words were spoken by the robot killers who held his arms. There was
utter silence in the room for a space of minutes. And then the
curtains parted at the back of the narrow platform, and the murder
monster stepped out--huge, ungainly, terrifying.

At sight of that monster, the captive wrenched wildly at the hands
that held him; but his strength had been sapped by the dope, and he
was as a child in the grip of his grinning captors.

The monstrous figure on the platform paid him no attention at first.
It stood there, planted solidly, its hideous head moving from side to
side as it took stock of those present.

Finally, from somewhere in its bowels there emanated the same sonorous
metallic voice, that had struck terror into the hearts of the people
at the bazaar.

"I have no fault to find with the way you all acted tonight at the
bazaar. You were true sons of the monster! Always remember that you
must be ruthless, merciless! Do not hesitate to kill--a dead enemy is
a harmless enemy; and we have no friends! By striking terror into the
hearts of everybody, we eliminate resistance."

The voice paused for a moment, then went on, "In future, however, you
must be more careful. Tonight we lost one of you--Number Eight is
reported missing, capture by the police. If he had come at once in
answer to my order, he would not have been caught. It is imperative
now that we release him. My plans are all set for tomorrow morning at
eleven o'clock, when he is to be arraigned in court. You will all
participate; your instructions will be issued later. Now we must
attend to another matter."

The ungainly monster half turned toward the captive, ordered those
holding him, "Bring the prisoner forward!" Then it once more addressed
the seated audience of killers, "There is one enemy whom I knew all
along I would have to eliminate in this campaign, for he was sure to
interfere with our progress. That enemy is the man known as Secret
Agent 'X.' You have all heard how impossible it is to find him, how
dangerous he is. Well, gentlemen, I have the honor to show you--Secret
Agent 'X'! He was caught by a simple trick; he practically walked into
our hands."

The four men led their struggling captive down to the foot of the
platform.

The monster continued, "I am sure that this is Secret Agent 'X'
because nobody else in the world could have disguised himself as John
Harder. He tried to crash into this organization in that role;
gentlemen, John Harder is dead. But this man didn't know it. And there
he stands. Look at that disguise. Perfect! It shall now be our
pleasure to scrape that putty off his face, and see for the first time
the real features of--Secret Agent 'X'! And after we are through
asking him a few questions, I will treat him to a bath of fire!"

There was no trace of pity in the eyes of the smooth-faced killers who
watched the captive struggle ineffectually with those who held him. He
tried to talk, but the powerful drug had paralyzed the muscles of his
throat temporarily. It was wearing off slowly, and confused syllables
issued from his mouth, syllables that had no coherence or meaning.

He was rapidly searched, and an automatic taken from his shoulder
holster, together with a few other papers. Then those who held him
proceeded to scratch the plaster and make-up from his face.

WHILE they were doing it, the resonant voice of the monster spoke
mockingly, "For once the famous Secret Agent 'X' has nothing to say;
for once he is helpless. At last he has met his master! This,
gentlemen, is the end of Secret Agent 'X'! There was a note of proud
triumph in that voice now--a note of evil, unmerciful triumph, which
ended in a gasp of rage as the last of the make-up was removed,
revealing the face of--Linky Teagle!

A rustle of excitement, spread among the assembled killers, but even
then no word was spoken among them--only, here and--there were heard
gross, unintelligible grunts, and the wheezy, terror-impregnated
breathing of Linky Teagle.

Above the sound of those inhuman grunts rose the metallic, but now
enraged voice of the murder monster. "If this is a trick, somebody is
going to pay for it! Scratch that face and see if it's another
disguise!"

One of the four killers, grinning as a child might grin when it
crushes a grasshopper with its foot, drew a knife and scraped the
point along the captive's face, eliciting a muted howl of agony. But
no plaster came off. Blood ran freely where the knife point had scored
into the flesh. It was indeed Linky Teagle.

The monster uttered a single ominous word, "Explain!"

Teagle gulped, tried to talk, and succeeded only in emitting grotesque
sounds. He was in the grip of terror, and he tried desperately to
talk. Finally, urged by his dread, he managed to get out some words.
The dope was wearing off, easing his throat muscles.

"It's no joke, boss. I had this guy 'X' in the back room, and the
bartender brought in the doped drink. But he must have got wise.
Because--" he stopped, swallowed hard, and found it impossible to
continue.

The monster ordered, "Bring him water."

One of the four disappeared through the side door, returned in a
moment with a glass of water which Teagle gulped at a single draught.
His throat felt better, and he went on.

"He must have got wise, somehow. Because all of a sudden he pulls out
a funny shaped gun. I says, 'What's that, Harder?'--makin' believe,
see, that I still thought he was Harder. An' he says to me, lookin'
kinda funny, 'So you know who I am! Well, I will show you how to make
a quick change, only you won't be able to witness it, Linky.' An' with
that, he shoots off this funny gun that don't make no noise, an' I
feel a sudden kind of sickish sweet feelin', an' that's all I know
till I wake up in the sack! So help me, boss, it ain't no joke!"

Several of the killers stirred uneasily in the silence that followed
Linky's recital, It was difficult to tell from their impassive
countenances what they felt. Only their eyes blazed with a dangerous
lust. But they looked tensely at the monster on the platform. Somehow
the monster's rage and bafflement seemed to pervade the whole room.

The resonant voice burst from the bowels of the barrel-like shape. "So
he put you to sleep, eh, Teagle? And then he changed places with you--
made up as you, and made you up as Harder. Then he came out and sent
my men in to put you in the sack." The voice paused, then continued
ruminatively, "And to think--I almost got him. I wondered that Linky
Teagle could be so quick-witted as to escape the fire bath!"

Teagle looked up, sudden fear in his eyes. "What do you mean, boss--
escape the fire bath?"

"You didn't think, Teagle, that you would be allowed to live after
learning so much of our secret? Well, perhaps you did. So did that
foolish bartender. I killed him. I thought I failed with you. This
time I shall not fail."

Slowly the ominous finger rose, pointing st Teagle. "Stand away from
him!" ordered the metallic voice.

The four smooth-faced killers who had held him now sprang away. Teagle
cried out piteously, "What you gonna do to--"

He never ended the sentence, for he was suddenly enveloped in
flames...



CHAPTER IX

DESPERATE PLAN

SECRET AGENT "X" did not permit himself to rest after escaping the
trap set for him by Linky Teagle.

He knew that the murder monster would quickly discover the ruse by
which he had substituted Linky Teagle for himself in the sack. He knew
that the murder monster would be spurred to redoubled activity by the
realisation that it was the Secret Agent, and not Teagle, who had
escaped from the menace of the flaming death in the smelly barroom on
Eighth Avenue.

And "X," too, was spurred to feverish activity by the knowledge that
there was much to be done yet if the monster was to be prevented from
striking again with that horrible flaming death. All hope of gaining
admittance to the inner ring of the monster's cohorts was now
dissipated. He must follow along other lines of inquiry.

The most promising lead was the actress, Mabel Boling. She was a
former friend of "Duke" Marcy. She had been with Harry Pringle when he
was killed. The Agent was to phone her tomorrow. But that was too long
to wait. If she knew anything, she must be made to talk before
morning.

It was to see her, therefore, that the Agent was now on his way. He
had discarded, temporarily, the personality of Mr. Vardis. To appear
before Mabel Boling in that character might make her suspicious now.
He was Mr. A. J. Martin, a newspaper man. As such, he had every
legitimate reason to approach her; he would be collecting news on the
atrocity at the bazaar, and it was certain that she would not be
asleep after her harrowing experience--she would probably be home,
being interviewed by other representatives of the press.

"X" drove toward the address she had given him in the West Eighties.
On the way he passed a newsboy crying an extra. He pulled in at the
curb, bought a copy.

His hands clenched on the paper, his mouth set grimly as he read the
screaming headline:

WOMAN IS LATEST VICTIM

OF MURDER MONSTER

Mabel Boling, Actress, Is Burned to Death in Her Apartment by
Mysterious Death Blast

TWO-ALARM FIRE RESULTS

At one A.M. this morning, the Murder Monster struck again. This time
his victim was a beautiful woman, Mabel Boling.

It will be recalled that she recently broke with "Duke" Marcy--

Secret Agent "X" skipped the rest of the account. He ran his eye to
the next column where the heading announced that Deputy Commissioner
Pringle, on the job despite the death of his son, had issued a call
for every detective on vacation to return to active duty until the
murder monster was captured or killed.

It added that the police were seeking "Duke" Marcy for questioning,
but that he had disappeared from all his known haunts; a general alarm
had been issued for him, and it was expected that he would be
apprehended shortly.

The Agent put the paper down, headed his car back the way he had come.
The murder monster had acted swiftly. There must be a keen brain,
indeed, behind that clumsy automaton; for it had foreseen that Mabel
might be possible source of information, had taken immediate, ruthless
steps to eliminate her. Every avenue of information that might lead to
the murder monster had been blocked. With bitterness in his heart, the
Agent drove to an apartment that he maintained near by where he kept
copious records of the reports of his far-flung operatives. Here he
ensconced himself in solitude, and spent the few remaining hours of
the night in studying every angle and manifestation of the case.

He had long ago discovered what few men have learned--that two or
three hours of concentrated thought are often worth days of feverish
activity.

He checked through his records of every single one of those twenty-five
convicts who had escaped from State Prison, familiarizing himself with
the habits and recorded peculiarities of each. He consulted voluminous
indexes and cross-indexes, searching down every little detail that came
to his attention.

It was well on in the morning when he laid sway the last record with
an air of decisiveness. Purposefully he picked up the newspaper once
more and sought for a certain item. He found it, crowded to the second
page by the news of Mabel Boling's death. It announced that the
so-called robot killer who had been captured the night before at the
bazaar would be arraigned at eleven o'clock in the morning before a
judge of the Court of General Sessions.

The reason for this quick arraignment, it was stated, was because of a
writ of habeas corpus which had been secured by the defendant's
attorney.

And the name of the attorney, which stared up at "X" out of the
printed page with a sinister implication, was the name of the man he
had talked to at the bazaar--Edward Runkle! Runkle was defending the
murder monster's man--Runkle, the shrewdest criminal lawyer in the
city, who boasted that no client of his had ever gone to the chair!

Automatically, the Agent read the last few lines of the item, which
stated that though the defendant had been grilled intensely by the
police and the district attorney, he had refused to make any kind of
statement--had, in fact, sat there without opening his mouth, just
like the robot he had been previously supposed to be!

The Agent consulted his wrist watch, noted that it was eight-thirty. He
left the apartment, drove to a drug store a few blocks away that was
just opening for the morning. Here he entered one of the phone booths
and dialed a number. It was the number of the Hobart Detective Agency, a
new and highly successful inquiry bureau. Its head was a young,
red-headed former patrolman; and though he had only been in business for
a short time, he employed more than fifty operatives all over the
country. Nobody suspected that Hobart, though ostensibly the boss, took
his orders from the obscure newspaperman, A. J. Martin. And Hobart
himself did not know that A. J. Martin was--Secret Agent "X." [12]

[12 AUTHOR'S NOTE: As has been mentioned before it was in the role of
A. J. Martin that Secret Agent "X" had first befriended Jim Hobart.
Jim took his orders, and obeyed them without question. Often he saw
from the results of the work he was doing that his employer was a man
of unusual capacity. If he was inclined to make any conjectures in
that direction, he certainly kept them to himself. In any event, he
never doubted that A. J. Martin was the man he represented himself to
be. Jim sometimes wondered If the orders he received from Mr. Martin
had not originated with someone else who was using Martin as a go-between.
If that was so, Jim had a good idea, or thought he had, who
that "someone else" was. But he was thoroughly satisfied to continue,
because he was in a position to know, the opinion of the police to the
contrary, that the "someone else" was emphatically on the side of law
and order.]

Though it was only eight-thirty, Hobart was on the job, and his voice
came cheerfully over the wire.

When he learned who was on the phone, he said, "Gosh, chief, there's
big doings. Did you see the papers?"

"I did. And there's plenty of work for you." "On the murder monster
case?"

"Yes. Here's what I want you to do. Get hold of half a dozen of your
men. Be sure they are well armed. Have them ready for duty in the
corridor at the court of General Sessions by ten o'clock, at the
opening of court.

"Don't use any local operatives who might be known to the police--
phone out of town, have six or seven outside operatives fly in; they
should be able to get here by ten o'clock. By the time they get here,
you will receive by messenger written instructions as to what to do.
Carry out those instructions to the letter!"

"Depend on me, chief."

"The orders may sound, peculiar, Jim, but it's imperatve that you
follow them implicitly. It may even seem to you that you are acting in
a way to frustrate the law--but you must carry the orders through. Do
you understand?"

"I understand perfectly, chief. I ought to know by this time that
anything you do is okay. You figuring to take that killer out of court
by force? If you say so, I'll do it."

"Not exactly by force, Jim; but I suspect that the 'Murder Monster,'
as you call him, will make an attempt to rescue him--or kill him. He
has so far succeeded in murdering everybody who might be able to
betray him. There is no doubt that he will try to do the same in court
today. We must stop him!"

"Okay, chief. By the way--have you seen Leane recently? I've been so
busy I haven't had a chance. And I'm worried about her, working in
that fast night club of Marcy's, especially since he's been tied up by
the police with this murder monster. Also, I understand that this Mr.
Vardis that you recommended her to has been hanging around her a lot.
Is he okay?"

"Leane will be all right," the Agent assured him. "She needn't work at
the Diamond Club any longer. And Mr. Vardis won't see her any more--
he's gone on a long trip. From now on she can work with you, directly
under my orders. How's that?" "Swell, chief!"



CHAPTER X

THE MONSTER'S MAN

THE Court of General Sessions was a scene of bustling activity that
mourning. In Part 1, on the first floor, where the captured robot
killer was to be arraigned later that morning, two uniformed guards
stood at the door. Nobody was admitted unless he had business in the
court room. Spectators were barred because of the dangerous character
of the killer.

Inside the court room, though spectators were not admitted, all the
seats were filled with attorneys and witnesses in the various cases
scheduled on the calendar for the day. The judge had not yet appeared,
but Chief Assistant District Attorney Fenton, tall, gaunt, stern, a
relentless prosecutor, was already seated at the long table inside the
enclosure before the bench. He was going through a sheaf of papers,
stopping every few moments to converse with his two clerks who hovered
around him.

He looked up, frowning, as the bald-headed, oily Ed Runkle approached
him.

"Hello, Joe," Runkle greeted him. "How's tricks?"

Fenton grunted an answer. He had nothing but contempt for Runkle's
breed of lawyer, who would accept as a client the most vicious enemy
of society, provided a fee accompanied the case. But Runkle's
tremendous political connections made it unwise to antagonize him.

"I'm busy, Runkle. Is there anything you want?"

"What time is my client's case coming up this morning?" the lawyer
asked.

Fenton ran his finger down the calendar to the line which read:
"People vs. John Doe--motion on writ of habeas corpus."

"It should be reached about eleven, Runkle--after the call of the
calendar and the sentencing of convicted defendants."

"Can't you move it up a little, Fenton?" Runkle was smiling
ingratiatingly now. "I have another case on in Brooklyn, and I'd like
to get away early."

The D. A. put down his papers, glared up at the little lawyer, and
exclaimed impatiently, "Why should I do anything for you? You know
damn well that this man is a murderer--he was caught red-handed at the
bazaar. Yet you ask for a writ of habeas corpus! You know damn well
that you're only doing it so as to prevent the police from grilling
him further. You know he'll never be discharged." Runkle shrugged "I'm
only doing my duty as an attorney." He added unctuously, "Every man is
entitled to be considered innocent until he is convicted by a jury;
and it's his privilege to be brought before a judge within forty-eight
hours." "Sure, sure!" Fenton said bitterly. "You know the law inside
and out. Of course it's your privilege. But did you consider that, in
forcing us to bring him here out of the security of the jail, you make
it possible for his associates to rescue him? For all we know, they
may be planning to attack us here the way they attacked the bazaar
last night!"

