The Skull went on, emphasizing his words. “I am sure that when be learns of our present operation, he will make a desperate attempt to work his way in here again. In what disguise, I do not know. A man who could successfully deceive me by posing as Fannon may do anything. It is even possible that he may place himself in the role of one of the men who is to be kidnaped. I shall make it easy for him to do so, as you will see when you are given your instructions. But—” the Skull paused to let the words sink in—“whatever disguise he uses, I shall know him! Do you want to know why?”
The master’s voice rang with evil triumph as he went on swiftly. “Because, my friends, though he may be known as The Man of a Thousand Faces, he has only ten fingers! And—I have prints of all ten of them! We will fingerprint every prisoner, every stranger who enters here. And sooner or later Secret Agent ‘X’ will come into our hands!”
Chapter XIV
IN a quiet section of the city stands the Montgomery mansion, a relic of the old blue-stocking aristocracy. Few know how old the house really is. At one time it was far uptown, almost suburban; until the bustling tide of business and residential buildings swept up around and past it, so that now it is “downtown.”
For many years it has stood silent and apparently unused, seeming to reflect upon its ancient grandeur and the wealth of its former owners.
A curious sight-seer would have had difficulty in making his way into the house. For if he successfully climbed the high stone fence, he would have found, upon going up the old porch, that the door and all the windows were boarded up securely. If he wandered around to the rear, through a garden strewn with ancient statuary, if he succeeded in finding the entrance in the back that led into the house through the butler’s pantry, and if he made his way along the hall to the front of the ground floor, he would have been surprised to find that the rooms which he supposed un-tenanted were very comfortably equipped. Peeking into one of them, he would have seen a pleasantly furnished bedroom, and on the bed, sleeping the sleep of exhaustion, a very beautiful blonde young lady.
And if this sight-seer were a careful reader of the newspapers he would have uttered a gasp of surprise upon recognizing the features of the young lady as being those of a Miss Betty Dale whose disappearance and suspected abduction were one of the big news items of the evening.
Still more surprised would the uninvited guest have been had he stepped into the alcove adjoining the next room. For here he would have seen another person whose picture was appearing in the evening paper — one Frank Fannon, ex-convict, who was reported to have figured in a series of queer episodes since he was released from jail the day before.
Now, this uninvited sight-seer, if he had remained silent and watched the man in the alcove, would shortly have rubbed his eyes in amazement at what was taking place. For this man, Fannon, was seated before a triple mirror, doing things to his face. Soon the face of Frank Fannon disappeared under the long, agile fingers, revealing for a moment the countenance of a keen-eyed young man with a mobile, restless mouth and an imperious nose — a face which the sightseer would surely not have recognized, for it was a face that no one in the world had ever seen.
And under the eyes of the astounded sight-seer that face would soon have begun to assume an entirely different appearance. The temples became grayed, the lips fuller, the eyebrows thicker; in fact, a complete metamorphosis took place, and instead of Frank Fannon, there sat before the triple mirror the suave, urbane millionaire clubman, Elisha Pond.
After a few careful finishing touches to his face, Mr. Pond arose and proceeded to change to faultless evening attire. When he was finished, he stepped into the next room, took a last look at Betty Dale who was still in deep slumber, induced by the sedative he had given her. She was safe here from the Servants of the Skull.
He had given her the sedative before bringing her here, and, after the peril was over, he would return and take her away before she regained consciousness. She would never know where she had slept, would never know where she had been afforded sanctuary. The less she knew, the better it would be for her.
Mr. Pond left her there, and went out through the hall to the cellar, through the cellar to the back of the house. Here the curious sight-seer would no longer have been able to follow him, for his dark-clad figure merged with the darkness of the night. A tall gate in the stone fence swung open on well-oiled hinges, and Mr. Elisha Pond stepped through it into the garden of the house next door. This house was known to the world as the home of Mr. Pond; but none knew of the excursions that its master made in the night to the Montgomery mansion next door, where he prepared himself to do battle against hideous crime.
Mr. Pond went through the garden and into the garage at the rear of his home. The chauffeur, who lived above the garage, was downstairs tinkering with one of the cars, of which there were four here. He touched his cap respectfully, said, “Good evening, sir. I didn’t know you were home, sir. Will you want me to drive you tonight?”
“No, Carl, I will take the small coupe and drive myself.”
“It is all ready, sir.”
Mr. Elisha Pond nodded genially, got into the car, and drove off. To his servants here he was known as a kindly, wealthy master who treated them considerately and was a snap to work for, since he was away most of the time.
Mr. Pond’s first stop was at the Bankers’ Club. He had to park a block away because of the subway construction going on. As he crossed the street over the subway cut where he had found Ainsworth Clegg, he wondered if one day shortly, Harrison Dennett would not be found in the same fashion, mind and body wrecked. Dennett was a strong, cool sort of man, and the thought of how he would be after a treatment of the fiendish electric chair was particularly horrible.
At the Bankers’ Club there was an undercurrent of uneasiness that was reflected even in the greeting of the doorman who was usually a paragon of stiff respectfulness.
Inside, the club seemed deserted, a pall of gloom lying over it. In the corner by the window where at this hour there usually congregated Commissioner Foster, Pelham Grier, Pierre Laurens, Jonathan Jewett, Dennett and others, there were only Jewett and Commissioner Foster. They sat in silence, as if they were utterly weary. Commissioner Foster appeared harried and worn. He looked up as Pond approached them.
“Hello, Pond,” he said. “I’m glad to see that you’re here at least. You shouldn’t wander around the town unprotected like this — he’ll get you, too.”
“Who’ll get me?” Pond asked lightly, seating himself beside Jewett. The tall, gaunt Insurance Company president barked, “You don’t mean to say you don’t know what’s been happening today?”
“I heard that Dennett was robbed and then kidnaped. I haven’t seen a paper since. Has anybody else been abducted?”
JEWETT snorted. “Where’ve you been tonight — taking a beauty nap? Take a look around here. Do you see Grier? Do you see Laurens? No! I’ll tell you why. They’ve both been abducted by the Skull!”
The eyes of Mr. Elisha Pond became veiled as he glanced from the insurance man to the police commissioner. “The situation,” he said slowly, “becomes alarming.”
Commissioner Foster looked haggard. “More than alarming, Pond. It is terrifying. That is not all. Grier and Laurens are not the only ones besides Dennett who have been abducted. Five more are gone. I sit here in dread. Every hour I receive reports of more kidnapings. So far there is a total of eight of the wealthiest men in the city in the power of the Skull. I have assigned guards to every one who might be a possible future victim, but I confess that I am helpless. The abductions are performed with great daring, must be carefully planned, for these ‘snatchers’ disappear with their victims almost under the very eyes of the pursuers.”