Secret Agent X: Legion of the Living Dead. Brant House
do for him to give too accurate a description. In the character he was playing, he would not be expected to show as much accuracy in matters of detail as a trained criminologist would.
Commissioner Foster fumbled in his pocket and brought out a picture. “This the man?” he asked. He handed the picture to “X.”
The Secret Agent took the picture. It was indeed the photograph of the supposedly dead Scar Fassler. He nodded slowly. “Undoubtedly, that is the man.”
At that moment, the door of the office snapped open. A wiry, blond little man who seemed a bundle of nerves stepped into the room. He jerked a birdlike glance from first one to another of the men in the room. The nostrils of his little nose spread, and he inhaled quickly and noisily as if he were taking snuff.
“Foster!” he rapped.
The commissioner turned, a smile lighting his usually grave face. He seized the newcomer’s hand, began pumping it up and down. “Major Derrick! You’re just in time to help us out!”
“Glad to, glad to,” Derrick sputtered. He nodded at Stinehope. “Hello, hello.” He turned on “X,” looked him up and down. “Mr. Krausman, I suppose. Hello. Most unfortunate circumstances.” He sniffed sharply.
“Derrick,” said Foster, “Mr. Krausman has positively identified the man who led this mob as Scar Fassler!”
Turning abruptly to “X,” Derrick rapped out: “And what would Mr. Krausman say if I told him I saw Fassler executed in the electric chair five years ago?”
Agent “X” regarded the blond Lt. Major Derrick for a moment. “I would be inclined to say that one of us had made a mistake.”
“Possible, possible,” Derrick whipped out. “But I don’t make mistakes of that sort, Mr. Krausman. And, I might add, you do not appear to me as a man who makes mistakes.”
“How does it happen that you were prepared for this holdup, Mr. Krausman?” asked Stinehope curiously.
Agent “X” laughed. “When you have half a million dollars tied up in rare gems, you don’t take chances, Mr. Stinehope. I always have some one in the store to watch things. Today, it just happened to be Jim Hobart.”
Foster turned to his former superior. “What would be our best first move, major?” he demanded.
Derrick sniffed. “Reward, first off. Post a reward for a starter. We need a responsible citizen, some one the people respect to head a committee to post a reward.” His birdlike eyes jumped at Stinehope. “The very man!” his voice lashed like a whip. “Stinehope, will you head the reward committee? Advise you to make the appointment, Foster, if Stinehope will accept. And you will, eh?”
Stinehope considered a moment. Then: “Certainly. I will be glad to do anything.”
“Good!” declared Foster. “Will talk with you in a moment, Stinehope. And now, Krausman, can you give us any further information concerning the men in the criminal group?”
“X” shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m not very observant. I suggest that you interrogate Mr. Hobart. He is trained in such matters. I’m rather tired now. If you don’t mind, I’ll look around the store, and see if there has been much damage or anything stolen.”
Without waiting for permission, “X” strode through the door of the office. He had sighted a group of news-hungry reporters, and among them a young girl. She was undeniably beautiful. From beneath her jaunty hat, he observed wisps of golden hair. Her starry eyes were deep blue. Her smart attire became her perfect figure.
As the man who looked like Peter Krausman entered the store proper, the reporters came at him in a body, waving notebooks and clamoring for permission to take pictures. “X” endured the searching rays of photoflash lamps, and then tried to get past them toward the door.
“Statement for the press, Mr. Krausman?”
“Sure, give us a story, Mr. Krausman.”
“Yeah, tell us how it feels to sock a gunman.”
Agent “X” smiled: “Try it yourself and get first hand information,” he suggested.
“Ah, give us a break!” a young reporter appealed.
“Very well. But I dislike talking before a crowd. One of you, that young lady, perhaps—I’ll see in private. She can give you all the story when I’m through.”
Smiling, the golden-haired girl came forward. This was Betty Dale of the Herald. Little did she know that this swarthy-skinned man with the broken nose was her old friend, Secret Agent “X.”2
“Where can we go, Mr. Krausman?” she asked.
“X” indicated a little room apart from the store proper. There were a number of similar rooms in the building. Some were used as showrooms to display gems of rarest quality to prospective buyers. Others were small offices set apart for certain members of Krausman’s staff.
“Don’t hold out on us, Betty,” cautioned one of the reporters good naturedly as “X,” steering Betty by the elbow, entered the tiny room. The Secret Agent closed the door, and quietly twisted the key in the lock. He turned toward Betty, a smile on his thick lips. If the girl wondered at his locking the door so carefully, there was no sign of alarm on her lovely face.
“Please sit down.” The Agent indicated a chair behind a small walnut telephone desk. She complied with his request, spread her notebook before her, and regarded the man she believed to be Peter Krausman inquiringly.
“If you don’t mind, I should like to hear the story of the robbery as you observed it, Mr. Krausman. Just when did you first realize that the store was being held up?”
“X” seated himself on the edge of the telephone desk. “I knew that it would be held up nearly ten hours ago. I really don’t know just how I would have managed to be here at the exact moment, if it hadn’t been that Krausman left town this morning.”
Betty’s white forehead crimped into a tight frown. “You knew it ahead of time? I—I don’t quite understand.”
“Then don’t bother your pretty head about it any longer. Perhaps this will clarify matters for you, Betty.” Secret Agent “X’s” forefinger traced the letter “X” on top of the desk.
“No!” she exclaimed excitedly. She smiled happily. “I should have known! But—but I never do. I had no idea that these strange robberies were so serious as to attract your attention.”3
“Not serious, Betty? Do you realize that in the last two weeks nearly a score of police have met death in conflict with that black car?”
“Then there is a definite connection between the mystery car and these robberies?”
“Assuredly. As soon as a robbery call goes out over the radio, that black, torpedo-shaped car puts in its appearance. With total disregard for the lives of innocent bystanders, the machine gun on the killers’ car opens up. Slugs rake the squad cars hurrying to the scene of the robbery. Not once have the police reached the scene of the robbery in time to prevent the crime from being committed.” The face of the man who looked like Krausman became suddenly grim. “It is the most ruthless butchery I’ve ever encountered! The man behind it all must be bent on wiping out the entire police force. And through it all, he remains hidden, as invisible as a black panther at midnight and far more dangerous.”
“Have you any idea who the hidden criminal may be?” Betty asked.
“Not the slightest,” replied “X” without hesitation.
A worried frown crossed Betty’s face. “Commissioner Foster thinks he knows,” she said. “I was in his office this morning when he received a mysterious note. He permitted me