"I'm sorry if you feel that way about it," Runkle said, getting ugly.
"If you don't like the law, why don't you get yourself elected to the
legislature and change it? You don't care if a man is guilty or
innocent--all you want is convictions to build up your record!"

Fenton sprang to his feet, face purple. "You know that's a lie,
Runkle! For that matter, how about you? You'd use every quirk of the
law to get your client out, even if you knew he was as guilty as hell!
How about this case? Who hired you? Who paid your fee?" He shook an
apoplectic finger under the little lawyer's nose. "I'm going to put
you on the stand and make you tell us who hired you! It's birds like
you that make it so easy for criminals!"

Everybody in the court was watching with interest now, attracted by
the loud words. The scene might perhaps have ended in a fist fight, if
the door at the side of the court room had not just then opened. An
attendant stepped through, announced in a brittle voice. "His Honor,
the Judge. All rise!"

Fenton turned away from Runkle, choking down his rage. The little
criminal lawyer, unruffled by the other's burst of irascibility,
smiled thinly as he faced the bench, while everybody in the court room
stood in deference to the majesty of the law represented here by the
black-robed judge who entered behind the attendant and seated himself
in the tall chair behind the bench.

Judge Rothmere was one of the oldest of the justices of the court in
point of service. He was also the sternest. Criminals and their
lawyers tried to avoid him by every possible means, going to extremes
to get their cases postponed to times when he was not presiding; for
every criminal knew that if he was convicted in Judge Rothmere's
court, he would be sentenced to the maximum prescribed by law.

THE judge glanced over the court room while the clerk intoned the
usual formula for opening the session. His eyes, under the bushy
eyebrows, took cognizance of the strained attitudes of Runkle and
Fenton.

Runkle was by far the cooler of the two; he owed his great success as
a criminal lawyer to the fact that he never lost his head in the court
room. Now, as the judge leaned forward over the bench, he stepped up,
speaking in a self-contained, calm manner of injured righteousness.

"If Your Honor please, the district attorney just finished some very
disparaging remarks about me before you entered the court room. I am
here to argue a motion on a writ of habeas corpus for one, John Doe,
charged with murder in the first degree. The district attorney has
scheduled this motion for eleven o'clock, and has absolutely refused
my request to have it called earlier. It is highly important that I
leave shortly, as I have a pressing engagement, and I appeal to Your
Honor not to permit Mr. Fenton to run this court, but to have the
defendant, John Doe, brought here now."

Judge Rothmere, who, ordinarily made no concessions to defendants'
lawyers, seemed to feel that Runkle deserved special consideration. He
turned to Fenton, asked, "What is your objection, Mr. Fenton, to
accommodating Mr. Runkle?"

Fenton spluttered. "If the Court please, I don't think Runkle is
entitled to any consideration. This writ is entirely uncalled for. In
the ordinary course of events, the defendant would have been indicted
some time this week and duly brought to trial. Runkle has taken this
action merely to get this killer of his out of the hands of the police
before he can be made to talk. It's a shame that any attorney could be
got to handle this case, and I intend to question Mr. Runkle as to who
retained him!"

The judge nodded, turned to Runkle. He was listening to both sides
impartially.

Runkle did not lose his patience. He said, "I am perfectly willing to
explain how I was retained. Early this morning, about three A. M., I
was awakened by the ringing of the telephone beside my bed. A muffled
voice told me that if I went down to my front door I would find ten
thousand dollars, and that it was the fee paid to me in advance for
defending this man. I was warned that if I did not take the case I
would regret it. Then my unknown caller hung up.

"The money was there in front of my door, tied in a neat parcel. I
immediately called police headquarters, and the call was traced to a
drug store pay station. The bills in the package of ten thousand dollars
were checked carefully and found not to correspond to any that were
known to have been stolen from the bazaar. Under the circumstances, Your
Honor, I felt entirely justified in taking the case, and I at once
proceeded to obtain a writ of habeas corpus. It is what any other
attorney would do under the circumstances. I co-operated fully with the
police, and there should be no fault to find with my actions."

Runkle stopped drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his
lips. He shook a deep breath and went on. "I once more ask Your Honor
to exercise the discretion of the court, and have this defendant
produced now instead of at eleven o'clock."

Judge Rothmere had listened closely to Runkle's explanation. Now he
addressed Fenton sternly. "I see nothing wrong in Mr. Runkle's
conduct, Mr. District Attorney. The defendant is entitled to the
services of counsel, and Mr. Runkle is doing the best he can for his
client. I will grant the request of defendant's attorney." He raised
his voice; "Bailiff! Bring. in the defendant, John Doe. Number--" he
glanced down at his copy of the calendar--"Number twenty-seven."

When the bailiff left to obey the order, the judge bent his imposing,
bushy eyebrows and looked at the district attorney. "Perhaps this will
be a lesson to you, Mr. Fenton, not to attempt, in the future, to
assume the prerogatives of the Court. As a matter of fact, for certain
other reasons that have been brought to my attention, I had intended
having this defendant brought up earlier, even if Mr. Runkle had not
requested it."

Fenton gnawed his lower lip, glaring at Runkle, who grinned at him.

There was a stir in the courtroom as the bailiff and two armed guards
led in the robot-like killer who was down on the police blotter as
John Doe. No trace of emotion or interest showed on his smooth face.
Though he had not shaved, his cheeks were still smooth. No beard had
grown there. Only his eyes showed a sign of human intelligence. They
darted about the courtroom, glittering with expectancy--as if he
sought some one he knew should be there. He walked less stiffly now,
for he had been divested of his ingeniously contrived bullet-proof
under-clothing.

HE was lead up to the bar, and the clerk rose, began to intone the
usual questions. "Prisoner, what is your name?"

The prisoner remained stolid, did not speak.

The judge leaned forward a little, inspecting him closely, while
Runkle stepped to his side, whispered in his ear so that everybody
could hear. "I'm your lawyer. It's all right. You can answer the
questions."

Still the prisoner said nothing. He stood there like an automaton, or,
perhaps, a man in a trance.

Finally the bailiff ventured to say, "If it please Your Honor, that's
the way he's been since he was arrested. He was grilled all night but
he wouldn't open his mouth. They had to book him as John Doe!"

"All right," the judge snapped. "Enter his name as John Doe. We will
leave the other questions till later. Perhaps we can make him realize
that he's in real trouble." He turned to Runkle. "Now, sir, what is
the purpose of this motion?"

Runkle wiped his lips with his handkerchief--it seemed to be a habit
with him whenever he talked--and began a long argument to the effect
that his client should be discharged because of lack of evidence. He
finished by making the formal request, "I move that this defendant be
discharged because there is no evidence that a crime has been
committed in this jurisdiction."

It was a motion that is always made as a matter of routine, but never
granted. Judge Rothmere, however, seemed to weigh Runkle's argument
seriously. He turned to Fenton, asked, "Have the defendant's prints
been taken? What is his criminal record?"

The district attorney answered reluctantly, "There is no record at all
for him, judge. His fingerprints do not fall into any category on
file."

"You see, your honor," Runkle began, "this defendant hasn't even got a
record. He's being framed--"

Fenton laughed scornfully. "Framed! That's what Runkle claims about
every one of his clients, Your Honor. It's his stock in trade. He'll
soon be telling us about this man's poor old mother and father in
South Bend, Indiana, or some place!" Fenton gestured eloquently.
"Judge, the mere fact that Runkle has been retained here should prove
that the defendant has something to worry about. It's common knowledge
in the underworld that Runkle can help a criminal to beat any kind of
'rap.' If a defendant can pay Runkle's fee, he can get away with
murder!"

Runkle smiled, not deigning to reply. His eyes were on the judge.

And Judge Rothmere suddenly threw a bombshell into the court room. In
his august, judicial voice he announced, "Mr. Runkle, I will grant
your motion. The defendant is dismissed!"

Nothing that the judge could conceivably have said or done could have
caused greater consternation in the courtroom than those four words.

Men stared at each other as if their hearing had suddenly betrayed
them. The bailiff and the guards stood speechless. District Attorney,
Fenton seemed suddenly to choke, then he waved his hands in the air
and rushed up to the bench. "You can't do that!" he shouted. "This man
is a murderer! Are you crazy?" The unexpectedness of the decision had
deprived him of all sense of discretion.

The killer at the bar remained unmoved, unspeaking, as if none of this
concerned him in the least.

Runkle seized him by the elbow, urged him toward the door. "You're
free, do you understand? Get out of here before they hold you for
something else. Beat it!"

Fenton turned from the bench, ran shouting after them. "Stop! Stop!
I'll swear out another warrant for him. He can't go free. He's a
murderer!"

Judge Rothmere frowned, called out, "Mr. Fenton! Do you forget where
you are? This is a courtroom!"

Fenton paid no attention to him, ran after the prisoner, The judge
pounded with his gavel "Bailiff," he shouted. "Seize Mr. Fenton. I
declare him in contempt of court!"

The bailiff stared at him uncomprehendingly, too dazed to act.

The judge half rose in his bench, thundered at the unfortunate
bailiff, "Did you hear me?"

That official finally came out of his daze, stammered, "Y--yes, Your
Honor," and sped after the district attorney, gripping him by the arm.
"Sorry, sir, it's the judge's orders!"

Fenton fumed in the bailiff's grip, but the delay was enough to allow
the robot killer and his attorney to leave the court room. As the door
closed behind them, Fenton turned to the bench. There were tears of rage
in his eyes. "Do you know what you've done, Judge? You've released a
cold-blooded killer. He'll kill again, as sure as you're sitting there,
Why did you do it?" Judge Rothmere rose dignifiedly from the bench,
tapped once with the gavel. "Court," he announced quietly, "is adjourned
till ten o'clock tomorrow morning! Till then, Mr. Fenton, I will parole
you in your own custody to answer to a charge of contempt of this
court!"

And the judge turned, left the bench and went out through the side
door, leaving the room in a state of seething excitement.

HE was out in the corridor now, but before crossing to his chambers
across the hall, he walked down a few paces and peered around the
bend. He could now see the front door of the court room through which
Runkle and the killer had gone.

They stood there now, faced by five men in plain clothes who wore on
the lapels of their coats badges of the Department of Justice. One of
these men was saying to the baby-faced killer, "We want you, boy. We
have a warrant for the arrest of one, John Doe, now held by the state
authorities, for questioning in a kidnaping investigation. I guess
you're our man." He turned to the others. "Take him, boys!"

Runkle started to protest, but he suddenly found himself looking into
the barrel of a revolver. The officer who had spoken before held that
gun, and he said, softly, "We don't want you--yet, mister. But we'll
take you along if you open your trap once more. Yeah, we'll take you
along--feet first!"

Runkle's face went pale. Before he could collect himself, the other
men had snapped handcuffs on the now struggling killer, and were
leading him out of the building with a gun stuck in the small of his
back.

Runkle started to shout after them, "You're no officers--" but he
stopped quickly, cowering, as one of them swung around, raised his
gun. The man did not fire. He merely laughed, turned around and
followed the others. So quickly and quietly had the thing been done
that the few people in the corridor had not even noticed it until
Runkle began to shout. Then it was too late, for the five men with
their prisoner were gone.

Runkle sped after them, stood in the entrance watching the high-powered
car into which they had climbed speeding around the corner on two
wheels. He cursed, then shrugged, turned to the small crowd that had
gathered behind him; "I got my fee, anyway," he said, grinning. "And
nobody can say I'm hiding him from the law, because you all saw him
snatched from under my eyes."

Around the bend in the corridor, Judge Rothmere had watched the drama
with interest. He now turned and directed his steps toward the
chambers. An attendant who had followed him from the court room
approached, asked, "Can I help you, sir?"

"No. I won't need you any more today. You may go home."

The judge entered his chambers, using a key, and went into an inner
room. Here a man lay on the floor, gagged, glaring up in impotent
fury. He was dressed in an ordinary business suit, the judge wore a
judicial robe, but there the difference ended. For their faces were
exactly alike.

The man in the robe said, "I am sorry, Judge Rothmere, if I caused you
inconvenience. It was necessary, in the cause of true justice, that I
pose as you for a few minutes. I will leave you bound now, and I will
also leave my mark before I go, so that it will be known that it
wasn't you who just sat on the bench. Otherwise you might have some
difficult explaining to do."

Now the man in the judicial robe left the gagged man, stepped into the
outer room. Here he doffed the robes, raised long fingers to his face.
Swiftly the features of Judge Rothmere disappeared, only to give place
in a few moments to the face of A. J. Martin, newspaper man.

The whole transformation took less than six minutes. Now he spoke to
the gagged man in the inner room. "If any one asks you who did this,
judge, you can tell them I left my card on the table out here."

As he spoke, he deposited on the small table a card, on which there
was the reproduction of a glowing "X."

Then he silently opened the door and stepped into the corridor.



CHAPTER XI

ENTER-BRINZ

WHEN the five men who wore the federal badges sped away in the car
with the robot killer in their custody, the large clock on the City
Hall building showed the time to be exactly twenty-nine minutes past
ten o'clock. The whole thing was over, thirty-one minutes before the
scheduled time for the arraignment.

The car swung around the corner and passed out of the sight and ken of
the crowd surrounding Runkle and Fenton. But there were others who
were interested in that car. Near the corner, a tan-and-gray
cab had been parked all morning, with the flag up. The driver smoked
cigarette after cigarette, but never took his eyes off the court
house. Once in a while he would turn to say a few words to the sole
occupant of the cab, or to answer a curt question. The occupant of the
cab was a stocky, sullen sort of man, with a long, thin face that
contrasted oddly with his squat body.

He chewed on an unlighted cigar, and leaned forward. "What time, is
it, Kardos?" he asked the driver.

"Twenty-five after ten," Kardos replied. "The boss ought to be here
soon."

The stocky, man with the long face continued to chew nervously on the
cigar. "This business is gettin' my goat. Workin' for this guy,
Kardos, is dangerous stuff. Linky Teagle works for him an' he didn't
show up this morning. I'm wonderin'--"

He stopped, as Kardos stiffened in his seat, cried hoarsely, "Looka
that! Some other crowd is takin' that guy away!"

He pointed to the court house steps, down which were coming the five
men with the federal badges, dragging along the prisoner known as John
Doe.

The stocky man jerked open the door of the cab, leaped to the
sidewalk. His hand went to his armpit, but he didn't draw the gun.
"What's the use?" he said to the driver. "We can't take the whole five
of 'em."

Kardos swung to him, "What'll we do, Brinz? We were told not to let
any one take him away."

Brinz shrugged. "Tell you what--you tail them in the cab. See where
they go--and for the luva Pete, don't lose them. I'll stick around,
an' when this boss of ours gets here, I'll break the sad news to him.
You call back when they hole out."

The car with the five federal men swung around the corner, passing
close to the cab. Kardos called out, "Okay, Brinz, here I go." He
shifted into gear, set off in the wake of the escaping car.

Brinz remained at the curb, still chewing his cigar. He appeared
oblivious of the crowd that had swarmed out of the court house. But
their voices were raised, loudly, excitedly, and he could hear them
plainly. He heard Runkle cry, "I tell you, they were no federal men.
Their badges were fakes! But they took me by surprise. By the time I
knew what it was all about, they had that fellow out of the building!"

Brinz continued to listen worriedly. He heard District Attorney Fenton
say bitterly, "So you say, Runkle! I'm willing to bet that you knew
all the time what was going to happen!" Brinz swung his eyes away
suddenly from the crowd across the street. For a truck had drawn up
quietly at the curb. Its side bore the lettering, "Interstate
Express--Deliveries Everywhere."

The driver's compartment of this truck was entirely enclosed so that
the man who sat behind the wheel could not be seen. A close inspection
of the body would have shown that it was constructed of bullet-proof
sheet steel, with a large double door at the back, and a small grilled
window on either side.

Brinz stepped close to the grilled window. A deep, metallic voice
spoke from the darkness within. "What has happened here? Is everything
set?" Brinz shook his head. There was a little awe in his tone, as if
he were almost afraid to break the news. "It's all gone haywire, boss.
This here John Doe must have been brought up in court ahead of time.
Just now he got taken away by five men in a car--practically snatched
out of the court room, what it looks like. That crowd across the
street is wonderin' what's happened."

