“X” was startled. He had not thought that he appeared so preoccupied that Gilly would notice it. Above all he must not arouse the suspicions of Gilly or the Skull. If he did, he might as well drop this business now and go after Betty Dale.
He forced a smite. “Nothing is eating me, Gilly. I always like to figure out a job ahead of time. It’s easier to do your thinking before than after.”
Gilly looked at him queerly, his hand in the pocket where the automatic rested. “Some guys lose their nerve after bein’ in stir, Fannon. I hope you ain’t lost yours. Because if you have, you ain’t no good to the Skull, an’ the best thing would be a slug behind the ear for you.”
The eyes of Secret Agent “X” bored into the little gunman’s. “Don’t worry about me, Gilly,” he said softly. “I’m going to pull this job at Dennett’s, and pull it right. You take care of your end, and I’ll take care of mine.” His face came closer to the other’s, eyes still fixed on him. “And something else, Gilly, watch your tongue. I’m not used to taking guff from your kind. Do you understand?”
Gilly’s eyes were the first to drop from that clash of glances. Sullenly he said, “Oh, all right, Fannon. I didn’t mean nothing.”
Somehow, Gilly knew that this man who sat beside him was in no fear of the automatic in his pocket. Somehow, he knew that that man would complete successfully anything that he undertook. He had felt the force of intelligence and power behind those eyes that had fascinated him for a moment.
The cab slowed up, pulled in at the curb. The driver called to them, “This is the corner of Willow and Briggs where you told me to stop. Okay?”
They got out and dismissed the cab, “X” carrying his bag. Willow Street was a short street no more than a hundred feet long, off one of the main thoroughfares. It boasted a row of old, rich looking private homes that had survived the feverish days of demolition and construction which had swept the city during the boom days of 1929. The numbers began at 350, and 363, Harrison Dennett’s house, was only a few doors from the corner. “X” knew its layout, for he had visited it a number of times as Elisha Pond.
Now, he and Gilly made their way to the street behind Willow with the intention of cutting through the rear. The street behind it, they were surprised to find, was Slocum Street, where they were to meet Binks. In sharp contrast to Willow, it consisted of a row of towering apartment houses, of which number eighteen was the smallest and oldest. The subway spur which Dennett was building started at Briggs Avenue here, and both Briggs and Slocum were all cut up. Men were working, and there was the sound of a steam shovel from one of the excavations.
“Hell!” Gilly exclaimed. “We can’t make it on this side. There’s too many people around. How come the Skull told us to go in the back way? He musta known there’d be men workin’ here.”
“It’s all right,” the Secret Agent told him. “In my business we have ways of getting around that.” He opened his bag, took out a gold-plated badge which he pinned inside the lapel of his coat. Gilly grinned in appreciation as he read the inscription on the badge. It said: “Inspector, Department of Water Supply, Gas and Electricity, City of New York.”
“These things come in handy in this game,” the Agent explained, as he led the way through an alley between two apartment houses, which led into the rear of 363 Willow. “If any one should stop us here, we’re inspectors checking up on gas mains and water connections on account of the subway construction. That’s the way we turn what seems to be an obstacle into an advantage.”
“Jeez!” Gilly exclaimed. “I guess you got the goods, all right, Fannon. The Skull knew what he was doin’ when he picked you.”
THE back door of Dennett’s house was unlocked, as the Skull had promised. Gilly said, “Okay, Fannon, go on in an’ do your stuff. I’ll cover the outside, an’ I’ll give you the office if anybody comes, by comin’ up an’ ringin’ the back doorbell three times quick. If you hear that, you know you gotta scram quick. I’ll cover you.”
He took from his pocket a card which he handed to “X.” It bore on its face the facsimile of a hideous looking skull — the trademark of their master.
“Leave that when you finish the job,” Gilly grinned. “We always leave ’em our compliments.”
“Okay,” the Secret Agent said. “See you soon.”
He went up the three steps of the back stoop, went in through the unlocked door. He was now unlawfully entering a man’s home with the intention of committing robbery.
There was a pantry just inside the door, and “X” went through this into the kitchen. The kitchen was unoccupied, as was the broad, carpeted hallway beyond. The Skull had planned well. The servants were out.
As “X” made his way to the library, he felt that for the first time in his life he was working under a great nervous strain. He could not erase from his mind the thought of Betty Dale in trouble.
At the end of the hall was the library. He knew its location, had often drunk a whiskey-and-soda there with Dennett. Once in the library, he was no longer a prey to worry. He pushed every thought from his mind but the business in hand. He became once more that marvel of selfless efficiency — Secret Agent “X.” He had a given task to accomplish.
He knelt before the safe which was in the far wall of the room, between two windows, and opened his black bag. He nodded in satisfaction as he saw that it contained all the instruments that he would need in the next twenty-four hours — not only for this job, but also for his subsequent trip to the Skull’s headquarters. There were no weapons in the bag, however. His gas gun, dart equipment and hypo he generally carried about his person, and not in the bag. These he had left, and very wisely, when he went to the Skull’s lair in the guise of Fannon.
First he took from the bag a queer framework contraption which fitted under the sole of his shoe. It had clamps around the edges, which held it firmly in place, and when he stood up it was impossible to notice that there was anything attached to the under part of his shoe.
After that he proceeded to stow several items from the bag about his person. That done, he knelt once more before the safe, and delved into the bag.
He did not see the figure of Harrison Dennett which appeared in the open doorway connecting with the inner room; did not see Dennett stop short upon seeing him, glide back into the other room, and reappear with a heavy automatic which he directed at the intruder’s back.
“X” worked swiftly.
HE took from the bag a small box with earphone attachment. This was a listening device perfected by himself, which magnified sound. He placed the diaphragm of this box close to the door of the safe, alongside the dial. With the long, sensitive fingers of his right hand, he twirled the dial slowly, listening for the drop of the tumblers which would be magnified so that he could hear it through his ear phones.
This was one of the most delicate tasks in the world; a task which the real Frank Fannon could probably perform without the aid of an amplifying instrument. It had been this instrument that “X” had wanted in particular, for without it he would never have been able to tackle the job.
Dennett, holding the gun tight, bent forward interestedly as he saw the use to which that amplifier was being put. He watched tensely, his face in the shadow, as the Secret Agent twirled the dial back and forth; took an involuntary step forward, then checked himself, as “X” gave the dial a final twirl and swung open the door.
Inside was a second door; with a keyhole. “X” put the amplifier down, and picked out of the bag a flat, silk-covered instrument case. He examined the keyhole for a second, then, out of the instrument case which he unfolded, he picked unerringly, a single key, from a collection of perhaps two dozen. A turn of the key, and the inner door was open.