The Agent had drawn a gun from his pocket. It was a gun that fired only a small charge of anesthetizing gas, but Renfew didn’t know that. The muzzle of the gun was pressed against his chest.
“Get up,” said the Agent, “and get dressed.”
“Who are you? What do you want?” the man repeated.
“Never mind! Get up!”
“X” moved across the bed to the other side, avoiding the black pit left by the trapdoor. He kept his eyes fixed on Renfew, alert for tricks. He kept his gun against the spy’s body. He pulled the cord of a small electric bulb, flooding the room with light.
Renfew stared at him with glittering eyes. His face showed no recognition. The Agent’s disguise was a perfect blind. He took his press card from his pocket, held it before Renfew’s face.
“A newspaper reporter,” the spy gasped. Then his eyes became crafty. “Perhaps we can make a deal. There is no need for violence.”
Remembering the trapdoor, “X’s” eyes grew steel hard. “A broken neck is rather violent,” he said harshly.
“I thought you were a burglar,” said Renfew.
“Dress and come with me,” was the Agent’s order.
“You are a fraud,” screamed Renfew suddenly. “You are not a press reporter. You are going to kill me.”
“Not if you obey my orders,” said the Agent. “Otherwise—” He gave the spy a jab with the muzzle of his gun.
WITH trembling arms Renfew began to dress. There was something inhuman about the dryness of his face. He had the complexion of a mummy, but the eyes were wickedly alive. “X” wished he could turn the man over to the police. But that could not be done now. He must use Renfew’s establishment and Renfew’s reputation.
When the spy had dressed, “X” motioned toward the door.
“I am leaving,” he said. “And you are coming with me. Make any move to escape and—” Again he gave the man a vicious jab with his gun.
Keeping his light switched on, he pushed Renfew ahead of him down the dark stairs. The man’s voice shook with terror as he asked a question.
“The alarms — how did you get through them?” His eyes rolled back toward Agent “X.” He looked with awe into the steady, steely gaze of the Agent. “X” did not reply and Renfew seemed to wilt, sensing that he was in the power of a man who possessed supernatural powers.
“X” pushed Renfew out into the night, keeping a grip on his arm. He held the muzzle of his gun close as they moved along the street. When he came to the spot where his car was parked he made Renfew get into it. In silence he drove off.
The spy’s face had gone a sickly white now. The paleness of his complexion, overlaid with its network of wrinkles, was hideous. He kept glancing sidewise at “X.”
Agent “X” drove quickly, plunging along the dark quiet streets. The city seemed to have gone to bed. Once the whistle of a patrolling cop shrilled at “X” to slow down, but he sped on.
Not until he came to his hideout did he stop. Then he took a firm grip on Renfew’s arm. He pressed his gas gun close to the left side of Renfew’s body.
“Quiet!” he warned.
Renfew moved forward shivering.
“X” had a key. He entered and went into his small furnished apartment without anyone seeing them. Renfew stood trembling, his eyes darting about, as though not knowing what strange thing to suspect.
“Sit down,” said “X” suddenly, and pushed Renfew into a chair. He turned then and locked the door. The spy sat shaking, looking up at him like a cornered rat.
“I know all about your work,” said “X.” “I know that you sell Government secrets as other men sell merchandise. I know that you are loyal to no country in the world, but give what you have to the highest bidder.”
The Agent stopped speaking, took a wallet from his pocket. From it he drew a huge sheaf of bills. There were notes written in four numerals on the top, many others in three. Renfew’s eyes bulged. Greed took the place of fear. He licked his lips, then smiled.
“Perhaps we can make a deal yet,” he said.
“Perhaps,” said the Agent. “What great secret was stolen from America within the past twenty-four hours?”
Renfew was silent a moment, his eyes stabbing the Agent’s. He began to fence.
“Many rumors have come to me.”
“One thing — more important than any,” said “X.”
“Perhaps the building of the new D10 submarines,” said Renfew. “I have been offered—”
“No,” said “X” harshly. He held a thousand-dollar bill forward, watching Renfew’s face fixedly.
“I’ll give you this as a down payment if you tell me what I want to know.”
Renfew’s eyes stared avidly at the bill. His lips moved again.
“Perhaps the secret commercial treaty with—”
“X” stuffed the bill in his pocket “You do not know,” he said. He was convinced of it. News of the stolen Browning plans hadn’t reached Renfew’s ears as yet.
HE did not question Renfew further. The man’s secret records would give him the leads he sought. He looked at Renfew fixedly for a moment. The spy’s face began to pale again, losing the color that had come back at the sight of money. He sensed something speculative and coldly impersonal in “X’s” attitude.
“What you going to do?” he cried.
“This!” said “X”—and before Renfew could move he raised his gun and pulled the trigger. The spy opened his mouth to give a piercing scream, but a cloud of gas from the gun’s muzzle filled his throat, choked him.
One gurgling whisper came from his lips, then slowly he slumped forward and fell to the floor. He was not dead, merely knocked out, and he would remain so for many minutes.
The Agent looked at his watch. It was nearly twelve-thirty.
He wanted to make sure that Renfew stayed unconscious for a good while to come. He could take no chances with the spy now. A method of getting him out of the country had occurred to the Agent. But there was no time to effect it. He went to his suitcase, opened the false bottom and took out a minute hypo needle. Expertly he jabbed this into Renfew’s arm. For twenty-four hours, unless the Agent chose to wake him sooner, Renfew would remain unknowing.
Next the Agent propped Renfew back up in the chair and studied him. For long moments he looked at the man from every angle. Then he got his make-up materials and began to work on his own features. This was his object in capturing the spy. By stepping into Renfew’s shoes he hoped to gain information that could be gotten in no other way. The disguise he now undertook was in many ways the most difficult he had assumed for many months. Small strips of the transparent adhesive were necessary to simulate Renfew’s wrinkles. The Agent plastered his own brown hair down with a special liquid that evaporated on contact with the air.
Before it had a chance to disappear, and while his hair was still close to his scalp, he slipped a rubber cap over his head, giving an impression of baldness. He added plastic material around the edges, smoothed it out — and when he had finished, Renfew’s double seemed to be standing in the room.
“X” went through the spy’s pockets carefully, took out all papers and keys that might be helpful, and carried Renfew’s inert body to a big clothes closet. He had had an eye to this in selecting the apartment. There was a wide crack under the door. Renfew would not suffocate. “X” put him in and locked the door.
Then he went quickly out into the street again and climbed into his roadster. He made the trip back to the dark section of town where Renfew lived in fifteen minutes.
He parked his car, walked forward, and quietly entered the spy’s three-story house.
His first act was to return to Renfew’s bedroom and close the trapdoor. A breath of dank, moldy air rose upward from the cellar as he pulled the door shut. He fastened it and carefully arranged the cord by the bed again.