The metallic voice carried a note of rage. "Did you find out who those
men were?"

"I didn't, boss." Brinz shuddered slightly, for that voice had sounded
very ominous to him. He added eagerly, "But I tell you what I did--
Kardos was in his cab over at the corner, an' I told him to tail them.
Maybe he'll call back an' give us some dope on them." He went on
swiftly as there came no answer from the truck, "I done the best I
could, boss. I couldn't stop 'em alone, could I? And anyway, Kardos'll
probably be calling back pretty soon."

For a moment there was silence. Then the resonant voice said, "Kardos
had better call back--for the sake of both of you!"

The side window closed with a snap, and the truck rolled away from the
curb, disappeared around the corner.

Brinz wiped his face with the sleeve of his coat. There was a fine
sweat on his face and on the back of his hands. He had been close to
death just now. His broad nose, which had at some time been flattened
by a smashing blow, twitched with the reflexes of relief from fright.
He stood a moment undecided, then he suddenly nodded to himself and
crossed the street.

He elbowed through the crowd in front of the court room until he was
close to Runkle, and tapped him on the shoulder. The little attorney
turned, said, "Hello, Brinz, where've you been for the last couple of
years?"

"Here an' there," he answered evasively. "Can I talk to you--in
private--Mr. Runkle?" "Certainly. Are you in trouble again?"

"Yes. But not with the law. This is something different."

Kunkle regarded him curiously. "All right. Let's go over to my
office."

He led the way out of the crowd, and down the street, Brinz walking
close beside him, and looking furtively about as if he feared being
observed.

One man observed them. That was District Attorney Fenton, who watched
them speculatively until they turned into the shabby building past the
next corner, where Runkle had his office.

Fenton's eyes were veiled as he turned and re-entered the court house
without speaking to anyone.

IN the meantime, the car with the five men and the prisoner sped east
for two blocks, slowed up and swung into a garage in the middle of one
of the East Side slum blocks. The taxi that was following pulled up
just beyond the entrance, and waited with its motor running.

Within the garage, the five men bundled their prisoner out. He was
handcuffed now, but still silent, though there was growing fear
reflected in the black, reptilian eyes.

The men gagged the killer, tied his ankles with wire, and joined the
end of the wire to the handcuffs behind his back, rendering him
helpless. Then they bundled him into the rear compartment of a showy
green coupe that stood in the shadows in the rear.

A young, red-headed man sat at the wheel of this coupe. When the top
of the compartment closed over the prisoner, he said to the five men,
"All right, boys. You can go now. Get back to your regular jobs and
forget all about this. Forget you ever flew to New York this morning!"

They did not notice the figure of Kardos, who had left his cab and
stolen to the door, where he peered inside, noting what was taking
place.

The pseudo federal men grinned at the red-headed young man. "Don't
worry, Mr. Hobart. Our memories are going to be something terrible
from now on. As far as we're concerned, we never saw this town in our
life!"

Kardos, outside, slipped away from the door as he saw them prepare to
leave, and he returned to his taxicab, watched them walking away in
different directions.

Inside the garage, the red-headed Jim Hobart issued swift orders to
two mechanics, who took the car in which "John Doe" had been brought
there, and rolled it on to a circular platform. They set to work upon
it at once, removing the license plates first. Within two hours enough
work would have been done on that car to make it impossible to
recognize it as the one in which Runkle's client had been abducted.

Jim Hobart, in the meantime, locked the rumble compartment of his
coupe, in which the killer had been stowed, then drove slowly out of
the garage and turned the corner. He headed north. But he did not see
the taxicab that followed him at a discreet distance.



CHAPTER XII

GILLY THE GUNMAN

WHEN Secret Agent "X" stepped out of Judge Rothmere's chambers into
the corridor of the court house, he made his way without stopping down
the back staircase and out the rear entrance into Lafayette Street. A
small sedan was parked near by and in this he made his way uptown.

On the way he stopped and called the Hobart Detective Agency. Jim
Hobart had just got back. "It's okay, Mr. Martin," he reported. "The
boys got this John Doe as per orders, and I just delivered him at the
apartment on Eighth Avenue at the address you gave me. He's there now,
all nicely tied up."

"Good work, Jim," the Agent commended. "I'll get in touch with you
later. There'll be more work to do today," he added grimly.

Before leaving the booth, he made one more phone call, to Bates. He
ordered Bates to place two men on the task of shadowing Runkle, the
lawyer, and of checking up on anybody he might meet.

That done, the Agent returned to his car and drove to the apartment on
Eighth Avenue. He could not know that even at that moment, the taxi
driver, Kardos, was phoning certain information to a number not listed
in any telephone directory.

At the apartment, which was on the third floor of an old, run-down
apartment house, the Agent nodded in satisfaction as he saw the bound
and blindfolded figure of the robot killer squirming on the floor.
Here was his only avenue of approach to the murder monster. By his own
daring and ingenuity he had balked the monster in its attempt to
rescue this killer; he now had him alone where it might be possible to
apply sufficient pressure to draw out certain information. Before
removing the blindfold, the Agent stepped to a mirror and worked
swiftly on his own face. The features of A. J. Martin disappeared,
were replaced by those of a thin, ascetic looking man in the middle
forties. The purpose of this was to save the personality of A. J.
Martin for future use; he was not ready to discard it, and if this
killer should see him as Martin, the personality of Martin would be
helpless.

"X" now stepped to the side of the killer, removed the gag. The
killer's features were smooth, expressionless. Only his eyes showed
emotion, and they stared up at the Agent with mingled defiance and
fear.

"X" examined him closely, stooped and touched his face with long,
sensitive fingers. The killer shrank from his touch, looked around the
room, for the first time became aware of his surroundings. He tried to
roll away from "X's" searching fingers on his face, but the Agent held
him firmly with one hand.

Suddenly the Agent uttered an exclamation of surprise. His sensitive,
probing fingers had found something that it would have been impossible
for anyone whose senses were less keenly on the alert to discover. It
was a slight ridge under the chin, so infinitesimal as to be invisible
to the naked eye.

The Agent's eyes glittered, as he seized the killer under the arms,
dragged him, squirming and struggling, to the opposite side of the
room where his make-up table stood. He placed him on the floor, and
turned on the powerful lamp that stood beside the table.

The lamp, which the Agent used when he fashioned his careful
disguises, bathed the helpless killer's face in a merciless light,
illuminating every detail of his features.

Now the Agent went to the cabinet in the corner, brought out a
peculiarly shaped magnifying glass. This was constructed along the
lines of the lenses used by bacteriologists, but more adaptable to
being carried about for handy use. There was little that this
instrument did not reveal when applied under a strong light.

"X" held the killer in a viselike grip while he examined his face. The
glass showed a tiny line that ran under the chin from ear to ear. It
was such a line as might have been left by a healing scar that was
perfectly tended. The Agent followed that line from the right ear, up
along the fringe of the killer's scalp, and around to the other ear.

For a long time he studied it, maintaining utter silence. Then at last
he smiled softly.

"I see, my friend," he said.

But his eyes were clouded with a strange emotion--the emotion of
discovering something that has hitherto been considered incredible by
the mind of man. For that line, indicative of a healed scar, had given
him the clue to a momentous discovery. It had given him a glimpse of a
thing so weird, so monstrous, as to stagger the imagination.

The Agent's grip tightened; he held the other helpless in the crook of
his arm, while the long, sensitive fingers of his right hand probed
further, feeling the contours of the man's head. The brownish,
nondescript-colored hair was wiry, unnatural. The Agent pressed with
his thumb and forefinger, and the whole scalp seemed to move. The man
was wearing a cunningly contrived wig!

The killer's eyes betrayed a venomous hatred as "X" removed the wig.
It was fitted with a suction cap that clung to his shaven skull. At
one spot on that skull, the Agent's magnifying glass revealed another
scar, not more than an inch long, and entirely healed.

The Agent did not examine the scar at this time. His mind was occupied
with the horrid, monstrous secret he had discovered.

He said, "My friend, the masquerade is over!"

The killer glared up at him, tried to heave himself upright, and
emitted a series of inarticulate, horrible grunts.

"X" studied the killer's eyes. He was interested in them, for they
seemed to evoke a memory somewhere within him--a memory of another
face, of those same eyes peering out of a face that in no way
resembled this one. He went on, watching the other intently.

"Your face has been changed, my friend--changed by a marvelous job of
plastic surgery. This monster master of yours has had your face
changed to resemble the others whom he uses. You acted like robots to
fool the public and the police--and why shouldn't they be fooled, when
you were all facsimiles of each other!"

"X" knew he was right in his findings, because the killer bared his
teeth in a snarl, threw him a venomous glance.

THE Agent hardly dared to put into concrete thoughts the revolting
conclusion suggested by that line around the rim of the killer's face.
But now, as he noted the killer's reaction, he was convinced that he
had guessed right--this man had had his face transformed by a highly
skilled surgeon!

At the urge of a sudden flash of inspiration, Secret Agent "X" twisted
the killer's body around, seized the handcuffed wrists, and examined
his fingertips. They were smooth, white, soft. Holding the killer's
hand firmly, the Agent directed his magnifying glass on the right
thumb. And under that glass, which mercilessly showed every line and
mark, the Agent was able to detect a minute scar running across the
under side of the thumb. Each finger in turn that he examined showed
the same scar. A remarkably skillful surgeon had grafted fresh skin
onto each finger-skin that had been miraculously provided with a set
of loops and whorls!

The Agent's lips set grimly. "Very clever--very clever indeed!" he
remarked. "No wonder the police could discover no record for you!"

Once more he turned the killer around facing him. "Your fingertips
have also been changed. You have been made into a different man. I
wonder if you knew in advance that you were going to be made into a
replica of those others--or did your master have that done to you
against your will?"

The killer regarded him sullenly, saying nothing.

"X" arose from his knees, stood over him. "All the world knows now
that you and your fellows are not robots. Why continue the pretense?
Why don't you talk now? Is it because you are afraid to let me hear
your voice? Are you afraid that I will recognize you--Gilly?"

That last sentence, deliberately spoken with sudden intensity, seemed
to have the effect of a charge of electricity upon the killer. His
whole body shook with an uncontrollable spasm of terror. His mouth
opened, but no sound issued except a short series of horrible
inarticulate grunting noises. The man seemed to be straining his
larynx to utter words that rebelled at being spoken.

The Agent said to him, "You wonder how I guessed who you are, Gilly?"
He smiled grimly. "I wasn't quite sure--but now I see that I am right.
It was your eyes that gave you away, Gilly. You could change your face
a thousand times, but I would always remember your eyes!"

"X" spoke tautly, quickly now. He wanted to follow up his advantage.

"I can send you back to the death house, Gilly--or I can let you
escape, give you enough money to go to another country and change your
name. All you have to do is give me the name of your master, tell me
where your headquarters are. Which do you choose?"

Gilly's eyes lost their glare of hatred. They seemed to be imbued now
with a sort of dumb terror. They looked up at "X" with a note of
helpless appeal. He opened his mouth, tried to talk, but nothing
resulted--only those horrid animal grunts.

The Agent suddenly knelt beside him again. "I wonder--" he muttered.
"It can't be possible. It's too fiendish even for the murder monster."
Once more he examined Gilly's shaven skull, his fingers passing over
the short scar.

Gilly did not draw away from him now. On the contrary, he bent his
head, as if anxious for "X" to see that scar.

The Agent drew in his breath sharply as he suddenly understood its
significance. Gilly had had more than his face and fingertips
changed--some one had operated on his brain, as well. An incision had
been made into the brain cells controlling his power of speech. He had
been rendered mute!



CHAPTER XIII

PERILOUS TRAIL

SECRET AGENT "X" never allowed emotion to play a part in his life. But
now, as he studied his captive, he felt a surge of bitter repugnance
against the unholy being that had conceived this diabolical jest of
making veritable robots of his men.

The Agent had sought by every means possible to locate those twenty-five
convicts who had escaped from the State Prison. And if he had
succeeded in finding them, he would not have hesitated at turning them
over to the law, for they constituted a menace to the society he
devoted his life to protecting. But nothing the law could have done to
them even approached in horror and in pure cruelty the things that
this murder monster had done.

"X" should have been elated at discovering this important link between
the escaped convicts and the murder monster--for he knew now what the
police did not as yet suspect--that the so-called robots were in
reality the convicts whom every agency of the law was seeking
throughout the country.

But he was far from elated. For he realized now what a stupendous task
still faced him. No matter how dangerous those convicts might have been
while they were free, the Agent now saw the shadow of a menace
infinitely greater. What an inhuman monster this must be, that had freed
these men only to chain them by a series of hideous operations in a more
horrid slavery than any they had ever known in State Prison!

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden ominous sound from the
hallway outside the apartment. Boards creaked under a heavy, ponderous
tread, and a resonant, metallic voice called out, "Number Eight! Where
are you? Number Eight! Where are you?"

Gilly twisted violently out of the Agent's hands and started to drag
himself toward the door in spite of his bound hands. He opened his
mouth and uttered a weird, inhuman sound, for all the world like some
obscene animal calling to its master.

That sound was heard, for from outside came the mechanical sounding
voice of the monster. "Get away from the door, Number Eight. It's
going to be smashed in!"

Gilly stopped crawling toward the door. He rested on his back, his
face twisted into a grimacing leer of triumph as he stared up at "X."
It was difficult to understand how this little gunman of the
underworld should be so loyal to a master that had done such inhuman
things to him. "X" had offered Gilly freedom, immunity from
prosecution, for information. Gilly could not feel that he was in any
danger from the Agent. Yet he welcomed the approach of the murder
monster, welcomed the prospect of being brought once more under that
fiendish domination!

There must be some powerful hold--some powerful attraction--that the
monster exerted over these men. "X" wondered if it was possible that
the operation on the brains of Gilly and the others--almost certain
now that they had all been subjected to the knife--accomplished more
than merely depriving them of speech; if it was possible that it had,
in fact, converted them all into veritable robots without personal
initiative or will of their own.

There came a smashing impact against the door; the monster must have
hurled its huge form against it. But the panels were strong, the door
was solid, for the Agent always made it a point to provide his retreat
with reinforced doors for just such a contingency. Yet, strong as it
was, it yielded a little under the impact of that heavy body. "X" saw
that it would not stand up long under the attack. If he remained in
the room he would become a target for that finger of death. He would
go up in flames, leaving his task unfinished, taking with him the
secret of the identity of the robots, leaving the city at the mercy of
these cohorts of hell.

He never left himself, however, without some means of retreat. Now, he
sprang to the window, slid it open while the handcuffed Gilly watched
him with narrowed, mad eyes. The Agent counted for escape on the drain
pipe which ran up to the roof, close to the window. But the monster
had taken care of that, too. For, no sooner had "X" showed himself at
the window than there was a wicked spat, and a bullet imbedded itself
in the woodwork close to his head. Somewhere outside, a rifleman was
stationed with a silenced rifle. Nobody was going to be able to leave
that building, by window or otherwise, till the monster had got his
man. "X" did not stop to wonder how the monster had learned of the
apartment. He immediately set to work.

From a cabinet in the corner, he produced a pot-bellied jar to which
was attached a metal hose. This jar was made of dull, burnished metal,
and had a sort of stand beneath it, into which was fitted a Bunsen
burner.

While the heavy oak door bent under the repeated charges of the
monster outside, "X" methodically lit the Bunsen burner and ran the
hose close to the window. Then he donned a pair of goggles, and took a
hypodermic syringe from the cabinet.

Gilly watched him with a puzzled gaze as he filled the container of
the hypodermic with a light-colored liquid. Gilly shrank away from him
as he approached, tried to wriggle from his grip. But the Agent held
him tight, thrust the needle into his arm, and drove the plunger home.

The whites of Gilly's eyes showed, his lids drooped, he wheezed, and
was unconscious within half a minute. The hypodermic had been loaded
with a highly potent, quick-acting anaesthetic. The dose was
sufficient to keep a man unconscious for at least forty-eight hours.
Since the Agent could not take Gilly out of that apartment, he had
made sure that the monster would not be able to make use of him for
the next two days.

