With a bleak, cold light in his eyes, Agent “X” went to a telephone booth and called a number not listed in any directory. He pitched his voice to a different key, spoke with a deceptive accent, and almost instantly an answer came over the wire.
“This is Bates talking. That you, boss?”
THE man at the other end of the wire had immediately recognized the voice Agent “X” had used. He was Harry Bates, head of an extraordinary detective organization Agent “X” had built up at great trouble and expense. Men and women of various types and from all walks of life were in it. All of them had been secretly investigated by Agent “X.” None of them knew that it was his influence and his money, acting through Bates, that held their staff together.
Bates himself had never to his knowledge seen the man he called “boss.” Instructions came by phone or radio, money for expenses by mail. The “boss” was only a voice to Bates, and he did not guess that the man he worked for was the mysterious, unknown Secret Agent “X.”
“X” talked quickly, hoarsely, now, with an edge of sharp command in his voice.
“Your report, Bates!”
“I’ve been the rounds, boss, like you asked me to. The mobs are lying low. My men are covering the phony spots, but they haven’t picked up anything. It looks like—”
“Are you watching Connie’s place and the Escabar over on Ninth Avenue?”
“No, boss, I didn’t know that they—”
“Post men there. Tell them to circulate and get friendly. Increase their expense accounts.”
“Yes, boss.”
“And if you learn anything, broadcast on the dot of every hour using wave-length M, code 26G. Be ready for possible radios from me.”
“Right, boss.”
Agent “X” hung up and called a second number. This was one listed as the Hobart Detective Agency. It was another of “X’s” subsidized organizations, working independently of Bates, having in fact no knowledge that Bates and his staff even existed. It was run by Jim Hobart, a former police detective, dismissed from the department on trumped-up graft charges, and befriended by “X”. The voice of the Agent changed again. It was more friendly now, yet still brisk, concise.
“Martin speaking. What news, Jim?”
“None yet, Mr. Martin. I can’t find out who is doing the dirty work. The big gangs are quiet. But there was a pay roll stick-up at Consolidated Wet Wash this noon. Eighteen grand grabbed! And this morning a gang of guys cleaned out the safe of the City Savings.”
“I know it,” snapped “X” impatiently. “What we must learn are facts — who’s behind the robberies, what crooks are operating, where the money’s going! How about the Shandley Hotel — are your men watching it?”
“Sorry, Mr. Martin. It’s one joint I didn’t think of keeping track of.”
“Why not? It’s a gamblers’ hangout. Somebody must be making money, and spending it — possibly at cards. The Shandley is a place you must watch. Send Bailey and his girl friend there with cash enough to crash a game if they get the chance.”
“Right, Mr. Martin, I’ll do that. You sure keep track of the hot spots.”
There was respect, admiration in Jim Hobart’s tone. Agent “X” chuckled softly as he hung up. Keeping track of the “hot spots” was part of his strange work. Yet Hobart knew him only as A. J. Martin, inquiring newspaper man. Hobart believed “Martin” worked for a large press syndicate; thought that Martin’s concern with crime was in the interest of inside stories for his sheets alone. And Hobart was a willing helper.
But without “X’s” supervision, without his vast knowledge of crime and criminals, without his awareness of the darkest, most secret dives of the underworld, neither Hobart nor Bates could get more than routine results. It was Agent “X,” Man of a Thousand Faces, uncanny genius of disguise, who moved them like pawns in his ceaseless game of death with the underworld.
He left the phone booth and stopped in passing at a branch post office where he had rented a box under the name of “F. Jones,” and where he occasionally received mail. He half expected a letter now, and he wasn’t disappointed. A blue envelope was waiting for him, addressed in small, clear writing and carrying a faint trace of feminine perfume. The Agent picked it up eagerly.
IN ALL the world there were only two people who knew the exact nature of his amazing, daring work. One was a man in Washington, D. C., a high official of the government, known to “X” as K9. The other was Betty Dale, blonde and lovely girl reporter on the Herald, whose father, a captain of police, had been slain by underworld bullets years ago.
Never had Betty seen the Agent’s real face; yet this strange, brilliant man of a thousand disguises had won a lasting place in her heart, and built up an emotion that was deeper than mere friendship.
The blue envelope was from Betty Dale. Yet it was no love letter. It was a report, brief and to the point, addressed simply to “Mr. Jones,” Box 29—a name and a number “X” had given to Betty if she ever wished to communicate with him.
“Dear Jones,” it said. “I have learned something that I can’t even reveal to the paper. Yet I thought you would want to know. I saw an old friend on the force last night. He says that orders have come from higher up telling the police to lay off a certain criminal group now operating and showing signal lights to identify themselves. It isn’t graft. It’s something very powerful. I don’t know what. Please be careful.”
That last sentence was the only personal touch. It brought a smile to the Secret Agent’s lips. It was proof that Betty was thinking of him not only as a grim investigator — but also as a man, and a beloved friend. Betty, because her father had been in the department, had always been a pet of the police. As a child she had played around the precinct stations. She knew half the cops and detectives in the city by name.
She had been granted interviews with police heads when all other representatives of the press had been excluded. And now she had hastened to inform “X” of the sinister information she had picked up.
Yet it was only more confirmation of what “X” already knew. The police were steering clear of the band that displayed the red-and-green lights. A powerful force for evil lay behind those signals. A sense of menace, almost of catastrophe was in the air. Yet both were shrouded in black mystery.
Agent “X” destroyed the note quickly. It was unsigned, but there was danger that even its handwriting might be traced. There had been times in the past when the black shadow of the underworld had fallen on Betty Dale in a hideous reality. This must not be one of them.
The Agent’s lips were unsmiling now. He was troubled. His own operatives, working even under his directions, had failed to ferret out the identity of the signal-using gang. The city’s well-known mobs were apparently not active in the present crime wave. It was for him, then, to go straight to the heart of the matter himself.
Chapter III
IN ONE of his secret hideouts, Agent “X” removed the disguise he had worn in his deathly conflict with the bandits. For a moment he appeared as he really was, as not even his closest associates had ever seen him. And the face exposed under the light above his triple-sided make-up mirror was almost as remarkable as the man himself. It expressed character, versatility, mature strength and youthfulness — according to the angle from which it was viewed.