Agent “X” left the telephone booth quickly. He found a taxi. In it he was whirled through the night-shrouded streets of Washington to the address that was on the telegram.
He stopped the cab a block away, got out, and walked ahead cautiously. His quick brain was active. The green-masked devil would hardly be waiting here to intercept him — for he would suppose that the man he knew as Elisha Pond was still a prisoner.
Tense and alert, the Agent ascended the steps of a big old-fashioned house. At his ring an elderly servant opened the door. With a brief nod to the man, Agent “X” entered and walked directly to a room on the third floor. The room was furnished, but there was no one in it. Agent “X” closed and locked the door.
HE strode to an old-fashioned desk against one wall, seated himself in a chair before it. He knocked on the desk four times, a space, then four times more, as the telegram had instructed him. Then he waited.
As though ghostly fingers were moving it, a small drawer in the desk was pushed out toward him. From a hollow space behind the drawer a voice issued. It was the same deep voice that had spoken to “X” on the telephone.
“The countersign?”
“The thirteen original States,” answered “X.”
The drawer moved back, its front coming flush with the edge of the desk. There was a second of silence, a slight rustling sound, then the drawer moved into sight again.
It contained a piece of paper this time. On the paper a strange, disordered arrangement of numbers and figures were written. They belonged to no known Government code or cipher. They had been devised to fill a unique and special need.
“Read,” said the voice behind the desk.
Agent “X” took the paper from the drawer, studied it an instant, and spoke in a clear voice: “He is trampling out the vintage—”
With a pencil he wrote beneath this sentence, using the same strange symbols, “where the grapes of wrath are stored.” This line from the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” was the oral and written test the deep-voiced man had mentioned.
Agent “X” pushed the paper back into the drawer and the drawer disappeared. There was another moment of silence and the voice behind the desk spoke again: “Correct!”
“I am listening,” said Agent “X.” He had given proper identification. He was in communication with a trusted Government official, one of the few persons in the world who knew the real nature of his desperate and dangerous work.
The deep voice began to utter short, swift sentences.
“Two men have been killed tonight. Saunders was not the only one. The first was a Captain Nelson of General Staff, a man bearing important papers — the loss of which form a terrible threat to the safety of this country.”
At mention of the officer’s name, Agent “X” tensed, and asked a sudden question.
“Was it John Bernard Nelson?”
“The same — you knew him?”
“Yes.”
A shadow came into Agent “X’s” eyes. He had known Nelson back in the days when the world was bathed in the red carnage of war. He had known him as a high-spirited officer, brave, honest and loyal. And “X,” who never forgot a face, saw the features of Captain Nelson in his mind’s eye now. It added a personal touch to the mystery and horror of what had occurred tonight. Was this man another victim of Green Mask?
“How was he killed?” asked “X” harshly.
“By a blow on the head.”
The voice of “K9” began to give details then, details of the Browning ray mechanism, and the theft of the plans. When he had finished, “X” asked an abrupt question.
“Who are the suspects?”
A pause followed this query. The man who spoke through the drawer seemed to be thinking, pondering.
“It is a delicate matter,” he said at last. “That is why you were summoned, Agent ‘X.’ It is a matter that cannot be handled in the regular way. Five senators were in that room. Until this thing is settled, until the stolen plans are recovered, suspicion rests upon them all.”
“Their names?” asked Agent “X” quickly.
“Blackwell, Dashman, Foulette, Cobb, and Rathborne.”
“What line of investigation do you recommend?”
Again the voice was silent for a second. The answer it gave was tentative, reluctant.
“Senator Dashman was a friend of Captain Nelson’s. It was he who was influential in getting Nelson appointed to General Staff. He of the five would have been most likely to know in advance any movements the captain might make.”
“Anything else?” asked the Agent.
“One more thing! Captain Nelson has been seen in the company of a woman named Lili Damora. Investigate her, also.”
“I will,” said “X” quietly.
HE was beginning now to understand the importance of his summons to Washington. He was beginning to realize the extreme difficulty of this task that had been wished on him. The deep voice of the man behind the desk came again, quivering with suppressed emotion.
“You now have the facts, Agent ‘X.’ The rest is up to you. Terrible as the death of Saunders was, your task is greater than the mere pursuit of a murderer — a thousand times greater. It may be too late. Doctor Browning’s secret may already have left the country. In any event, menace hangs over America. If these plans fall into the hands of an enemy country — if war should come with that country — then untold horror will befall your fellow citizens. Do all you can to recover them. Leave no stone unturned. Stand ready to give your life, if necessary. That is all, Agent ‘X.’”
The voice ceased speaking. The drawer closed slowly. Trembling slightly, Agent “X” arose. It was not fear of death that made him tremble. Death he had faced often — on the flaming battlefields of France, in strange, dark alleys of the underworld, high in the air, deep in the sea. Years ago doctors had predicted that death would come from the wound in his side where he now bore a livid scar. The only fear that influenced him was the fear of possible failure — the fear that he was too late.
He descended the stairs of the house, left it as he had come. He strode off resolutely into the night. Down the block he signaled a cab. He gave the junction of two streets as his destination. There he changed to another cab. He did this twice more, keeping a cautious watch behind, taking precautions against the possibility of pursuit. The man in the green mask was constantly in his mind.
AT an address in a street of furnished apartments Agent “X” stopped at last. He took a key from his ring, entered the door boldly, went to an apartment on the second floor. Here was proof of the far-sighted policy he pursued in his strange warfare on crime.
The apartment was small but completely and comfortably equipped. Dust on the floor and furniture showed that it hadn’t been occupied for months. The Agent went to a closet, drew forth a wardrobe trunk. In it, packed closely and carefully, were dozens of suits and uniforms. It might have been the wardrobe of some master character actor.
He drew from it a trim army uniform. It had a captain’s insignia on the shoulders. The silver star and gold coat of arms of the General Staff were on the collar. In the pocket of the uniform were papers denoting the fact that its wearer was Captain Stewart Black. They were in good order and would pass inspection anywhere. As an army officer of General Staff, “X’s” movements were less liable to be questioned.
Before putting the uniform on, he opened the false bottom of his suitcase again. From it he took a small, collapsible, three-sided mirror, then an array of pigments, transparent tissues, and volatile plastic substances. Here was all the paraphernalia of a man who was a master of disguise.
He made sure the door was locked, set his mirror up. Then his long, powerful fingers went to work. He removed the disguise he had worn upon his arrival in Washington. For a moment, under an overhead light, his real face was revealed — the face that not even his few intimates ever saw. It was a singularly youthful face except when the light fell on it at an oblique angle. Then new planes were brought out. They showed marks of maturity and strength, with lines that were faint but recognizable records of countless strange experiences and adventures.