THE blows on the door were telling. Splinters were flying. In a moment
there would be a large enough opening for the monster to aim his
finger through. "X" turned to the window, observed with satisfaction
that the hose from the pot-bellied jar was now giving off a vapor that
thickened as it rose out of the window into heavy clouds of smoke. As
the smoke grew in volume, it became impossible to see through it. To
the riflemen stationed outside the house, the window would be
invisible. This was the latest development in smoke screens--a
chemical which the Agent had developed himself and was using now for
the first time.

Under the protection of the smoke screen, the Agent swung himself out
of the window, clinging to the drain pipe. But instead of descending
as he might have been expected to do, he drew himself up, inch by
inch, slowly, painfully. The smoke swirled around him, but his eyes
were protected by the goggles. Gripping the pipe with taut fingers and
tight knees, he worked himself up toward the roof. It was several
minutes before he heard a crash from within the apartment he had just
left. He heard heavy, lumbering steps, the crash of furniture. That
would be the monster feeling his way around in the room, probably
unable to see through the smoke which must be filling the place by
this time.

Suddenly from below there came a shower of high-powered slugs, as the
riflemen stationed outside realized that "X" must be using the smoke
screen to escape. The slugs clanged against the drain pipe below the
point where the smoke came out. Soon they would raise their sights on
the chance that he was working upward instead of down. He could not
hope to reach the roof before that; in fact, if he ascended any
higher, he would emerge from the protection of the smoke screen and
would be a clear target.

He was now alongside the window on the floor directly above his own.
Without hesitation he swung his feet over the sill, crashing the
glass. He leaped through the jagged opening into the room. It was
unfurnished, vacant. His trousers were cut by the glass, there was a
long gash in his right hand, and a jagged scratch on his cheek. But he
did not stop; he dashed through the room, out into the hall. Doors
were opening everywhere, heads were peering out--heads of people who
looked bewildered, frightened by the sudden uproar in their house.

On the landing below "X" heard heavy steps, heard the monster
ascending the stairs. The monster was quick-witted, had divined what
"X" had done to escape, and was coming after him.

The Agent ran up the stairs. People ducked their heads inside at sight
of his bloody face, made no move to hinder him as he raced to the
roof. He pushed open the skylight, raised himself up, and sped across
to the roof of the adjoining house.

He ducked down through the skylight of the next building, just getting
a glimpse of the monster's hideous masked head peering after him out
of the opening he had left. The monster was too unwieldy to hoist
itself through the skylight after him. "X" sped down four flights of
steps to the street. A crowd was milling around, attracted by the
strange happenings. "X" mingled with the crowd, listening to comment.
"It's the murder monster!" some one said. "He came in that truck
across the street and went in this house here. And they're firing out
of the truck at the house! "X" noted the truck opposite. He could tell
that it was armored, an impregnable fortress. He waited until he saw
the murder monster appear in the street again. The horrible gas-masked
figure was flanked by several of the robots who were carrying the body
of Gilly.

From near-by came the sound of a police siren. The Agent hoped
fervently that the monster would leave before the police got there,
for he knew that the uniformed men wouldn't stand the ghost of a
chance against the horrible weapon of fire that the monster wielded.

He himself had fled from it, for he was not yet ready to meet it on
even terms; and a senseless attack at this time would not have served
the cause of justice--might even have hindered it by removing the only
man in existence who knew the secret of the escaped convicts.

"X" breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the monster and the robots
pile into the truck, and the truck pull away before the police car
rounded the corner. Then he himself turned and walked away from there
swiftly. He had retreated before the monster, had, apparently, lost
the first encounter with it. But he was far closer to victory than he
had yet been, for he now knew much about the monster and the robots
that the monster did not suspect him of knowing.

And he proceeded to act upon that knowledge.



CHAPTER XIV

DEVIL'S DRAGNET

THE actions of Secret Agent "X" during the next two or three hours
might have appeared highly peculiar to an uninformed observer. He went
to another of his apartments and changed back to the disguise of Mr.
Vardis. Leaving the apartment, his first stop was at the office of a
large theatrical supply firm, where he was closeted with the manager
for some twenty minutes before he emerged with a large bundle that he
deposited in his car. He then drove to a quiet store in the East
Fifties, on the window of which appeared the modest lettering,
"Corlear & Son, Custom Tailors." He took his package inside, and spent
almost an hour in the fitting room with Mr. Corlear himself. The
casual observer would have wondered that a man engaged in so desperate
a battle with crime should find time for such apparently frivolous
occupations. But Mr. Vardis seemed to have nothing on his mind but
securing a perfect fit in the clothing he was ordering. Mr. Corlear
finally escorted him to the door personally, saying, "I promise you,
Mr. Vardis, that it will be ready for you by tomorrow morning. I will
myself work all night on this job." From Corlear's, Mr. Vardis drove
to the nearest pay telephone and phoned Bates. He issued careful
instructions. "You will hold the two planes in readiness in the field
in Brooklyn. At the first alarm they will go up over the city." "The
planes will be ready, sir," Bates replied. "How about our other
operations--shall we continue them?" "Absolutely. Keep Runkle under
constant observation. I will continue to call you every half hour for
news. Have you been able to pick up any trace of 'Duke' Marcy as yet?"

"No, sir. I have more than a dozen men on his trail, but no success."

"Keep after him. It's important that he be located within the next
twenty-four hours."

When he had completed his call to Bates, the Agent called the office
of the Hobart Detective Agency. "This is Mr. Martin," he told the girl
who answered the phone. "Please let me talk to Mr. Hobart."

That young man was bubbling with excitement when he got on the wire.
"I'm glad you called, Mr. Martin. I've been offered a retainer to work
on this robot murder case, and I was wondering if I should accept it!"

"A retainer? By whom?"

"They're in my private office now. Young Jack Larrabie, and Randolph
Coulter. It seems they expect to be next on the monster's list. Their
friend Pringle--"

"Take the case, Jim! Ask them to wait. I'll send up a man to handle it
for you--a Mr. Fearson. Give him every co-operation; follow his orders
as if they were my own. He'll be there in a half hour!"

He hung up, leaving Jim Hobart slightly bewildered. Now he wasted no
time. He returned to his car, and sitting in the back, he set up his
portable mirror, worked on his face. In a short time there appeared
once more the features of the thin, ascetic looking, middle-aged man
who had questioned Gilly a few hours earlier. That completed, he
selected a set of cards and papers from a small portfolio. These
papers established that he was a Mr. Arvold Fearson, private
investigator. He had a license in that name, and the picture attached
to that license was a duplicate of his new face. It was only one of a
dozen identities which the Agent had prepared in advance for instant
use. Well within the half hour specified, he presented himself to the
switchboard girl in the Hobart Detective Agency and gave his name.

The girl flashed him a smile. "Mr. Hobart is expecting you, Mr.
Fearson. He has two clients inside, but he told me to let him know the
minute you arrived."

"X" nodded and seated himself while the girl called inside, and he
surveyed the busy office. There were five girls employed here; one was
Jim Hobart's secretary, three were file clerks, and one was the
switchboard operator. The office was large, well furnished. Behind the
telephone girl was the door of Jim Hobart's sanctum, while to the left
was another door leading to a large room where each operative had a
desk of his own where he could study material, make out reports, and
plan his work.

In the short time that Jim Hobart had been running this agency, he had
achieved phenomenal success. This was partly due to the aid which "X"
had given him. In his role of Elisha Pond, he had recommended the
agency to banks and insurance companies, had helped to secure large
and profitable accounts. The Hobart Detective Agency was well known
throughout the country now, and it was consulted more and more by
people who had heard the name, or seen it mentioned in the papers.
This was exactly what "X" wanted, for in this fashion the agency was
enabled to build up large files on criminals, on underworld
connections, and to keep its pulse on the trend of criminal events.

Sometimes, through cases that came to it, the Agent was apprised of
crimes in the making of which the police did not even have an inkling.
He had not been surprised, therefore, to learn that young Larrabie and
his friend, Ranny Coulter, were consulting the agency.

IN a few moments the door of the inner office opened, and Jim Hobart
came out. He smiled at "X," and asked, "Mr. Fearson?" The Agent nodded.
He arose and produced one of his cards, which he handed over. Jim Hobart
read the name, "Arvold Fearson, Private Investigator." In the lower
left-hand corner there appeared a queer initial, written in ink. Young
Hobart said, "That is Mr. Martin's initial, all right."

"X" said, "I am working on this case of the murder monster for him and
have acquired a good deal of information. That is why Mr. Martin sent
me. He was sure you would not resent having me take charge, since I
have all the facts at my fingertips."

Jim Hobart nodded, appraising "X." He did not pierce the disguise, but
he was not yet wholly satisfied. "Did Mr. Martin give you any other
message for me?"

"Yes. He said to tell you that there is blood on the moon." [13]

[13 AUTHOR'S NOTE: Though there was very little likelihood of a
stranger working himself into the organization of Secret Agent "X,"
the Agent considered it one of those things which are "possible but
not probable." Therefore he took every precaution to prevent such an
occurrence. It was required that his assistants identify themselves
doubly when contacting each other--once by their papers, and once more
by the password, which was changed every few days. If "X," posing as
Fearson, had failed to give the proper password. Jim Hobart would
immediately have had him seized and held for questioning.]

Jim smiled. "That's better. Now I'm sure you're okay. We can't be too
careful, you know. Now, if you will come inside, Larrabie and Coulter
can tell you their story at first hand. I'll introduce you as my chief
operative."

The Agent acquiesced, and followed him inside. Jim closed the door
carefully, and introduced "X" to the two young men who were waiting
with tense, drawn faces. "Doctor Larrabie and Mr. Coulter--this is Mr.
Fearson, my best man. I'm giving him charge of your case. Please tell
him what you told me."

Young Larrabie was high strung, much more nervous than he had appeared
last night when he had seen his friend, Harry Pringle, murdered before
his eyes. Ranny Coulter was stouter, more phlegmatic, but he, too,
appeared to be laboring under a great strain.

It was young Larrabie who assumed the burden of explaining their
difficulty. "You know, of course, about what happened to Harry Pringle
last night." At "X's" nod, he continued. "We thought at first that
damn monster gave him the works just as an example to the others
present. It was bad enough that way, and Ranny here, and Fred Barton
and myself decided to work on the thing, try to get that monster. We
were all present at the bazaar last night, and we realized it was a
tough job. We didn't understand how tough it really was until this
morning."

"What happened this morning?" the Agent asked quietly.

Larrabie told him grimly. "Fred Barton's disappeared!"

Ranny Coulter broke in. "It's not just his disappearing--we're sure
something's happened to him. We were supposed to get together this
morning at Jack's house, but Fred didn't show up. So we phoned, and
got no answer. Jack and I drove over to his apartment--he lives alone,
you know, away from his family. I have a passkey, and when we got in
we found the place had been thoroughly searched, and some of the
furniture was upset. An end table had been turned over and smashed--it
looked like a struggle had taken place."

Coulter stopped. There was a moment of silence. Jim Hobart, who had
been standing behind "X," shifted uneasily. Young Larrabie said
slowly, "It looks very much as if this murder monster is after the
four of us for some reason--first, Harry Pringle, then Fred. The four
of us have always stuck together. It may be our turn next--Ranny's or
mine. That's why we've come here."

"Can you think of any reason," the Agent asked, "why this monster
should be interested in you four?"

They shook their heads. "Unless," Coulter said, "he figures we'll try
to get back at him for murdering Harry that way last night and is
eliminating us before we can interfere."

"X" shook his head. "If the murder monster is behind your friend
Barton's disappearance, it is not for that reason. The monster has
more dangerous enemies whom he would try to eliminate first. Have you
notified the police?"

"No," Larrabie told him. "The police have been so helpless in the
whole thing, we thought we'd use your agency."

"They will have to be notified soon," said the Agent. "In the meantime
I suggest that the first thing to be done is to interview Fred
Barton's father. Suppose we do that first, and then decide on the next
step in the light of what we may learn from him."

The two young men agreed, placing themselves in the agency's hands. As
they were leaving, "X" lagged behind to give Jim Hobart some
instructions. "How many operatives have you available in the city
now?" he asked.

"I could dig up about fifteen," Jim told him.

"There are a few unimportant cases that I could pull them off."

"All right. Round up as many as you can, keep them ready for instant
duty. I'll call you back."

As "X" and the two young men drove downtown to the financial district
in Ranny Coulter's car, the Agent was careful to look behind
frequently. But they were not followed.



CHAPTER XV

SATAN RECRUITS

RANNY COULTER drove silently, while Jack Larrabie explained to the
Agent, "We ought to catch Fred's father in his office about this time.
You've heard of him, of course--Giles Barton, head of the Eastern
Steel Institute. That's the clearing house for the eastern branches of
all the big steel manufacturing companies." Young Larrabie smiled
ruefully. "I hate to break the news to him about Fred; the old man's a
terror when he's aroused. I could almost wish we wouldn't find him
in."

They did find him in, however, and had no trouble in getting in to see
him, for Coulter's and Larrabie's families were quite friendly with
the Bartons.

When they were ushered into the old man's luxuriously furnished,
richly carpeted office, they found him pacing up and down, his face
purple with rage, yet with a hint of apprehension in his eyes.

He was about to burst into a torrent of words at the two young men,
but noticed "X," and looked questioningly at them.

"This is Arvold Fearson, Mr. Barton," young Larrabie introduced. "He's
all right. We've hired his agency to do some work for us. What's the
trouble?"

Barton spluttered. "Trouble! Have you seen Fred today?"

Ranny Coulter lowered his eyes, then glanced at Jack Larrabie. "You
tell him."

Young Larrabie said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Barton, but I think--something's
happened to Fred."

"You think!" the old man barked. "I damn well know it! You young cubs
go chasing around, wasting your lives, and all you can get into is
trouble! Here--take a look at this!"

He snatched up a sheet of paper from his desk, thrust it at them.
Larrabie took it, read it in silence, and in silence passed it over to
the Agent, saying softly, "I'm--sorry, Mr. Barton. You can depend on
us to do all we can."

"X" read the note quickly, while young Coulter looked over his
shoulder. Then he reread it more carefully. It was worth a second
perusal:

Dear Mr. Barton: Your son, Fred, is in my hands. You need not be
alarmed--this is not a kidnaping. I have taken your son because he is
a brilliant student of chemistry and physics, and I need his services.

If your son performs the work I shall order him to do, he will be
allowed to live. The purpose of this letter is to request you, as you
value your son's life, not to do anything that might endanger it--do
not attempt to trace him, or to communicate with the police!

Yours.

The Master of the Monster.

Old man Barton was fuming. "The insolence of him! To dare to write me
anything like this! I'll have every policeman in the city on the trail
of this mountebank within an hour! Nobody can do this to me and get
away with it!"

Jack Larrabie said drily, "If you'd been at the bazaar last night, Mr.
Barton, you'd think differently. This monster is no mounteback--he's a
deadly murderer. The police can't do any good--he kills them like
flies!"

Barton strode up and down biting his upper lip. "What are we to do
then?" he cried in desperation.

"We've hired the Hobart Agency," Larrabie told him. "Just sit tight,
Mr. Barton. The monster says in the letter that Fred isn't going to be
killed. I only hope," he added fervently, "that Fred has the sense to
play along with him. He's so damn hot-headed, he's liable to tell this
murder monster to go to hell!"

"If he's any son of mine," the steel magnate barked, "that's just what
he'll do!"

"X" had remained silent, studying the three of them, at the same time
trying to analyze the contents of the letter Barton had received,
trying to arrive at a mental picture of the man who had written it.

He nodded shortly to Barton when they left, following the two young
men in silence, his mind still concentrating on the problem.

