The impersonation that “X” created now was what he called one of his “stock disguises.” It was a makeup he had used before in other cities. It would do for the plan he had in mind.
Completely changed in appearance from the mobster Corbeau, he went across the city again to the office of Orrin Q. Mathews, local head of the Federal Narcotic Bureau.
It was early morning, yet the anteroom was filled with people. “X” saw that he might be kept waiting for an hour or more, and time was precious.
He took a piece of paper from his pocket and a pencil. In a moment he had written a carefully worded note, calculated to arouse the interest of the chief inside. It stated that the writer of the note had important information bearing on the drug evil that was menacing the city. This “X” folded and handed to an attendant with instructions to give it at once to Mathews.
It gained Agent “X” an interview immediately. Mathews was sitting behind his desk, his forehead creased with worry. In the person of Agent “X,” now calling himself Biggers, the narcotic head saw a drab-faced man who could have been an overworked bookkeeper. The Agent’s walk was shuffling, apologetic. He let his hands dangle at his side. His acting was perfect.
“What is it, Biggers?” demanded Mathews in a gruff voice. “I’m a busy man, as you must know. Have you really something to tell me, or are you just another crank seeking publicity or wanting to spread slander? Every man with a grudge against some one, it seems, is coming here trying to pin this narcotic business on some person he doesn’t like. My men are kept busy following false leads. Quick, what is it you have to tell me?”
“X” glanced at a clerk in the room with Mathews. He made a significant gesture with one eyebrow, and at a word from Mathews the clerk withdrew. Mathews and Agent “X” were left alone.
“Now,” said Mathews. “Quick, spill it!”
MATHEWS sat back in his chair. He produced a cigar and stuck it between his lips. The Agent smiled grimly. This suited him nicely. He quickly brought a lighter from his pocket — one that he kept for special uses.
“Allow me,” he said, snapping it into flame.
“X” lighted the cigar, and as Mathews puffed it energetically, waiting for “X” to begin, the Agent suddenly pressed a tiny lever on his briquet. The flame went out, and there was a hiss in its place. A jet of the same harmless gas that he had used in the dragon-headed ring in Chinatown went into Mathews’ nostrils. With a single prolonged wheeze, the narcotic head sank slowly forward on his desk. The cigar dropped from inert fingers. The Agent’s anaesthetic gas, potent and concentrated, had acted as quickly as a punch to the jaw.
Holding his own breath so as not to inhale any of the vapors still in the air, Agent “X” dragged Mathews from his chair and stretched him on a small leather couch. Swiftly he locked the door and took his portable make-up materials from the pocket. These included his flesh-colored pigments and tubes of plastic paste that his expert fingers could model with such an amazing skill.
He studied Mathews’ features for nearly a minute, then went to work. The disguise of Biggers came off. In its place he built up a likeness of Mathews. He changed to Mathews’ clothes, and then, gagging the official, he placed him in a closet. A few minutes later “X” unlocked the door, as like Mathews as though he had been the federal man’s twin brother. He poked his head into the next office.
“Hayes,” he addressed the clerk who had gone out, imitating Mathews’ deep voice accurately. “Send Wells in. Tell Everts to get the Thompson guns ready. I want Creager to drive the car. Have Lorson and McAllister wait down below. We’re going to stage a raid that may make history.”
The men whose names “X” gave so fluently were members of the narcotic squad whose activities were known to him. The clerk hurried to follow instructions, tense with excitement.
“X” sat back in his desk chair, alert in mind and body. He had had little time to study the characteristics of Mathews. There was a chance that his daring impersonation of the man might be detected by his subordinates. But “X,” profound student of psychology, was counting on the excitement of the occasion to cover any slight errors he might make. An important raid would put the men on edge.
Wells was the first to come in. “X” was rustling through some papers on his desk. He did not speak until he had jumped up and grabbed his hat. Wells’ face showed no suspicion.
“Just got a tip,” said the Agent quickly. “Don’t know whether it has much basis or not, but I think it has. A lot of cranks have been yapping their heads off around here, as you know. But this time it looks like I’ve got something. Down at Haswell and Riverfront. An old condemned warehouse. The tip says it’s a headquarters for the dope ring that’s been giving the stuff away. Imagine that, Wells — snow selling for sixty-four bucks an ounce — and this gang handing it out free! Well, here’s a chance to stop ’em — maybe — and confiscate a pile of dope.”
“Sounds something like that Serenti tip-off,” said Wells. “Maybe it’s the same gang moved to a new hide-out. We missed ’em the last time. I hope we’ll get ’em now. I’d like to blast the top off a couple of heads to make up for what happened to my pal, Broderick.”
The Agent motioned for Wells to come along, Everything was dovetailing nicely. Wells knew that Serenti had talked, and Broderick, a victim no doubt of the mob that took Serenti’s life, was a friend of the federal detective.
They left the narcotic bureau and piled into the car outside, driven by Creager, a man grown gray in the department. For the most part they were silent as the car roared through the early morning streets, but “X” gave clipped instructions which the men memorized before the car stopped a half block from the warehouse.
He detailed two of the detectives to break in the front entrance. Lorson and McAllister he sent to crash in the doors on either side. The Agent took Wells to the cottage.
THE body of Gus Tansley lay where the mobster had died. Wells, case-hardened to violent deaths, gave the corpse an incurious glance and grunted. “X” wondered grimly how Wells would react if he should learn that this man had died a short while before in the arms of the person he thought was Mathews.
The Agent and Detective Wells were the first to reach the basement. The place was deserted, yet there remained evidence of recent occupation. The body of Serenti lay in the cell. The floor of the big room was splattered with crimson, but, to “X’s” intense disappointment, Karloff and his mobsters were not in evidence.
“It’s the same man, all right,” said Wells, gazing at the green, horrible face of the dead Serenti. “They sure took the wag out of that guy’s tongue. Must have embalmed the sucker with green paint.”
The other federal men arrived, covered with cobwebs, but with nothing to report. On the upper floor they had not found even tracks. Karloff and his men had obviously left via the tunnel and the cottage, taking the suitcases of dope with them.
The Agent, his voice harsh, gave a quick order.
“Lorson, send in word to headquarters. Have the medical examiner come. I want to find out how long Serenti and the other stiff have been dead. The rest of you give this dump a thorough search. Don’t miss anything. Knock on the walls, open up the furniture, collect anything you see.”
Lorson started for the stairs, but he didn’t get far. Suddenly there was a terrific, rocking explosion. The concussion threw them to the floor. Three more detonations came in quick succession, booming blasts that tortured their eardrums and rumbled through the old building like heavy thunder. Then came a smashing, deafening roar from one of the basement rooms.