Inspector Burks’s eyes gleamed in quick understanding. He had heard that whistle before. He recognized it. It was the whistle of the “Man of a Thousand Faces,” the man whose identity was an eternal mystery.
A small boy came dashing through the police lines that cut off the end of the dock. A cop tried to stop him, but he ran on, clutching something in his hand. He sped up and thrust the thing in his hand under Inspector Burks’s nose.
“Here, mister,” he said. “A guy ast me to give it to you.”
It was a note, and in the boy’s pocket was a bright half dollar. His eyes were shining with the excitement of so much sudden wealth. Inspector Burks’s eyes shone, too.
The note was brief, explicit in some spots, mystifying in others.
“Darlington was murdered,” it said. “He did not commit suicide. Ask Rosa Carpita about the plane she hired under the name of Rollins, two nights ago. Ask her why she took the flight and what happened on it. And search the ventilators on top of the bank.” The inspector bent closer, staring intently. A faint “X” was visible at the bottom of the note — its only signature.
But the “X” and the writing above it, like the strange whistle sounding through the night streets, grew steadily fainter as Burks watched, and finally faded away, leaving only the blank paper in his trembling hand.
Ambassador of Doom
A monster of evil came to the nation’s capital. A green-masked ambassador from Hell’s own legation, followed by a horrible horde versed in the poison torments of the Far East! Even the police who sought to trap him did not guess the ghastliness of his real motive. That remained for Secret Agent “X” to discover as he prowled through a dark and sinister labyrinth of Washington espionage.
Chapter I
DARKNESS lay over Washington. Darkness that was a smothering black blanket ripped apart by sinister knife blades of lightning. A jagged streak empurpled the sky. It bathed the dome of the Capitol at the end of Pennsylvania Avenue. It etched the classic columns of the White House in lurid silhouette.
Thunder rolled in like a savage war drum. When it died away, echoes raced across the Mall toward the distant ghostly spire of the Monument. Trees moaned in the night wind. Rain lashed the empty streets in chill torrents.
The city seemed deserted. Its residents had taken refuge in their snug homes. They were ignorant of the strange, secret conference in session at the State, War and Navy Building. They were unaware of the nerve-racking tension that filled a locked and windowless room where seven men sat.
Five of these men were United States senators. One was a cabinet member close to the President. The seventh was an army officer attached to General Staff.
The army officer was concluding an amazing speech. He stared from face to face of the tense circle around him.
“Let me repeat,” he said, “that the discovery of Doctor Browning’s just before his death was quite accidental. His life was given to the study of radioactive substances. He was an authority on radium, thorium, and uranium. It was a radium-induced cancer that sent him to an early grave. But the destructive possibilities of radioactivity didn’t concern him. He was interested only in its therapeutic effects.”
The young officer paused, cleared his throat, and fingered the papers on the table before him.
“When Doctor Browning sensed the sinister powers of the ray amplification mechanism he had built, he was profoundly shocked. To make sure that his fears had a basis in fact he tested the mechanism on animals. He found that it caused complete and permanent paralysis of all nerve centers. He found that it turned living things into horrible hulks with a bare spark of life still remaining. He found, moreover, that it was effective at a great distance. He was about to destroy it when he was stricken by death himself. Fortunately, the United States government saw fit to confiscate the mechanism and the blueprint plans.”
The army officer sat down abruptly. In spite of the chill of the room, beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. He wiped them away and his hands shook nervously. A peal of thunder boomed far off on the horizon like deep-toned mocking laughter.
The gray-haired cabinet member at the table’s head rose. For a moment he, too, stared at the five senators. Then he spoke in a voice that seemed unnaturally dry:
“You’ve heard Captain Nelson’s testimony, gentlemen. You’ve heard reports and seen statistics showing what the mechanism of Browning’s can do. There’s no question, gentlemen, but that the United States has in its possession one of the most terrible offensive weapons on the face of the earth. A weapon, let me remind you, so ghastly, so inhuman, that it appears to be outside the pale of civilized warfare. The purpose of this meeting is to decide whether or not this weapon should be preserved or destroyed. What are your feelings in this matter, gentlemen?”
FOR a moment there was silence punctuated only by the faint footfalls of the armed guard outside and the muffled rumble of the thunder. The senators were grappling mentally with the appalling horror of what they had heard. They were visioning armies going down under the force of an invisible ray. Visioning strong men being turned into paralyzed, corpselike wrecks; men speechless, motionless, yet still alive — legions of the living dead.
White-haired, ruddy-faced Senator Blackwell, chairman of the committee, rose to his feet, fists clenched. He struck the table a terrific blow. His finely molded face was quivering with emotion.
“It must be destroyed!” he cried. “Get rid of it for all time. Burn the plans, sink the machine into the deepest depths of the sea. I don’t care how you do it — but destroy it!”
He sat down, breathing heavily. Three other senators — Dashman, Foulette, and Cobb, nodded instant agreement. But the fifth, Senator Haden Rathborne, a pale, saturnine man, shook his head. There was a fire in his eyes as he faced the others.
“Gentlemen,” he said harshly, “I understand your feelings. But war is war — and the instruments of war must be effective. We have machine guns, explosives, poison gas. Why not a paralyzing ray?”
Again Senator Blackwell became the spokesman for the others.
“Why not?” he shouted. “Because, as we’ve just heard, it’s inhuman, ghastly. Because we know that paralysis is one of the most horrible things that can afflict a man. Because it is a fate we wouldn’t wish even upon our enemies.”
Senator Rathborne jumped to his feet. The light in his eyes had become a living flame. He thrust his short-necked head forward, hunched his shoulders, and drew up his hands in a gesture of angry impatience. His voice rose in sudden, fierce emphasis:
“With war threatening in a dozen countries it is madness to destroy such a weapon. The interests of humanity? Very pretty, gentlemen — very pretty! But we have the interests of our own country to consider. If war should come we can’t afford to be white-livered and squeamish.”
Senator Cobb entered the discussion now. A round-faced little man, immaculately dressed, he stabbed a shaking finger at Senator Rathborne.
“Remember, sir,” he said hoarsely, “that civilian populations will suffer, too. You can’t prevent it. Do you care to contemplate women and aged non-combatants becoming paralytics? Do you care to picture thousands of innocent children made hopeless cripples for life?”
Rathborne instantly gave answer, his whole lean body trembling with fanatical zest.
“I’ve never sought popularity, Cobb,” he snarled. “I’m not a vote-snatching, favor-currying politician like some gentlemen I could name. I’m a man who speaks his mind. I advocate retaining and developing the Browning ray machine into an efficient weapon of war. In the next world conflict, the nation which inspires the greatest terror will win — the nation that breaks its opponent’s morale.”