OUTSIDE, in front of Barton's building, he seemed to return to
realities again with a snap. He said firmly to the two young men, "I
am convinced that there is a deeper motive behind your friend's
disappearance than merely a desire to use his scientific knowledge.
Though he may be brilliant, there are still many men who are far more
advanced in the intricacies of chemistry and physics than he is--men
in the great industrial laboratories of the country, for instance. I
feel that perhaps that letter was only written for the purpose of
lulling your suspicions. It may be that there is some sort of plan to
wipe out you four young men; perhaps you offended this murder master
in some way--you may have, for you don't know who he is in private
life."

"What do you think we ought to do?" asked Ranny Coulter, nervously.

"I think you each ought to have a bodyguard. I will arrange it with
Mr. Hobart right now." He made for a phone booth across the street,
disregarding their protests.

"Damn it," Larrabie growled, "we came to Hobart because we wanted him
to work with us offensively. We didn't come because we were afraid and
wanted protection!"

"Nevertheless, you shall have protection. You have given us this case,
and we are going to work it our way!"

The Agent's dynamic personality, the assurance with which he overrode
their objections, left them no alternative but to agree.

When he was through phoning, he turned to them. "Wait here. Hobart is
sending down a man for each of you. There will be some one with you
day and night. It is quite possible that an attempt will be made
against one or both of you, and I advise you to keep to your homes.
Let the agency work on it from now on."

"All right," Larrabie agreed. "We'll stand for the bodyguards, but
I'll be damned if we stay home quietly while you have all the fun.
Take it or leave it!"

The Agent sighed. "Well, I guess that's the best I can do with you.
But if you must expose yourselves, please be careful. If you don't
care about your own hides, remember that our operatives are valuable
to us--don't place them in unnecessary danger. Now, if you will excuse
me, gentlemen, I have work to do."

He left them before they could ask him where he was going, just as a
car deposited two of Jim Hobart'a operatives on the sidewalk. As he
walked up the street, he noted with satisfaction that Hobart had
obeyed his instructions to the letter. For another car had pulled up
behind the first; and from this second car there stepped two more
operatives. These two were poorly dressed, and carried sandwich-board
signs, back and front, advertising the virtues of some cafeteria.

The two sandwich men proceeded down the street behind the first two
operatives, strolling along with an air of casual indifference which
concealed their alertness. They were covering the first two men
assigned to guarding Larrabie and Coulter. If the murder monster
should attack the young physician and his friend, the monster would be
due for a surprise. For those sandwich signs were constructed of
bullet-proof, fire-proof steel; and underneath each, conveniently
placed on a hook so that it could be brought into action at a moment's
notice, was a Thompson sub-machine gun!

The Agent was planning an interesting reception for the murder
monster!



CHAPTER XVI

"THE CHARGE IS MURDER!"

THE next twenty-four hours produced no new crimes, no new wave of
terror. It was almost as if some evil prescience had warned the murder
monster that traps were being laid, preparations being made for the
reception of its cohorts of crime.

Secret Agent "X" kept unceasing vigil. He knew that this was only a
lull before the storm. He spent the time in perfecting his
arrangements, keeping in constant touch with Bates and Hobart. Under
his orders their operatives flocked into the city from every part of
the country and were immediately assigned to stations where it was
likely that the monster would strike next. They were instructed not to
offer resistance in the event of an attack, for that would have been
suicide, but to call either Bates or Hobart at once.

Banks, jewelry establishments, even the subtreasury, had these
unobtrusive watchers stationed nearby, on the alert every minute of
the day.

Young Doctor Larrabie and Ranny Coulter remained together all day at
"X's" suggestion in order to make it easier for their bodyguards. And
wherever those bodyguards were, there, not far off, could be seen the
two sandwich men, shambling along with their innocuous looking signs
hanging from their shoulders.

Larrabie and Coulter even slept together that night at the home of
Ranny Coulter's family. The two bodyguards prowled in and out of the
house all night, while across the street the two sandwich men kept
constant vigil from the shelter of a small private park.

In the morning, Secret Agent "X" paid a visit to the tailoring
establishment of Corlear & Son, where he had stopped in the day
before. Mr. Corlear himself conducted him into the fitting room, and
locked the door, arousing a good deal of speculation among the clerks
as to the identity of the mysterious customer.

It was twenty minutes before the Agent left Corlear's. He was wearing
a gray sack suit that to all outward appearance differed in no way
from the hundreds of other suits Corlear's made and sold. The clerks
in the store would have been immeasurably more curious had they known
that the mysterious customer had paid two hundred and ten dollars for
that ordinary appearing suit!

The Agent stopped in at one of his apartments and changed from the
disguise of Mr. Vardis to that of Arvold Fearson, but continued to
wear the gray suit. Upon leaving the apartment, he drove downtown,
stopping on the way to phone Bates for a report.

Bates had been awaiting his call anxiously. "We've finally got
something on Runkle!" he announced. "I put two men on him as you
ordered. They picked him up a while ago and followed him to a house in
Brooklyn. It's a private house--Number Twenty-two Belvidere Road.
Fowler and Grace, the two men who are shadowing him, just phoned in
again. There's an empty house next door to Number Twenty-two, and they
got into it somehow. They can look into the room where Runkle is
sitting. He's there with another man, a gangster named Brinz. They
seem to be waiting for someone."

"Who is Brinz?" asked the Agent. "What have you got on him?"

"I figured you'd want to know that, sir, so I've got the file handy.
Brinz served a term in the Federal Detention House here in the city
for transporting and selling liquor. That was before repeal. He got
out eight months ago and hasn't been up to much since. During
prohibition he worked for 'Duke' Marcy, but there doesn't seem to be
any record of his present connections." Bates added a short
description of Brinz, so that the Agent could know him if he saw the
man.

"All right," said "X," "I'm going out to Belvidere Road. If Runkle or
Brinz should leave the house in the meantime, I want to know about it.
But I won't be able to stop and phone you. You'll have to use the
broadcast." [14]

[14 AUTHOR'S NOTE: Secret Agent "X" has been very reticent about this
broadcasting equipment. The reason for this reticence is that he still
finds it very useful and does not wish to reveal anything that might
help in locating it. Adjusted to the same wave-length as New York
police calls, the Agent is able to pick up messages from it with an
ordinary radio which is installed in every one of his cars. Thus, if
the car should be found by the police and examined, no suspicion would
be aroused. The sending set is fitted with a device perfected by the
Agent himself, which nullifies the results of the direction-finders of
the police and radio authorities who might wish to locate the station.
The Agent has not imparted any information to me about this device,
except that he calls it a "disperser"--it disperses the short-waves so
that the point of their origin cannot be determined.]

"Right, sir. If there's anything new, I'll shoot it out to you."

"Use code A."

"Code A, sir," Bates repeated.

"X" left the phone booth and got into his car. The broadcast equipment
was one that he employed very infrequently, in cases of emergency, or
where it was impossible to phone for reports. It was a powerful sending
set located in Bates's headquarters, sending on the same wave-length as
the New York police calls, and for that reason the Agent did not make
frequent use of it. But more than once in the past it had been the means
of bringing him to the scene of action in time to thwart well-laid
criminal plans.

NOW the Agent cut over to the East Side in his car, and crossed the
Brooklyn Bridge. Everywhere, as he passed, he saw police patrolling
the streets, with drawn, taut faces. Squad cars toured the city with
riot guns ready. These men were bravely preparing to meet the next
onslaught of the monster, knowing in advance what little chance they
had of surviving.

The Agent stopped for a moment to buy a newspaper and saw the
headline, "Governor to be asked for troops to reinforce police. City
in dread of next attack of murder monster!"

The Agent increased his speed a little after crossing the bridge.
Suddenly the radio in his car came to life. The voice of Bates came
over the air, speaking slowly. "Station 'X' calling! Station X
calling!" [15]

[15 AUTHOR'S NOTE: Since messages from the Agent's broadcast system can
be received by the police as well as by himself. It is necessary that
they be transmitted in code. These codes are constantly changed, and
the Agent has kindly consented to reveal the key of Code A since he no
longer uses it. Code A consists of a combination of three languages--
French, German, English. Three words are transmitted for each word of
the message itself--the other two not counting at all, but serving as
camouflage. The first word of the message, for instance, would be a
French word, the second a German word, the third an English word. By
rotating the order of the languages, the code is farther confused for
outside listeners, but is comparatively easy to interpret, especially
for one with experience in these matters. As an example here is how
the simple message, "I see him." would be transmitted. The capitalized
words are those that count. "JE freund monkey SEHE when rein HIM esel
ami." It will be observed that the order of the languages rotates in
this case, as follows: first: French, German, English; second: German,
English, French; third: English, French, German.]

At once the Agent drew a pencil from his pocket, wrote on a pad
attached to the dashboard as the voice of Bates continued, speaking in
Code A. The Agent drove with one hand, hardly slackening his speed as
his pencil wrote down only those words of the message that counted.

Finally the voice of Bates ceased. The message which "X" had written
on the pad stared up at him: "Fowler reports 'Duke' Marcy entered
house on Belvidere Road. Fowler returning to empty house next door.
Expecting you."

As the Agent drove on, he tried to puzzle out why "Duke" Marcy should
be calling on Runkle and Brinz in this out-of-the-way section of
Brooklyn.

He left his car in front of a drug store a block from Belvidere Road,
and started to walk toward the corner. Number Twenty-two, he knew from
a directory he had consulted, would be just around the corner to the
left, and he did not want to attract undue attention by driving right
up to the house.

This was a quiet residential section, with few people about in the
streets. When the Agent was halfway up the block, he noted a large
green coupé turning the corner from Belvidere on two wheels. The coupé
roared down the street, gathering speed as it passed "X."

The driver, who was the sole occupant of the car, had his hands
tightly on the wheel and gazed straight ahead without glancing to
either side. "X" started as he recognized that driver. It was Ed
Runkle!

In a flash the car had sped past and roared down the street out of
sight. But in that instant "X's" eyes had been busy. His keen senses,
constantly on the alert, had caught the license number of the coupé.
He waited a moment to see if Runkle was being followed by Grace or
Fowler, who were supposed to be watching the house on Belvidere Road.
But when no other car appeared, the Agent acted instantly. It was
important that Runkle should not be lost sight of at this time. It
would be impossible for "X" to return to his own car in time to take
up the chase. Accordingly, he turned and raced back to the drug store.
The clerk behind the counter gazed at him curiously as he tore into
the telephone booth and dialed Bates' number. When he got the
connection, he spoke swiftly.

"Runkle has just left the house on Belvidere Road, driving a green
Stutz coupé, license number L 27-2. He is not being followed by Grace
or Fowler. He is probably headed back for Manhattan, so send out men
in cars to cover all the bridges. If he crosses into Manhattan, they
can pick him up and trail him. This is important, Bates!"

Bates repeated, "Green Stutz coupé license number L 27-2. Right, sir.
I'll have the bridges covered inside of five minutes." He said
anxiously, "wonder what's the matter with Grace and Fowler."

"We'll know soon enough," the Agent told him. "I'm going there now."

"X" walked up the street again, turned the corner into Belvidere.
Number Twenty-two was the second house from the corner and seemed
peaceful enough. So did the one next to it, which was vacant, with a
"For Sale" sign pasted to one of the pillars of the front porch. The
Agent walked around to the back of the vacant house and tried the rear
door. It was unlocked--probably left that way by the watchers.

He entered the narrow foyer behind the kitchen to which this door
opened, and was assailed by the musty atmosphere that is peculiar to
houses that have been long untenanted. He pushed through to the
kitchen, then stepped into the dim hallway. Little light entered here
from outside, but his sharp eyes detected a huddled form close to the
wall.

He stopped short, scrutinizing the shadows at the far end of the hall,
the deep blobs of blackness that lay under the stairway to his left.
He discerned nothing lurking there, and took a quick step forward,
knelt beside the prone body. It was a dead man. He had been shot
through the head at close range; there were powder marks around the
wound. The floor beneath the man's head was sopping wet with blood.

The lips of Secret Agent "X" compressed grimly as he recognized the
body. It was Fowler, one of the two men who had been shadowing Runkle.
Fowler was still warm; the wound was still bleeding. He had died
within the last few minutes.

The Agent's fists clenched involuntarily. These men whom he employed
were not just impersonal names to him. He had investigated each one
thoroughly, knew them, had met them under one or another of his
disguises. Fowler had died in his service--another score to be settled
with the murder monster.

DESPITE the possibility of pressing danger around him, "X" stopped
here a moment, paying silent tribute to the man who had died in the
performance of his duty. Then, tearing himself back to the business in
hand, he stole noiselessly along the hall, seeming to merge with the
shadows. His shoes made not the slightest sound as he explored the
other rooms on the ground floor, found them empty and deserted.

Still silently, he went up the stairs. At the upper landing he paused,
listening intently. No sound greeted his ears. It was lighter here,
and he could see that the hallway was empty of life. But an open door
at the right drew him toward it. This room was unfurnished, like the
rest, but there was another body on the floor.

Brilliant morning sunlight poured into the room, playing upon the face
of the dead man, and "X" did not need to kneel beside him to tell how
he had met his death. For the gaping, bloody hole in his forehead
spoke for itself. And the man was Grace, Fowler's co--watcher.

Fowler and Grace had been killed coldbloodedly, no doubt to allow the
killer or killers a free hand in the house next door. The Agent's eyes
were bleak as he stepped to the window through which Grace had been
watching, and looked across the narrow driveway to Number Twenty-two.

He saw a room there, corresponding to the one he was standing in. It
was furnished as a sitting room--evidently Runkle thought that a
ground floor sitting room might be too accessible to eavesdroppers.

At first glance it appeared that the room in there was vacant. "X"
wondered if Runkle's guests had also departed with the little
attorney--but if they had, they certainly had not come in the green
coupé with him; for there had been no one else in the car with Runkle.

And suddenly, from that room; across the driveway there came a deep
moan as of a man dying in agony.

Almost before that moan was ended, the Agent had swung himself over
the sill and leaped to the ground. He landed on his toes, and was in
motion at once, running around to the front of Number Twenty-two. The
front door was unlocked, and "X" hurled himself through into the dim
hallway within. He raced up the stairs to the upper floor, and as he
reached the top landing, he saw the bloody, wabbling figure of a man
stagger out of the sitting room. In the uncertain light it was
impossible to identify him, but the Agent saw that the man held a gun.
The gun came up, wavering, pointed at the Agent, and the narrow
hallway rocked with the heavy explosions as the man in the doorway
fired again and again, keeping his finger down on the trigger.

But "X" had dropped to the floor at first sight of the gun in the
man's hand, and the slugs whined over his head harmlessly, burying
themselves in the opposite wall. Eight times the gun roared in quick
succession; and then, when the Agent knew that the clip was empty, he
launched himself from the floor in a flying tackle that brought down
the man in the doorway, landed them both in a tangled heap inside the
sitting room.

Secret Agent "X" grappled with the man, was surprised to find him
offering no resistance; the man lay flat on his back, breathing
heavily, gasping, almost sobbing. High above his heart was a bullet
wound, and it was miraculous that he had lasted long enough to stagger
through the doorway.

It was lighter in here, for the sun came in through the window on the
driveway, and "X's" lips compressed as he saw the man's face. It was
"Duke" Marcy!

Marcy's eyes were assuming a glassy look. His chest heaved with each
breath he took, and he expelled it with a long wheeze. His lips were
moving weakly.

The Agent raised his head, demanded, "Who shot you, Marcy?"

The dying man tried to form words, in fact, uttered several faintly,
but so low that they were indistinguishable. There was a raucous
rattle in his throat, and his head dropped back. He was dead.

From outside now, "X" heard the sound of a police whistle, of excited
shouts. There were heavy steps on the stairs, and a uniformed
policeman burst in with drawn gun. He covered the Agent,
ordering,'"Get up, you, and raise your hands!"

"X" shrugged and obeyed. He knew what the policeman thought--that he
had killed Marcy.

He said, "I did not kill this man, officer. I heard him groan and ran
into the house. I found him here with a gun in his hand, dying on his
feet." The policeman lowered at him. "Yeah?" He kept the revolver
steady. "That's a good story. You can tell it to the homicide men!"

