Before the general, the Agent made himself as dejected and wretched in appearance as possible. This man was a strategist who knew all the tricks. He would be savage in dealing with a man like Landru.
“Here he is, general,” spoke Detective McAllister with the utmost respect. “We caught Felix Landru on Nyack Street in an untenanted building that used to be Eddie’s Place, a gambling hall and a murderers’ inn. Men have been on detail watching Landru for two weeks. We nabbed him red-handed, carrying more than twenty thousand dollars’ worth of morphine and heroin.
“Landru is wanted by the Paris police on a murder charge. We found an automatic on him. He says he won’t talk except to you alone, but two of us will be outside during the interview. We hope you’ll call us if he shows the slightest hostility. He’s desperate and alone; he may try to kill you, sir.”
“Very well, McAllister,” boomed Mathers, nodding to the detective. “Leave him with me. I’ll know how to handle him no matter what he does. You men are to be congratulated. I hope this man proves to be the ringleader we’re after.”
DETECTIVE MCALLISTER went out. “X” was left to face the formidable, glowering general. Mathers placed a big service revolver on the desk before him. Then for a full minute he studied the Agent with glaring eyes.
On the desk stood an open box of cigarettes, which gave “X” an idea. He was in a tight spot, and he was fully aware that General Mathers would show no leniency or mercy. The official had a knack of discovering murders that could be charged to the big shots in the dope traffic who had the ill luck to be caught by his men. He considered his work well done when he sent a dope smuggler to the electric chair.
“You said you’d talk to me,” rumbled the general, “that was to save yourself some punishment, wasn’t it? Very well, Felix Landru, begin your story. Stick to the facts, and don’t try to make yourself misunderstood and heroic.”
The Agent was twitching and trembling. “M’sieu,” he spoke in a plaintive voice. “I suffer so much from the need of a drug. I cannot think, because of my nerves. You will not give me heroin, no. That I do not expect. But, please, m’sieu; one cigarette. A smoke will soothe me, and then I will amaze you with names. Mais oui, mon genéral! For me—c’est fini, the end. One cigarette and I talk.”
The general growled, but he tossed a cigarette to the Agent, and shoved a book of matches across the desk. “X” deliberately fumbled the catch. The cigarette dropped to the floor. The Agent bent down and picked the cigarette up. When he stood erect again, the general also was standing, and he had the service revolver leveled at “X.”
“Now, try one of your Apache tricks!” rasped Mathers.
The Agent pretended to be deeply hurt. “But, m’sieu, you are wrong. I am here, not for tricks, but to tell everything.”
“Then proceed.”
“X” lighted the cigarette. He had to stall for time. The general still had the service revolver trained on him. Even a step forward might cause the man to shoot. The Agent racked his brain for something to say. He could not bluff a hard-bitten individual like Mathers very long.
Then a knock came at the door. “X” gave a little sigh of relief. In response to the general’s growl, a clerk entered, carefully kept out of the Agent’s reach, and handed a slip to the chief.
The clerk withdrew. Mathers read the note with a sudden lifting of bushy eyebrows. A sour smile spread over his hard features. He moistened his lips like a tiger licking his chops in anticipation of a kill. He tapped the paper with his fingers, and gazed at the Agent with the cold scrutiny of a scientist studying a laboratory specimen.
“X” did not know what had occurred. He kept his eyes on the general. The gun lay on the desk now. He had to work with lightning speed, or his one chance would be gone.
“You’re Felix Landru, the dope peddler, are you?”
“Oui, m’sieu, I am Felix Landru,” spoke the Agent tensely. Now he had an inkling of what had happened.
The general tossed the slip to him. He read it with a sudden quickening of pulses.
“Felix Landru has just been found unconscious at the St. Etienne Inn on Bordeaux Street. Has a fractured jaw. Fingerprints compared with those on record. They are identical.”
“An impostor, eh?” snarled the general. “Not Felix Landru. Yet your disguise is perfect. I think you are a far greater prize than Landru! There is only one man in the world who could do as smooth a job as that. You must be that criminal they call Secret Agent “X!”
Chapter XI
THE Agent was trapped. Even General Mathers didn’t know that he had the secret sanction of a high government official in Washington. And that secret could never come out even if “X” had to go to jail. It was part of the pledge he had made.
Detectives were waiting outside. The general had but to grab his revolver and call them in. Mathers’ hand started for the weapon. Immediately “X” pounced forward. He brought his right hand down on the fleshy part of the official’s arm.
He jabbed a tiny hypodermic needle into the arm. The harmless but powerful drug had instantaneous effect. It happened so quickly, so unexpectedly, that the general did not think to cry out. Now it was too late. Without making a sound, Mathers slumped into his chair, unconscious.
“X” had obtained the little hypodermic when he dropped the cigarette. The instrument had been hidden in a compartment in the heel of his shoe. The Agent had palmed the hypo, intending to drop it in the sleeve of his raised arm, had the general demanded to see if he held anything except the cigarette.
There was no time to lose. “X” was in an even more difficult situation now. Suppose one of the detectives should look in? The general was merely in a drug-induced coma, yet he appeared to be dead. The man would hardly pause to ask questions. A look at the general, a look at “X,” and he would be apt to start shooting.
Noiselessly the Agent locked the door. Strapped around his right leg just above the ankle was his portable kit of make-up material. He set out his vials and tubes. While he studied Mathers’ features, he removed the disguise of Felix Landru. He worked feverishly. Men had been talking outside. Now there was a significant silence. “X” knew the reason. The voices had ceased in the office, and the detectives were growing anxious.
To forestall an investigation, the Agent began talking, first in the whining accent of Landru, then in the general’s thunderous voice. While he was molding a new disguise, he crept to the window and looked out. There was no way of escape below, but one could grab the window ledge overhead and climb to the floor above — with capture before he got out of the building almost a certainty. “X” had another plan, daring, audacious, one that required cold nerve, great skill, and perfect timing.
He finished his disguise. It was not an elaborate one. He had not the time to work in identical pigmentation and exact features. A close scrutiny would reveal that he was not the general. “X” had to take a chance. He did not change to the official’s clothes. Hauling Mathers to a coat closet in the office, he locked him in.
Some one knocked.
“Everything all right, General Mathers?” The voice was McAllister’s.
The Agent was tense, dry lipped. His eyes burned with feverish excitement. He was not at all sure that his disguise would get by. Instead of answering the detective, “X” grabbed a chair and deliberately hurled it through the window. The loud crash was followed by the musical clatter of falling glass.