A key grated in the lock. In a moment he was inside. Then he paused by another door in a rear room of the old cellar. Flashing a tiny, electric light, he pried loose a piece of paneling and stared intently at a hidden dial.
A clocklike mechanism behind the dial moved a cylinder of paper slowly like the drum of a seismograph. There was a stylus poised over the paper. It recorded blows and footfalls. The paper drum was blank, showing that for the last twenty-four hours no one had passed through the hidden passageway behind the door that led down to the black waters of the river. The man nodded in satisfaction.
He moved up into the house, to a room that was hidden beneath the huge front staircase. It was in reality the false back of the old butler’s pantry. The partition had been expertly moved forward and a door into the secret chamber was concealed by shelves that swung outward.
Here the man who had made the house his home could be as much shut away from the world as though he were in the black depths of a vault.
There were strange things in that secret room: a small chemical and photographic laboratory, jars, bottles, and mysterious boxes; a miniature arsenal, containing humane but efficient weapons; gas pistols that could knock a man unconscious within a radius of twenty feet; tiny, stupefying darts concealed in cigarette lighters; a concentrated tear bomb in the stem of a watch that would momentarily blind a man when he stooped to look at the time. There was also a mirror at the side of the wall under strong lights. It had three movable sides that would show every angle of a man’s face, head, and body.
GIBBONS walked up to it and stood regarding himself. Then he moved away and seated himself at a shelf before another mirror. His long, restless fingers began to stray across his face. Beneath their tips a mysterious transformation took place. He plucked tiny plates of tissue-thin metal from his nostrils — plates that had made his nose hawk-like; peeled a transparent covering of fibrous, fleshlike material from his chin and cheeks; lifted the clever, mesh-thin toupee of gray hair from his head. His whole appearance had changed.
The mirror reflected him as he really was — as he was never seen by any living soul — as he never appeared except in the silence and secrecy of this one room. The face that stared back at him from the mirror was even-featured and boyish-looking. Gray eyes that held a hint of humor in them. Brown hair and a smooth-shaven skin.
It was only when he turned his head and the light fell on his face in a certain way that new lines were brought out — lines that made him look suddenly older, mature, poised — with the record of countless experiences written in them, and indications of restless energy and driving will power that would not let him be quiet.
A grim smile came as he looked at himself. Secret Agent “X.” The man of a thousand faces — a thousand disguises — a thousand surprises! The man of whom it was whispered that he had the unofficial sanction of a great government in his fight on the criminal hordes preying upon society. The man said to be officially dead in the records of the Department of Justice — his supposed death arranged that he might disappear and fight crime in a new and startling way.
His real name and background were mysteries known, if at all, only to a chosen few. Who was Secret Agent “X”?
Suddenly a frown crossed his face. He glanced at the telegram that lay open on a table in the strange room.
It was in code and it had been sent from Washington, D.C., to a certain Elisha Pond, care of the First National Bank. Its seemingly meaningless words were burned into his mind like a brand.
“Six victims claimed in Torture Trust,” the code words of the telegram stated. “Why aren’t you on the job?”
He picked the yellow sheet up and walked toward a metal strongbox that rested on a shelf. For a moment he hesitated.
Holding the telegram in his left hand, he ran the fingers of his right delicately along the lid of the strongbox till he reached a certain raised rivet head. He pressed this, and there was heard a faintly audible “click.”
The rivet head corresponded to the safety catch on an automatic. But the forces that it held in leash were a thousand times more destructive. There were two pounds of trinitrotoluene concealed in a false bottom of the box which, unless the safety catch was pressed, would explode when the lid was raised. The terrible explosive guarded Agent “X’s” secrets from any one who might penetrate his hide-out during his absence.
He laid the telegram for safe keeping on top of a special document that the box contained.
The document bore a governmental coat of arms. It was couched in brief and simple terms, but its words carried a strange portent.
In recognition of brilliant work performed and faithful service rendered, we confer upon you the title of Secret Agent “X.” Your way will be a lonely one. You will combat crime, fight ceaselessly against those who seek to destroy law, order, and the decencies of civilization.You will stand ready to risk your life in the cause of humanity as you did while serving your country in the Intelligence Division during the World War. For reasons, which you will comprehend, there can be no official acknowledgment of your work or sanction of your methods.Your funds, however, will be unlimited. Ten public-spirited men of great wealth, unknown to you and unacquainted with your name, have subscribed a fund for your use. A fraction of this fund is on deposit in the First National Bank. It can be drawn by you under the cognomen of Elisha Pond. This account will be replenished whenever it becomes low. Utilize it as you see fit.
With a quick movement, the Secret Agent closed the box and released the safety catch again. There were those who knew of his existence and had absolute faith in his methods. He would endeavor to live up to that faith.
He began going over his face again with quick, deft fingers. The boyish lines disappeared under the magic touch of his hands. Gray hairs appeared at the temples. The flabby contours and dignity of middle age came into being. He leaned forward and stared intently at his own reflection. The man of a thousand faces had again achieved a master disguise.
Jeffrey Carter, clubman and gentleman of leisure!
That was his role for the rest of the evening. It was after one o’clock, but he had no intention of going to bed. Sleep was a thing he seldom indulged in. Restless, dynamic forces seemed always driving him on. And tonight there was work to be done — a series of hideous murders to investigate.
He had taken the photographs, the sound record, and the measurements of Jason Hertz for a purpose. No pains were too great, no efforts too laborious in creating a new disguise. When the time came to impersonate Hertz, he would do it with the skill of an artist and a scientist. But the time for the impersonation had not come.
He rose, removed the clothes he had been wearing, and, from a closet containing a vast wardrobe, selected a trim tuxedo. It fitted perfectly his lithe, muscular figure; but, as he slipped into the coat, he winced again at the twinge of pain near his heart.
That and the scar on his chest, drawn into the lines of a crude X where a piece of shrapnel had ploughed, might sometime give him away. It was a risk he was prepared to take.
THE Secret Agent, alias Jeffrey Carter, took a taxi down town. He told the driver to swing left at Twenty-third Street, and he gave a number in a block of medium-priced apartment houses. Through the agent’s mind a series of sentences were moving, repeating themselves again and, again. Bellaire Club! Panagakos! A blue vase on the dance floor!
He paid the driver, dismissed the cab, and walked forward. This was not a night-club section, but Agent “X” had special business. Halfway down the long, silent block he stepped back into an angle formed by the intersection of two walls. Here the deep shadows lay as black as ink.