Brakes squealed outside, more feet were heard on the stairs. "X"
glanced around the room, and for the first time saw another form
huddled in a corner where it had been invisible from the window across
the street. The man was Brinz--he recognized him from the description
Bates had given him.

The Agent's brow wrinkled in thought. Fowler and Grace killed in cold
blood; Marcy and Brinz murdered here--and Runkle driving away at
breakneck speed. There were puzzling elements here that needed
clearing up. Runkle had been in this very room, according to reports;
it was inconceivable that he could have gone across to the empty
house, shot Fowler and Grace, and returned to do the same to Marcy and
Brinz. He must have had assistance, if he were the murderer. In that
case, the thing must have been planned in advance--must have been a
trap into which Marcy walked unsuspectingly.

Now the room filled with uniformed figures. A precinct sergeant,
several plain-clothes men, and in a few moments, Inspector Cleary, in
charge of the Brooklyn homicide division. The policeman who had
arrived first made his report to Cleary. The inspector heard it,
frowning, then said to the Agent, "What's your nime?"

"I am Arvold Fearson, inspector, a private investigator. I did not
kill--"

The inspector interrupted him gruffly. "Stow that. You're under
arrest, Fearson. The charge is murder. I warn you that anything you
say may be used against you!"



CHAPTER XVII

VIA SHORT WAVE

ESCAPE was impossible now. The room was filled with police, they were
swarming through the house, and more were coming. "X" permitted
himself to be handcuffed, maintaining silence. Nothing he could say
now would induce Cleary to release him. Later, perhaps, a method of
escape would present itself. Now, he remained quiet while a sergeant
"frisked" him.

The sergeant felt the texture of the custom-made suit he wore, and
frowned, but said nothing. He ran big hands over the Agent's person,
and found the gas gun which reposed in an inner pocket built into the
lining of the coat. He examined it curiously, and was about to ask a
question, when Cleary, who had been phoning headquarters, returned
from the phone.

Cleary told the sergeant, "Commissioner Pringle wants to question this
man personally, Frazer. This man, Marcy, was wanted as a suspect in
the robot murders, and the commissioner thinks this bird ought to know
something about them."

Sergeant Frazer saluted. "This gun, sir--"

Cleary waved him away. "Take it down to headquarters with you and give
it to the commissioner. I've got nothing more to do with the case.
It's been taken out of my hands."

The inspector was plainly peeved that he had been superseded in the
investigation. His mood saved "X" the immediate necessity of
explaining away the gas gun.

Sergeant Frazer and two plain-clothes men escorted the Agent down to a
squad car in front of the door. Frazer sat in front next to the
chauffeur, while "X" was placed in the rear seat between the two
detectives.

"Over the Brooklyn Bridge."

Frazer directed the chauffeur, "to New York headquarters."

As the car got under way, the Agent saw the medical examiner arrive
together with a headquarters photographer. Nobody had mentioned the
bodies of Fowler and Grace next door. Apparently they hadn't got to
the empty house as yet.

While they traveled toward Manhattan, Frazer leaned forward and turned
on the button of the short-wave radio receiver. Several routine calls
came over, and then after a few moments these were drowned out by a
powerful sending set somewhere. The Agent stiffened as he heard the
voice of Bates.

"Station 'X' calling. Station 'X' calling!"

There was a moment of silence after the signal, when the regular
police calls became audible again.

Frazer swore. "There's that damn station again! They haven't been able
to locate it yet. Some damn amateur. When they locate him, he'll get
plenty!"

The detective at the right of the Agent started to say something, but
stopped as Bates's voice once more drowned out the police messages.

Slowly the alternate French, German and English words came over the
short wave, sounding like nothing but the meaningless jargon of a
deranged mind.

Frazer grumbled, "Let him have his fun. They'll let him fix radios in
jail when he's caught!"

But Secret Agent "X" paid him no attention. He was concentrating on
that message, picking out the words that counted--one French, one
German, one English; one German, one English, one French, and so on.
Decoding the message mentally required a swift-thinking, keen
intellect. "X" could not write the words now; he had to remember each
one that counted, and at the same time keep track of the progressive
changes from one language to another.

He shut out his surroundings, focused his whole attention on Bates's
voice. And while the others in the speeding car made petulant
comments, to him those words began to assume significance.

Bates was saying, "Suspicious truck reported opposite home of Randolph
Coulter. Have ordered plane number one to go up to circle the
neighborhood. Am awaiting further instructions."

Bates began to repeat the message, but "X" had no need to listen. He
had decoded the message as he heard it. A truck in front of Ranny
Coulter's house--and Coulter and Larrabie both staying there. The
truck might be innocent enough, but "X" had a vivid picture of the
monster stepping into that other truck when it had nearly caught him
in the apartment on Eighth Avenue.

Should he tell Frazer? The sergeant wouldn't believe him, would think
"X" was trying some sort of trick. If Coulter and Larrabie were still
home, they must be warned against going out, must stay inside the
house until the truck had been investigated.

There was no time to be lost. "X" must get away from his captors at
once; if the suspicions of Bates's operative were well grounded, then
this might be the opportunity that "X" had been waiting for.

In addition, there was another, perhaps more immediate danger looming
up. If the Agent were brought to headquarters, he would be thoroughly
searched. The things that would be found on him would damn him a
thousand times over in the eyes of the police; his bullet-proof vest,
his kit of chromium tools, his make-up material. Above all, they must
not be allowed to examine Mr. Corlear's suit too closely.

"X" LOOKED up, saw that they were approaching the Manhattan end of the
Brooklyn Bridge, and reached a swift decision. His manacled hands
moved inconspicuously. His fingers flicked to his tie, came away with
a small glass capsule that had laid in an ingeniously contrived pocket
of the lining.

Too late, the detective at his right saw what he was doing and reached
out to grip his hand, exclaiming, "Say! What the--"

He did not complete the sentence, for the Agent had flipped the glass
capsule into the air, over the driver's shoulder. The capsule struck
the windshield, shattered; and the powerful, pungent odor of
concentrated ammonia gas filled the car.

Frazer and the two detectives began to cough as the stinging gas
entered their throats; their eyes clouded with burning tears. The
driver, in a panic of sudden agony, let go of the wheel to rub at his
eyes, and the car swerved, careened into the rail at the side of the
bridge. All four of them forgot completely about the presence of their
prisoner in the abrupt anguish which attacked their eyes, noses and
throats.

Secret Agent "X" had taken a deep breath as he hurled the capsule, and
now he held it while his fingers dipped into the vest pocket of the
detective at his right, emerged with the key to the handcuffs. In a
twinkling the steel links were loosened and dropped to the
floorboards.

The impact of the car against the rail sent them all flying in a heap
to the floor, but it was the Agent who acted with the precision of a
machine. He kept his eyes closed as a protection against the gas,
heaved himself up, and twisted the knob of the door. The car had come
to a standstill as he leaped out. Brakes screamed as the traffic
behind came to an abrupt stop.

The Agent took a deep breath of the clean fresh air, and looked
around. Another car had come to a halt beside them, the driver looking
over at them with wide eyes. "X" sprang over, wrenched open the rear
door, and swung inside.

"Drive ahead!" he ordered with a crisp incisiveness that brooked no
opposition.

The driver hesitated only an instant. The Agent gripped his shoulder
with hard fingers. "Get going, or I'll throw you out and drive
myself!"

The man at the wheel quailed under the quiet threat of that voice. He
mumbled something indistinguishable, shifted into first, and put the
car in motion.

Behind them came hoarse shouts from Frazer and the other detectives in
the squad car. They were not hurt, but they were helpless, blinded for
the moment by the gas. An officer was lumbering toward the scene from
the Manhattan end of the bridge. He did not even look toward the car
that passed him, in which "X" was riding; he had eyes only for the
accident farther up.

"X's" unwilling chauffeur slowed up almost imperceptibly, half-turned
toward the bluecoat outside. But the Agent divined his purpose at
once, pressed the hard end of a fountain pen flashlight into his
shoulder blade. "Just keep going," he ordered softly.

The driver obeyed.

As they left the bridge behind, "X" moved over to the right side of
the seat so that the man at the wheel could not see him in the rear
vision mirror. "Turn left," he instructed. "Drive downtown till I tell
you to stop."

The owner of the car did as directed. At the next corner there was a
red light. "I'll have to stop for this," he said over his shoulder.
"Is it okay for me to--" His voice trailed off, and he braked to a
stop with a bewildered expression on his face. Then he pulled over to
the curb and swore. For he had been talking to thin air.

As he had slowed up for the light, his passenger had opened the
right-hand door and leaped from the car, disappearing into the lunch
hour crowd around city hall. The only evidence that he had even been
present in the car was a folded twenty-dollar bill which he had placed
conspicuously in the slot of the door handle.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE MONSTER PAYS A VISIT

THE Agent crossed City Hall Park at a fast walk, and entered the drug
store at the corner of Broadway and Chambers. He looked up the number
of Ranny Coulter's house, and hurried into a phone booth, put in the
call, hoping that nothing had happened there yet.

He was relieved to hear Jack Larrabie's voice over the wire.

He said crisply, "This is Fearson, Larrabie. Is young Coulter there
with you?"

"Yes," Larrabie answered. "We were just leaving to go down to
headquarters. Harry Pringle's father, the deputy commissioner, has
offered to deputize us so that we can go after the monster.
We're sick and tired of sticking in the house and doing nothing!"

The Agent's voice rang with a sudden note of authority as he said,
"Neither of you must leave the house till I get there, Larrabie! There
is a truck parked outside which may be waiting for you to come out. Do
nothing until I arrive. Is that clear?"

"Well--" young Larrabie said reluctantly.

The Agent interrupted him. "On no condition must you go out. I'll be
there in less than a half hour. And stay away from the windows, too!"

He hung up without waiting for an answer, but he did not leave at
once. Instead he turned his back to the glass door of the booth, set
up his portable mirror on the corner of the small shelf where the
telephone rested, and set to work on his face. Within three minutes,
Arvold Fearson had disappeared. Mr. Vardis now stood in the booth.
Though the gray suit was the same, the Agent's whole bearing was
different.

As he stepped out of the booth, he no longer walked with the shuffling
slouch of Fearson. Instead, he strode erect, with head held high. So
perfect was the transformation, that by the very change in bearing he
seemed to be inches taller than Fearson had appeared.

Out on Broadway, he met a scene of wild excitement. The street was a-
swarm with police. Frazer and the plain-clothes men must have
recovered by this time from the effects of the ammonia gas and given
the description of Fearson.

Plain-clothes men were peering into the faces of every passer-by. The
office buildings were being combed by a flood of officers that had
been thrown into the district. They were apparently determined that
the supposed murderer of Marcy should not escape.

But Mr. Vardis passed unquestioned, for he in no wise resembled the
fugitive. He hailed a cab, gave directions to drive to the Coulter
home. "If you hurry," he said to the cabby, "you can make it in twelve
minutes; I want you to do better than that--I want to get there in
ten. And there's ten dollars in it for you."

The cabby grinned, and stepped on the gas.

So far, all of "X's" genius had been futile in combatting this
dreadful monster that terrorized the city. He had been forced to fight
blindly, depending on chance, waiting for the monster to make a
mistake. Even now, as he sped uptown, he realized that there was only
one chance in a hundred that the truck in front of the Coulter home
had anything to do with the monster. But that one chance had to be
looked into. In a battle like this, nothing could be passed by
lightly. The cab made it in ten minutes. It turned into Madison Avenue
two blocks below the Coulter home, and the driver headed north.

TRAFFIC was light at this time of the afternoon, and "X" could see far
ahead over the cabby's shoulder. He saw the two sandwich men on the
corner in front of the Coulter house, saw the large truck across the
street. He consulted his watch, saw that he was well within the
twenty-minute time limit and breathed a sigh of relief. He had
outlined in his mind a tentative plan for investigating that truck
without arousing the suspicions of its occupants, if there were any.

He leaned forward, said to the driver, "When you get up to that corner
where the sandwich men are standing, pull up next to them."

The driver nodded, began to slow up. They still had one street
intersection between them and the Coulter house. The green traffic
light on the avenue turned red, and the cabby braked to a halt at the
corner. A block away the sandwich men paced lazily with all the
appearance of a couple of down-and-outers working for a day's pay. No
one would have suspected them of carrying sub-machine guns concealed
under those signs.

Somewhere in the immediate vicinity there would also be the two men
assigned as bodyguards to Larrabie and Coulter.

But "X" had eyes only for the truck. At the distance of a whole block,
his keen eyes examined it carefully. It was all white, with black
lettering on its side, announcing that the "Snow-Cap Laundry Does Your
Sheets Like New." It was facing north, away from him, and he could not
see the driver's compartment. But he suddenly noted something that
caused his whole body to grow tense.

Projecting from the roof of the truck was a short length of metal tube
which was curved at the top, so that the opening faced toward the
Coulter house. "X" had seen many of these in war times, knew that at
the first sight of one of these rising upon the crest of a barren
ocean, stark panic had been wont to tread the decks of the proudest
ocean liners. It was a periscope such as is used on submarines!
Somebody within that truck was watching the house across the street!

It took but a second for the Agent to note this, even while the cab
was slowing up for the red light. Now he leaned forward, said tensely,
"Don't mind the red light--shoot ahead, quick. If there's a fine, I'll
pay it!"

But the driver shook his head. "Nix, mister. It'd be my fourth
ticket--I'd lose my license. They're hard on us hackmen."

And then things began to happen.

The Agent saw the door of the Coulter house open, saw Ranny Coulter
and Jack Larrabie come out and start to descend the steps to the
sidewalk. His eyes smouldered. They had deliberately broken their
promise to him, had not waited the full twenty minutes.

And now, almost simultaneously with the appearance of the two young
men, the rear doors of the waiting truck were flung open, and a swarm
of the stiff-walking, robot-like men deployed into the street. They
rushed toward Larrabie and Coulter, silently, purposefully intentful;
each carried a silenced automatic.

Secret Agent "X" leaped from the cab. But he was too far away. Things
happened too fast.

Coulter and Larrabie had stopped transfixed, at the sudden eruption of
attackers. It was the two sandwich men at the corner who stopped the
rush of the robots. Even as "X" was leaping from the cab, they swung
their sub-machine guns clear of the sandwich boards, and directed a
hail of lead at the attackers. The sweep of their slugs bowled over
the robot-like men as if they were nine-pins--but did not kill them;
their bullet-proof clothing stopped the slugs, though they had the
wind knocked out of them by the terrific impacts. Not one was left
standing. They littered the gutter, started to crawl back toward the
truck. The sandwich board trick had been successful so far.

BUT now there descended from the truck the huge, ungainly shape of the
murder monster. Its robots had failed; it was swinging into action
itself. It paid no attention at all to the two machine gunners, no
attention to the squirming forms of the robots who were creeping back
to the shelter of the truck, but lumbered with a dreadful singleness
of purpose--straight toward the two stupefied young men on the steps
of the house.

The Secret Agent had started to run toward the scene, but he was still
almost a block away. A police whistle shrilled near by. Women passers-by
screamed, others ran helter-skelter to places of safety.

The two sandwich men frantically shoved fresh clips in their Tommy
guns, raised them to their shoulders, and almost as one man they
pumped a rapid, steady stream of lead at that horrible figure--to no
avail. The slugs buried themselves in the outer, covering of the
monster, staggering it a little, but not swerving it from its course.
It made a straight line toward its objective.

Larrabie and Coulter turned to run into the house. The monster raised
its hand, pointed that deadly finger, and young Coulter, who had been
a trifle in the lead, suddenly staggered, and became enveloped in a
sheet of flame!

He screamed once, then rolled down the steps to the street, uttering
choked cries which quickly changed to incoherent moans, and then died
to nothingness as his scorched, crisp body jerked and twitched
convulsively and lapsed into pitiful stillness.

Young Larrabie had stopped, aghast, beside his friend. The monster
called out in a resonant voice that seemed to rise to the rooftops,
"Come here, Larrabie. It's you I want. Come here or die!"

As in a trance, Larrabie approached the monster.

