The Agent quickly developed the plates he had made, set them with special fixative, dried them in a fan dryer, and made quick prints.
Then, after removing Courtney’s outer clothing, he put the body back into the recess under the couch. In creating this disguise he preferred to make use of his prints and measurements, and his own graphic impressions of the man in life.
While his long fingers worked their magic, he turned on the phonographic record of Courtney’s last speech.
Then his own lips moved. He was imitating the sound of Courtney’s voice, the suave English accent that the banker had affected.
He imitated the man’s features on his own face, slipped a black toupee over his own brown hair, carefully combed the artificial locks until they duplicated the lustrous blackness that had crowned Courtney’s head.
For seconds after the disguise seemed complete, he worked on, adding the deft touches that distinguished his masterly impersonations from the crude attempts of other investigators. The tiny lines, the moles, the slight skin blemishes that made the disguise perfect.
When he arose and donned Courtney’s clothing, the effect was weirdly startling. The dead man seemed to have come to life in the room. Fate had played into “X’s” hands to the extent of making Courtney as tall and broad-shouldered as himself. The only point in this strange case where Fate had chosen to be kind, and that kindness might lead the Agent to his death.
For his data concerning Courtney was still incomplete. Never had he undertaken an impersonation upon which so much depended, armed with less information about the man he was impersonating. The outward perfection of his disguise was the one thing he could depend on. For the rest, he must trust to his wits.
Among the facts Jim Hobart had sent him were the two addresses Lorenzo Courtney maintained. One, the old-fashioned brick mansion on a fashionable avenue where his mother reigned like a dowager empress; the other, Courtney’s bachelor apartment.
“X” had quietly confiscated the contents of Courtney’s pockets. A wallet, containing a roll of bills and an uncashed allowance check from his mother. Cards to several exclusive clubs. A ring with more than a dozen keys on it.
“X” LEFT his hideout, carefully keeping to the shadows and cutting across two vacant lots till he reached another street. Here he walked several blocks before summoning a taxi. The address he gave the driver was that of Courtney’s apartment.
The place, when he reached it, was very much as “X” had visioned it — a flamboyant suite of chambers in an ultra-smart building. A dizzy blonde at the telephone desk nodded at him. There was a flash in her eyes and a knowing moue of her red lips that seemed to speak of intimate acquaintance. The Agent returned her smile with a wink. He said: “Good evening,” to the elevator boy, and ascended to Courtney’s floor.
The shape of the keyhole told “X” which key on Courtney’s ring would fit the lock. He opened the door, entered, and listened a moment to see if there were anyone about. Courtney might have a servant. But none appeared. And “X” saw a moment later that the kitchenette and serving pantry showed lack of use.
He became tensely active at once. The hungry gleam of the quest was in his eyes. A small secretary with locked drawers stood at one side of the living room near a luxurious davenport. The Agent opened this quickly and searched it, but found nothing save many letters addressed in various types of feminine hand-writing.
He cast these impatiently aside. He wasn’t interested in Courtney’s affaires de coeur. What he wanted was some clue to the man’s criminal activities.
He began a quick, deft search of the whole apartment. This was routine work for a man who had been associated with criminals and their ways for years. Systematically, thoroughly, he went over the room, examining the walls first, tapping them for hidden compartments, lifting rugs, scrutinizing furniture.
His search was half completed when he came to a handsome antique straight-backed chair covered in rich tapestry. An irregularity in this caught his eye — a tiny roughness on one leg, below and behind the seat. He turned the chair around and found a corresponding rough spot on the other side. The varnished finish did not quite match. With his knife blade, “X” probed, and the varnish came loose to reveal a circle of plastic wood.
He turned the chair over. Its bottom had nothing to attract attention — ordinary black cloth covered the webbing over the springs. But his fingers felt along it, and encountered an unnatural piece of metal. He pressed it. Something clicked. He turned the chair upright again, pushed up on the seat, and gave an exclamation of satisfaction. The seat, he found, was held by pivots hidden beneath the plastic wood, and formed the top of a small box, in which lay several objects.
One of these held the Agent’s fascinated gaze. It lay there like a coiled snake about to spring — a rawhide whip of pliant leather. The end of it was divided into three small lashes, each tipped with steel like one of the old-time cat-o’-nine-tails. And there were brownish smears on one of the tips. Dried human blood.
Here was one of the terrible whips that had been used on men and women as though they had been cattle. Here was concrete proof that Courtney had been a member of the band.
The Agent thrust the whip aside and drew out what lay beneath it, his eyes glittering with excitement. For he now held in his hand a mask of black cloth. But a quick examination of it brought disappointment and a puzzled look to the Agent’s eager eyes. There was nothing covering the eyeholes, no goggles like those he had felt on the man he had fought in the bank, and seen so graphically in the shots of Hobart’s film. This mask was of plain black silk.
TWO GUNS, a small blackjack, and a compact set of burglar tools completed the contents of the box. Courtney’s hidden equipment alone was enough to convict a man of felony.
Then the sharp ringing of the telephone interrupted “X’s” search. He answered it instantly, using Courtney’s suave voice. It was a girl, one of Courtney’s “big moments,” judging from her petulant complaints. When was he going to see her? Why had he neglected her? Why hadn’t he answered her letters?
Playing the role of Courtney, “X” stalled. Business matters had kept him occupied. He had been called out of town suddenly. He had not forgotten her. He finally stilled the girl’s syrupy gushings and hung up.
He continued his search of the apartment, overlooking no possible hiding place, until he had convinced himself that he had found Courtney’s only secret cache. The man evidently did not possess one of the mysterious helmets which enabled the members of the bandit gang to see in the darkness. And this puzzled Agent “X.”
He closed the secret box in the chair, paced the apartment for a time. Two courses were now open. He could wait here till something of importance reached him, some clue to Courtney’s activities; or he could move as Courtney through the clubs and restaurants where the young banker had been an habitué. The first plan seemed more logical. This was Courtney’s private retreat. He would receive important messages here, surely. But the inactivity of waiting tore at the Agent’s nerves.
In a fever of impatience he continued his pacing of the room. Three more calls came, all from women. “X” listened to each intently, weighing every word spoken in the hope that there would be some inkling of Courtney’s connection with the gang. There was not; and Agent “X” began to wonder if he had pursued the right course.