By this time Secret Agent "X" had reached the corner beside the two
sandwich men, who were reloading once more, holding their ground
regardless of the danger that the monster might turn its dreadful
finger of doom upon them too. "X" seized a loaded Tommy from the hands
of the nearest, saying, "It's all right. I'm from Jim Hobart!"

He swung the machine-gun toward the monster. His purpose was to wait
till the monster got into motion once more, then direct the stream of
lead at a spot just above its middle. The bullets could not pierce its
protective coating, of course, but if they struck at a point just
above the monster's center of gravity, they might topple him over.

But he never pulled the trip of the gun. For the monster suddenly
reached out, gripped young Larrabie about the middle, and lifted him
off the ground. Then, carrying him under its arm, it returned to the
car, not hurrying, turning its massive, hideous head from side to side
to survey the situation. To fire the sub-machine gun now would only
mean the death of young Larrabie who had slumped in his captor's arms,
apparently in a faint.

The injured robots had crawled into the truck, and the monster
followed them, unmolested.

"X" watched, helpless to intercede, with bitterness in his heart, as
the door swung shut, and the truck got into motion, sped away.

Above, the hum of an airplane motor became audible. The Agent glanced
upward, and his eyes glittered as he saw the huge flying machine
circling in the air. It kept its altitude, did not dive, but the
radius of its circle increased gradually. Bates had been on the job.
Now, if those flyers only did their work well...Secret Agent "X"
nodded grimly to himself. He said to the two sandwich, men, "Get rid
of those signs--drop them right here with the machine guns--and
disperse. Here comes the police." The two men obeyed quickly,
disappearing around the corner, piling into a car which had been
parked there. No one in the fast gathering crowd tried to stop them,
or noticed them. Everybody was gathered around the still smouldering
body of Ranny Coulter, commiserating with his hysterical parents who
had rushed out of the house. Secret Agent "X" effaced himself in the
crowd just as the first police car appeared.



CHAPTER XIX

BIRD'S-EYE TRAIL

THAT afternoon the papers were devoted almost exclusively to the
startling events of the day. The murders in Belvidere Road, the
horrible killing of Ranny Coulter, and the abduction of young Larrabie
were the subjects of excited comment throughout the city.

The police were still searching ineffectually for the truck in which
the murder monster had escaped with Larrabie as his prisoner. A radio
car had given it close chase for a while, until a small porthole in
the rear of the truck had swung open. Through this porthole had
appeared the pointing finger of the monster, and the police car had
suddenly burst into flames; the two policemen in the car had been
burned to death.

No one had seen the laundry truck after that. Examination of records
revealed, of course, that there was no such firm as the "Snow-Cap
Laundry." It was not understood how the truck could have made its escape
with every exit from the city guarded, with hund
reds of plain-clothes
and uniformed men searching the streets and garages.

With all this bustle and excitement Secret Agent "X" did not concern
himself. He was ensconced in a darkened room in one of his retreats,
engaged in doing a peculiar thing.

This room was exceedingly large, some thirty feet in length. At one
end a white motion-picture screen was hung on the wall. At the other
end, Secret Agent "X" was engaged in threading a reel of film into a
motion-picture projection machine. This completed, the Agent threw a
switch, and the machine began to hum as the reels turned, the arc-light
of the projector throwing a beam of light across the room. The
Agent now stood tensely, watching the motion pictures which were
flashed on the screen. There appeared a bird's-eye view of a portion
of the city, including that section of Madison Avenue where the
Coulter home was located. The Agent saw the frantic, running specks
which were men and women in panic, he saw a sheet of flame in the
street, and his lips compressed grimly as he realized that this was
the burning body of Ranny Coulter. But his eyes followed the motions
of the object that he knew was the murder truck leaving the scene of
the crime. The picture flickered often, darkened sometimes to an
indistinguishable blur, but it always cleared, always kept that
fleeing truck in view.

These pictures had been taken by an aerial camera built in under the
cockpit of the plane which had circled over the scene of the crime. It
was one of the two planes which "X" had kept in readiness for just
such an emergency. Knowing that the monster used a truck for
transportation, the Agent had provided this means of tracing its
movements.

He waited tautly, watching the flickering film. The next few minutes
would tell whether the camera had been able to follow that truck to
its hidden destination--a thing the police had so far failed to do. [16]

[16 AUTHOR'S NOTE: This method of tracing criminals after a major crime
has been committed was devised by Secret Agent "X." He found it of
such value, that he has permitted me to mention his use of it in this
chronicle. He has also instructed me to offer the idea to the New York
Police Department in connection with its air division. If the Police
planes were equipped with aerial cameras, the procedure would be as
follows: Immediately upon the alarm of a major crime such as a bank
holdup, all traffic lights in the vicinity of the crime would flash
red thus halting the movement of every vehicle except that in which
the criminals were escaping. The police plane, taking off at the first
alarm, could be over the city in a few minutes, and the aerial camera
would then record the movements of the car in which the gunmen wen
fleeing. Thus, if they succeeded in evading pursuit, the camera would
show unerringly just where they had holed up, and the forces of the
law could then proceed to smoke them out. The Agent has suggested that
the aerial camera would work even better in less populous centers, but
there is no reason why it should not work in a large city.]

On the screen there appeared the vast network of streets that was New
York City, with humans that resembled minute ants scurrying
everywhere. And through it all the Agent followed the movements of
that blob that was the murder monster's truck, speeding northward,
then east to the river front where it stopped at a deserted spot.

From the truck there swarmed a number of specks that were men. They
were carrying two large flat objects which they fastened to the sides
of the truck, and then they hurried around to back and front for a
moment. Their work over, they climbed back inside, and the truck once
more resumed its course, this time proceeding much more slowly,
threading its way back into the heart of the city.

The Agent stirred at his spot beside the projector. He understood why
that truck had not been traced. The license plates had been changed,
and the truck itself had been disguised by fastening thin sheets of
metal over the sides. These were probably of a different color, with
another name. No wonder the police had lost it--they were still
looking for a white laundry truck.

Now the disguised truck proceeded sedately through traffic, passing
traffic officers, radio cars, driving boldly to its destination under
the very eyes of the entire police force.

Its destination was a street on the west side of town, where genteel
brownstone houses rubbed elbows with garages and tall apartment
houses. The truck turned in to one of these garages, disappeared from
view.

The film continued to wind through the projector, flashing further
bird's-eye pictures on the screen. But "X" had no more interest in it.
He had turned away into a cubbyhole just off the projection room,
where a large-scale map of the city hung on the wall. On this map he
was engaged in tracing the movements of the truck, which his
photographic memory had recorded faithfully from the film.

In a moment his pencil rested on the exact spot where the truck had
disappeared. His face was alight with a strange glow. He had traced
the monster to its hole!



CHAPTER XX

HELL'S HEADQUARTERS

IT was close to dusk when a dignified gentleman in a gray suit drove a
large and expensive looking sedan into the street on the west side of
town where the monster's truck had disappeared.

The gentleman noted, as he drove down the street, that there were
several men loitering near the corner. Among them were two whom he
knew as Stegman and Oliver.

On the corner was a large apartment house, and next to it was a row of
old, three-story brownstones. On the other side of the street there
were several garages. The Agent drove slowly, as if not certain of his
destination. Finally he slowed up, swung the car into the driveway of
a large garage in the middle of the block.

There were a dozen cars on the floor, here, though the space would
have accommodated thirty or forty. Several of these were trucks,
though none, of course, bore the name of the Snow Cap Laundry. A
single attendant, who was built along the lines of a heavyweight
prize-fighter, was in charge.

He approached the sedan, looking inquiringly at the driver.

"What is it, mister?"

The Agent descended leisurely from the car, said affably, "I've just
moved into the neighborhood and I was looking for a good garage to
store my car. What do you charge in here?"

The attendant cast an appraising glance at the visitor, and said
surlily, "The boss ain't in, mister."

"Well, have you any idea what the rates are?"

The attendant had half turned away, as if to return to his duties. He
stopped reluctantly. "They run around a hundred a month with service."

"A hundred a month!" the Agent exclaimed. "Why, that's almost twice
the prevailing rates!"

"That's what we charge, mister. We only take in high class people."

"That's entirely too much," said "X." "I don't see how you can get any
business."

The attendant shrugged. "We get along." He turned away once more. "I
think it's cheaper up the block. Why don't you try over there?"

"I will. Oh, by the way--"

The attendant stopped once more, annoyed. "What--"

He never finished. For Secret Agent "X" had stepped close to him and,
as he turned, delivered a smashing blow to the point of the
attendant's chin. The overalled man staggered backward, his eyes
growing glassy, and would have slumped to the floor had "X" not caught
him and eased him down slowly. He then dragged the unconscious
attendant's body over to a corner, where he deposited it.

Now he proceeded to scan every corner of the garage. There was no
place of concealment anywhere. The walls were of brick, bare, without
any sort of covering that might hide a secret door.

The Agent stepped to the doorway, looked out at the street. Directly
opposite was a brownstone house, one of the long row that ran to the
corner. They had once been the homes of comfortable families, quiet
and refined. Now they all had "furnished room" signs. All, that is,
except Number 346, which was the one directly opposite. This one had
no sign, and did not seem to be occupied at all.

Secret Agent "X" frowned, turned away from the entrance, and went into
the office of the garage, which was in the corner, facing the street.
There was no one in the office, but he noticed that the large window
on the street was of frosted glass, making it impossible to look in
from outside.

There was a desk against one wall, and a table in the center. The
floor was of concrete. There were two closed doors in the wall
opposite the desk. The Agent tried them. The first opened into a wash
room, the second into a closet. It was quite a roomy closet. A dozen
new tires, still in their wrappings, were stacked at one side. The
rest of the closet was occupied by boxes of inner tubes, cans of oil,
and other innocent appealing accessories of a legitimate garage.

The Agent examined the floor and the walls, but could find no trace of
an opening. His face was intent, thoughtful.

Before leaving the closet, he put his hands on the top tire of the
stack, tried to lift it. He found that it could not be lifted. It was
tied to the others by several lengths of heavy wire. "X" gripped the
wire and pulled.

And the whole stack of tires moved outward, toward him!

They had been resting on a metal plate set just above the floor, which
moved on a pivot. Below the plate there was disclosed a circular
opening leading down into darkness.

Secret Agent "X" peered down into this opening and saw a set of
stairs.

HE was taut now, all his senses keenly alert. No sound came from the
garage outside the office, no sound came from the depths below.
Ominous silence lay about the place, and the gathering dusk seemed to
creep upon him with damp, stifling fingers. Here then, was the lair
where lurked this murder monster that had held the city in terror. Now
at last, after unremitting effort, after thrusting himself into danger
time and again, he was going to come to grips once more with that
horrible specter of death that caused men to turn into a living blaze
of torture.

The Agent lowered himself into the opening, descended the short flight
of steps. It was pitch black in here, but he did not light his flash.
He reached the bottom, felt a wall at his right, and followed it. He
put out his left hand, felt another wall.

He was in a narrow passage, and his sense of direction told him that
it ran under the street, toward Number 346, opposite. He followed the
passage for about thirty feet, and found himself before a closed door.

Now he risked the flashlight, saw that the door was of steel, with a
small peephole, closed now, high up at the level of the eyes.

He set the flashlight on its end so that the beam was diffused upward,
and knelt before the lock, taking out his kit of tools. In less than
three minutes, working with absolute silence, he had the door open,
stepped through into a lighted cubbyhole.

One of the robot-men was seated here, apparently a guard. He sprang
up, hand streaking for the silenced automatic that lay on a small
table beside him. But the Agent was faster. He had provided himself
with another gas gun to replace the one he had lost earlier in the
day,[17] and he fired this full in the face of the startled robot. The
man sank to the floor without a moan.

[17 AUTHOR'S NOTE: It will be recalled that the Agent's gas gun had
been taken from him when he was placed under arrest by Inspector
Cleary, and he had not had a chance to recover it when he made his
escape from the police car. It was not a great loss, however, for,
though the gun in itself was an interesting instrument, it was useless
to any one without the formula for the gas which it discharged. And
the police chemists would certainly not have a chance to analyze it,
for the moment the gas chamber was opened, the gas would escape,
rendering whoever was present unconscious for several hours. As a
matter of fact, this is just what did occur, as the Agent learned some
time afterward. The incident was related to him some weeks later by
Commissioner Foster on his return from Europe, when they met in the
Bankers' Club--which was frequented by the Agent in the personality of
the wealthy Elisha Pond.]

The Secret Agent wasted no time. He knelt beside the inert form, set
up his portable mirror and laid on the floor his make-up kit.

His fingers worked swiftly, dexterously, as he modeled for himself a
face that was the duplicate of the face of the robot who lay before
him.

Finally he arose. His gray suit was of the same cut as that of the
robots; his face was an exact replica of theirs. He walked stiffly,
opened a door at the other side of the cubbyhole, and stepped through,
for all the world another one of those merciless killers.

He was in a short hall, musty and dank with the typical cellar smell.
This must be the cellar of Number 346. He passed a rickety wooden
door, heard a scraping noise behind it.

The door was fastened on the outside by a staple which he removed. He
flashed his light into the dark interior, saw a huddled form, tied,
with mouth and eyes taped.

He stepped inside, knelt beside the figure, and removed the tape from
the mouth, leaving the man's eyes covered. The man was Ed Runkle!

Runkle had not been picked up by Bates' men--in fact he had been lost
sight of after "X" had seen him driving away from Belvidere Road. And
this was why he had not been picked up again. He was a prisoner of the
monster--Runkle, the attorney who had defended the monster's man in
court, whom "X" had seen driving away from the slaughter house on
Belvidere Road!

WITH the tape off his mouth, the little attorney wet his lips, ran his
tongue around the outside of his mouth where the tape had torn the
skin. "What do you want of me?" he asked huskily. He wriggled his head
as if he could in that way remove the tape from his eyes. "Are you one
of the--robots? Talk, why don't you talk! Let me hear you say
something!"

"X" kept his ear cocked for the possible approach of anyone along the
corridor. He said, "I am not a robot. Answer my questions, but do not
raise your voice. How did you get here?"

Runkle's body seemed to stiffen at the sound of "X's" voice. He
exclaimed, "If you're not a robot--who are you?" He had seemed to gain
courage from the news that this was not another one of the ruthless
mechanical-appearing men of the monster. Even his voice seemed to
assume a new tone, a tone with a tinge of cunning in it. He repeated
the question--"Who are you?"

"Never mind that," the Agent told him curtly. "There's no time now for
explanations. If I'm to help you, you must answer me quickly. How did
you get here?"

With the instinct of his profession, Runkle began to hedge. "You want
information? Why don't you take the tape off my eyes then? When I see
who you are, maybe I'll tell you what you want to know."

"X" arose from beside him. "I have no time," he said shortly. "If you
won't talk, I'll leave you here." He went toward the door.

Runkle called out in a low, desperate voice, "Wait! Don't leave me
here! I'll talk."

The Agent returned, stood above him. "Go on."

"I don't know how I got here. I was driving, out in Brooklyn. Suddenly
a large truck cut in front of me, forced me to the curb. The rear door
of the truck opened, and a small army of these robots swarmed out,
grabbed me and hustled me into the truck. They tied me up this way,
and taped my eyes. Then I passed out, and I don't know what happened
after that. I came to in here--I don't know where I am." He raised his
voice in a thin whine. "For God's sake, get me out of--"

"X" quickly placed a hand over his mouth. "Silence, you fool! Do you
want to attract everybody in the place?"

The Agent removed his hand from the attorney's mouth, asked, "Why did
you kill Marcy and Brinz?"

Runkle shifted energetically. "God! I didn't do that! I went down to
the kitchen to get some drinks for them, and when I got back I saw two
of those robots in the hall upstairs, and they were firing their
silenced guns into the room where Marcy and Brinz were sitting. I got
scared and ran out. I got in my car and drove away from there as fast
as I could go."

The Agent bent closer. "What was your business with Marcy?" he asked

Runkle was silent for a long time. Finally he said, "I don't believe
you're here to help me. You're one of that monster's men. You're
pumping me!" He lapsed into stubborn silence.

The Agent arose. "You need not answer," he said. "I know what you were
meeting Marcy for. Brinz was bringing the two of you together--'Duke'
Marcy knew who the Murder Monster is, and he wanted your help to
avenge the death of Mabel Boling!" Runkle uttered a gasp of surprise.
The Agent turned to the door. "I'm not taping your mouth again--but if
you value your life, don't make any outcry or do anything to attract
attention. I give you my word that you will be freed before I leave
here." Then he added, as Runkle started to protest, "You can rely on
it--it is the word of--Secret Agent'X'!"

Runkle's jaw fell open in astonishment. He was too stunned to speak.

"X" stepped out and continued down the hallway. The hall ended in a
cross-corridor; at the end of the corridor was a door, and before the
door stood one of the robots with an automatic in his hand. It was too
late to draw back, for the robot had already seen him.

"X" advanced in his direction, but the robot seemed to take him for
granted. Indeed, there was no reason why he shouldn't, for he no doubt
took "X" to be one of his fellows.

He raised his hand, however, motioned for "X" to go back. He was
apparently on guard at that door, with instructions to allow no one to
enter.

But "X" advanced as if he had not noticed the gesture, until he was
within two feet of the other. The robot stepped forward, barring his
way, motioning angrily, now, for him to go back.

"X" smiled disarmingly, and fired the gas gun, which he had held out
of sight, directly into the robot's face. The guard sagged,
unconscious, the automatic slipping from nerveless fingers, and the
Agent eased him to the floor.

He stepped over him and tried the door. It was unlocked, and he pulled
it open gently, a fraction of an inch, without making a sound.



CHAPTER XXI

FLAMES OF HATE

THE room within was large, square. The effect of the first glimpse was
an effect of whiteness and cleanliness. The walls were tiled, white. A
long bench at the opposite wall ran across the full length of the
room, except for the spot in the right-hand corner where there was a
flat-topped, mahogany, glass-covered desk.

On the bench were retorts, test tubes, microscopes. Racks of tubes
containing liquids and gasses were nailed to the wall above the bench.
Everything seemed orderly, neat; so neat as to be terrifying--
terrifying by the very incongruity of this white-tiled laboratory in
the cellar of a run-down house in a run-down district.

The Agent, however, had nothing but a cursory glance for the setting--
a glance, though, that embraced everything vital before it rested upon
the two characters in the center of the room.

One of those two was young Jack Larrabie. The other was the weird
figure of the murder monster.

Larrabie's face was suffused with rare. He was shouting, "Damn you!
Why did you kill Coulter?"

The murder monster waddled forward slowly, stopped, facing Larrabie,
and standing sideways to the door through which "X" peered. From
somewhere in its depths there came the deep metallic voice that the
Agent had heard before. It uttered a hideous, inhuman laugh. Then the
laughter stopped suddenly, and the voice spoke.

"You seem to forget, Larrabie, that I have the whip hand. Do you know
what that means? I will show you!"

Too late, young Larrabie turned, leaped away from in front of that
hideous figure. He had not covered three feet before the ponderous,
moving finger of the monster rose, pointing at his back. Horrid,
sizzling flame burst out around the young man. He screamed once,
half-turned, and his face was a mask of hate and dread.

He dropped to the floor, tried ineffectually to beat out the flames by
rolling over and over. Now he was enveloped in fire, a screaming,
wriggling, sizzling ball of fire.

It had all happened so quickly, almost upon the instant that the Agent
had opened the door. Now, "X" flung it wide, launched himself at the
monster in a flying leap that caught the gruesome figure amidships.
The Agent struck with his shoulder, sent the monster staggering
backward so that it would have fallen had it not ended up against the
bench. It had gone right through the sheet of flame that enveloped the
writhing body of young Larrabie, but had been untouched by it.

Now its dread finger came up, directed itself unerringly at "X."

The monster seemed to be quite at ease, secure in the knowledge that
in another instant this intruder would likewise go up in flames. But
nothing happened!

From deep within the monster came a rumble of astonishment.

The Agent laughed grimly, and leaped at the monster once more. This
time he did not attempt to match his weight against that of the
heavily padded and protected form. He seized the pointing arm, twisted
around so that his back was to the monster.

[?] his shoulder under the padded arm.

He used the leverage of his shoulder now, heaved and twisted. The
monster was carried forward for a moment, off balance. And in that
moment the Agent lunged against it sideways. It staggered to one side,
and unable to recover its balance, crashed to the floor. The Agent had
attacked it in its one weak spot--being so heavily padded and
protected, it was easily unbalanced; and once on the floor, it could
not rise without great difficulty. It was something like the armored
knights of old--invincible while on horseback, but at the mercy of the
first attack when thrown.

The monster struggled frantically to swing its deadly finger up once
more, but "X" deliberately stepped on the padded arm, pinning it to
the floor.

The Agent stared down with somber eyes. "You should have pointed that
finger of yours at my face--it's the only vulnerable spot. The clothes
I am wearing are made to order, of sheet asbestos, specially treated
to soften it so it could be tailored into a suit. It is fire-proof!"

The body of Jack Larrabie lay still, a few feet away, smouldering,
scorched, a pitiful thing in death, the face now fleshless and
charred. Even now, with the spark of life burned out of it, the body
twitched convulsively as if it still lived in agony.

THE monster tried to twist itself free of the Agent's foot, which
pinned it down. But its very bulk was against it.

The Agent bent swiftly and unbuckled the straps that held the gas mask
in place. He jerked it off, and found that the head beneath was
nothing but an empty shell of aluminum, covered by the gas-mask. It
was held to the metal body by two strong clamps. The Agent undid
these, and removed the aluminum shell. Out of an opening in the
barrel-like body, where the neck should have been, there stared up at
him a pair of venomous eyes, sparkling with hatred.

The occupant of that monster's armor was not as tall as his shell. His
head remained within the armor, while the gas-mask and the aluminum
head were merely for the purpose of effect. "X" could now see two
peepholes, covered with glass, in the padded body. It was through
these that the man within had looked at his victims.

The Agent said, "You can crawl out of there now. You're through." His
voice was flat, with a strange bitterness. He saw mental pictures of
the atrocities at the bazaar, saw the lifeless forms of Fowler and
Grace.

The man within the armor spoke, no longer metallically, resonantly,
but in a human voice, full of anger. "You fool! What good is this
going to do you? You need me. Even if your face is changed, there are
enough papers in the safe deposit box to identify you to the police.
Wherever you went you'd be recognized as one of the robots--you'd be
seized in an hour!" Clearly, he was taken in by the Agent's makeup,
believed him to be one of the robots.

At the sound of his voice, Secret Agent "X" had nodded to himself as
if in confirmation of a suspicion. He said, "I am not one of your
robots, Fred Barton. I am the instrument which brings you to the bar
of justice!"

The man within the armor of the monster gasped. "Who are you?"

"X" did not answer. He was unstrapping the padding from the metal
armor of the huge figure, still keeping his foot on that arm.

His suspicions were confirmed. The man within that shell was Fred
Barton. Fred Barton, who was supposed to have been kidnaped; Fred
Barton who had just consigned his friend, Jack Larrabie, to horrible
death by fire!

It took fifteen minutes to get him out of that cumbersome suit of
combination armor and padding. The Agent was careful to prevent him
from using that deadly right arm that controlled the secret of the
burning death.

He snapped a pair of handcuffs on young Barton's wrists when he
dragged him out of the shell of armor. Barton tried to resist,
struggled with maniacal strength. But the Agent twisted his arms in a
punishing grip, and tightened the cuffs.

Barton stood there, breathing heavily, his face flushed, while "X"
knelt beside the monster's suit, found the tube that ran from the
underneath metal finger in the right hand to a compact tank strapped
on the inside of the back.

He looked up at Barton. "You were always a clever chemist, Barton.
This gas that you use here--it could have made you famous; you would
have been hailed as a leader in your field--the discoverer of an
invisible gas that ignites upon contact with organic substance. Why
did you employ it in this way?"

Barton's youthful face twisted into a leer of malice and hatred.
"You've ruined the greatest scheme the world has ever known! In a
short time I would have had more power than any king or emperor!" He
took an impulsive step forward.

"Whoever you are, you must be clever, ingenious, to have fought me
this way. Why not join me? There will be little reward for you in
turning me over to the police compared to what I can offer you. With
the secret of that gas, two such men as you and I could achieve world
empire. What do you say!"

"X" paid no attention to the mad offer of partnership in crime. He
gazed speculatively at Barton, reflecting that there were strange
motives in the world which impelled men to do mad things. This young
man, possessed of wealth, education, culture, had turned to crime
because of those very endowments which the world envied; surfeit of
good fortune had made life empty--boring for him; and his brilliant
mind had sought in crime the thrills that his jaded appetite craved.

"X" said aloud, "You had no regard even for your own father. You
permitted him to think you were kidnaped--so that you would be free to
appear as the monster!"

Barton waved the comment away impatiently. "What of it!" His voice
became wheedling, eager. "Will you join me? You and I--nobody could
stop us. We could climb the heights of power together!"

"X" shook his head. "And meet the same fate that your other partners
met?"

Barton jerked his head up, eyes startled.

The Agent went on inexorably. "Of course you had partners. You didn't
operate on those convicts' faces yourself--it was Jack Larrabie here
that did that. And Harry Pringle, too. He planned the jail break
because of his intimate knowledge of the layout of the State Prison--
his father is the deputy police commissioner."

Barton stared at the Agent, fascinated, as he went on. "And Ranny
Coulter--another of your jaded young thrill-seekers. This is his
father's house. The whole row belongs to his father. He furnished your
headquarters. You were all going to take turns at acting as the
monster. But you killed them all, one after the other, when you found
you didn't need them any longer."

The Agent spoke bitterly now. He pointed an accusing finger. "Barton,
you are the worst of the lot--for you betrayed even your own
associates.

"I have no sympathy for you--only for your father, for the fathers of
Larrabie, and Coulter, and Pringle. I am thinking of the disgrace, the
shame that you four thrill-seeking egomaniacs have brought upon their
heads!"

Barton asked fiercely, "Who are you, anyway?" "You may call me--Secret
Agent 'X'!"

Barton's body tautened. He raised his manacled hands in the air,
leaped at "X" in a furious, desperate, fanatical onslaught. He brought
his joined hands down in a chopping blow at the Agent's skull.

But "X" had jumped inside his guard, so that the steel cuffs glanced
off his shoulder. The Agent at the same time swung a hard right list
to Barton's middle, doubling him up. Barton sagged weakly to the
floor. There were tears of defeat in his eyes. His breath, taken away
by that blow, came in short gasps. His hands fumbled in his vest
pocket, came out with a small pellet. They flashed upward, and the
pellet disappeared in his mouth. He gulped, and swallowed.

Now he smiled grotesquely. "I've saved you the trouble of calling the
police!" he said. "You win, Sec--"

His whole body stiffened, his face became crimson, and he collapsed.

The Agent stooped beside him. He was dead.



CHAPTER XXII

"De Mortuis Nihil Nisi Bonum"

NOW Secret Agent "X" worked swiftly, but with purpose. He stepped to
the desk, rummaged through drawers, until he found a sealed envelope.
He ripped this open, inspected the sheet of paper within. It was
headed, "Formula for nitrocetylene." Below it were chemical symbols
which the Agent took care not to look at. He did not want the
responsibility of possessing the knowledge of that hideous,
death-dealing gas.

Slowly, somberly, he ripped the paper to shreds, touched a match to
them.

Then he stepped out of that room of horror, into another passage. At
the end of this passage was a curtained doorway. "X" parted the
curtains, peered through. He saw that the doorway opened upon a
platform in a large room. Before the platform, rows of chairs were
arranged in a semicircle. And the chairs were occupied--all but two of
them, by the figures of the robot-like ex-convicts.

They were evidently awaiting the arrival of their master upon the
platform; they must have been summoned for a meeting which would never
take place now.

One of the robots noticed the crack in the curtains, started up in his
chair. "X" gave him no time to warn the others. He held in his hand
three glass capsules, larger than the one he had used in his escape
from the police car on Brooklyn Bridge. They were colored red; they
contained, not ammonia, but the anaesthetizing gas which the Agent
used in his gun. He stepped through the curtains, onto the platform,
and hurled the three capsules among the convicts.

He did not wait to see the effects; he knew that within a matter of
seconds they would be rendered unconscious by that swiftly vaporizing
gas, would remain that way for hours.

He stepped back into the corridor, hurried back to the laboratory.
There was a phone here, and he picked it up, dialed the number of Jim
Hobart's office. When Jim got on the wire, the Agent gave him the
address of the house of death, issued swift instructions.

"This is Fearson," he said. "Come to this address at once. Bring with
you a large black bag which Mr. Martin keeps in your office. Ring the
outside bell, and I will take the bag from you."

That done, the Agent inspected the room carefully. He was seeking the
hiding place of the safe which Barton had said contained the
descriptions of all those convicts who were lying unconscious in the
meeting hall...

IT was almost midnight when sirens sounded before that house of
mystery and death. Headquarters cars, squad cars, radio cars filled
the quiet street. Police swarmed in from every direction. They were
headed by Deputy Commissioner Pringle in person, and they were there
in answer to a mysterious telephone call. The caller had instructed
them to go to this address in connection with the robot murders.

Commissioner Pringle was the first up the steps, tried the door and
found it open. Burly Inspector Burks, in charge of homicide,
shouldered past him. "This is my job, Commissioner," he grumbled. He
strode into the dark hallway with drawn gun, flanked by two
plain-clothes men with Thompsons.

But they met no opposition. Not until they reached the cellar did they
know that they had not been hoaxed.

For there they found the laboratory, and on the floor the empty,
monstrous armored shell of the being that had struck terror to the
city. And close by lay Fred Barton, youthful and innocent looking in
death, beside the scorched body of Jack Larrabie.

Pringle said with a catch in his voice, "Poor boys. They died trying
to fight the monster. I hate to be the one to break the news to their
families!"

From the laboratory they passed down the hall, found the meeting room.
Inspector Burks stepped onto the platform, looked down, and exclaimed,
"What the hell is this!" The chairs had been cleared away from the
center of the room. Where they had stood, there were now ranged in a
long row twenty-five unconscious bodies. And the faces were not the
faces of robots, but those of the very men who were being sought all
over the country--the twenty-five convicts who had escaped from State
Prison!

Inspector Burks leaped from the platform, stooped and examined those
heavy-breathing forms. To the chest of each was pinned a typewritten
sheet bearing the identifying marks to be found on their bodies--marks
which were part of the prison record of each man, and could not be
denied.

Burks exclaimed, "These are the robots! Feel their bodies--they're
wearing the bullet-proof clothing yet!"

He placed a hand on their faces, cried, "Good God--this is make-up!
Somebody's fixed their faces to resemble their old selves. They've
been delivered to us on a silver platter!"

He arose, issued orders excitedly. Men hastened in, placed handcuffs
on the unconscious convicts. A call was put in for the wagon.

Pringle was trembling with emotion. "I wonder which of these convicts
was the ringleader--which of them used the armor of the monster."

"We'll never know," Burks said morosely. "Whoever it was that laid
them out here, must have taken out the one in the monster's shell and
set him here next to the rest. It makes no difference, though--they'll
all burn for murder!"

Pringle sighed. "Well, there'll be no more robot killings. At least
Professor Larrabie, and Giles Barton will have the satisfaction of
knowing that their sons' deaths were not in vain. They can always be
proud that their boys were brave enough to risk their lives against
these killers!"

And from somewhere in the distance there sounded the faint notes of an
eerie whistle that jerked every man in the room to attention. That
whistle was the inimitable signal of the man who was known as Secret
Agent "X"--and it seemed to carry through the air the stamp of
approval of Commissioner Pringle's words.

The secret of those four young men who had built a tower of terror
upon a dream of power would forever be locked in the breast of a
single man--Secret Agent "X."

For the sake of their families he had adopted the adage, "De mortuis,
nihil nisi bonum!" [18]

[18 "About the dead let no evil be spoken!"]



THE END

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