INSPECTOR BURKS and Oscar Stanton would have been highly interested in Mr. Martin’s subsequent movements. For Mr. Martin’s next stop was not at any telegraph office or telephone, nor at any newspaper office. It was at a small inconspicuous looking apartment house on the upper west side.
Here he admitted himself to an apartment on the fourth floor, and stepped into a small cubby hole where a man lay upon a couch, apparently asleep.
Martin stood there, staring down at this man. The sleeper’s features were familiar to thousands of people throughout the country. For they were the features of Victor Randall, the president of the Union Trust Company, and chairman of the board of dozens of financial enterprises whose assets ran into billions. Randall was not asleep. He was unconscious, under the influence of an anesthetizing drug.
Mr. Martin now proceeded to do a peculiar thing. He seated himself before a small dressing table. From a drawer in the table he took strange objects. They were jars of some sort of cream, small plates made of metal, and little vials of pigment.
Then, looking in the mirror, he raised long, graceful fingers to his face, began to manipulate them swiftly, capably. And a strange thing happened. For almost as if by magic, the features of Mr. Martin began to disappear. Now it became apparent that those features did not constitute Mr. Martin’s true face. They were the product of an artistic application of plastic material, pigment, nose and face plates, in conjunction with a cunningly contrived wig. In only a few minutes, Mr. Martin was no more. For a short while there was revealed the true countenance of the man who sat before that dressing table.
It was the face of a strong willed, keenly intelligent young man, with deep-set eyes that reflected a strange sort of power. Those finely chiseled, almost eaglelike features had never been beheld by any man now living. For they constituted the true countenance of that strange man who moved in strange, inexplicable ways — Secret Agent “X.”
Secret Agent “X” had interested himself in these strange murders of prominent men. And, under the very nose of Inspector Burks, he had gone to investigate this last murder — the death of Lewis Forman.
If Inspector Burks had known that the man with whom he had talked so casually a few minutes ago was Secret Agent “X”, he would not have hesitated to shoot him without a moment’s warning. For Inspector Burks, as well as the entire police department, considered this man of a thousand faces to be a public enemy of the first magnitude.
However, there were things which Burks and the rest of the police department did not know. For instance, they did not know that Secret Agent “X” operated on written authority from the highest power in the land to act in any way that he thought fit for the purpose of combating crime. Throughout the nation the officers of the law were pledged to shoot Secret Agent “X” on sight. Yet they did not realize that he was the most powerful ally which they had in their constant warfare against the forces of evil.
The identity of A. J. Martin, the Associated Press man, was only one of many personalities which Secret Agent “X” found expedient to assume in his battle with criminals. Now, the disguise of Martin had served its purpose, and he was assuming another disguise — one which called for even greater artistry, for consummate acting ability.
His fingers manipulated the material on the table, and slowly, in the mirror, there grew another face — a replica of the man who was lying unconscious upon the couch. After ten minutes he arose from the table, glanced down at the face of Victor Randall, then back at his own reflection in the mirror, and nodded in satisfaction. No one, looking at both men, could have told which was which.
Now the Agent took a small mask from his pocket, placed it over his face. Then he went into the next room, returned in a few moments with two hypodermic syringes. One of these he placed upon the table, the other he injected into the arm of the sleeping man. Shortly, Randall began to stir, and opened his eyes.
The Agent fastened each of Randall’s wrists to a rung attached to the metal frame of the couch, so that his guest was helpless to move. When Randall’s eyes opened, he shuddered at the masked face bending over him. The Agent said in a low, soothing voice: “Do not be alarmed, Mr. Randall. I mean you no harm.”
RANDALL continued to stare up at him, slowly collecting his senses. Then he said hoarsely: “Who are you? How did I get here?”
“That is beside the point, Mr. Randall. Some day perhaps you will have the explanation of that. Now, there is much at stake, and very little time. You must answer my questions — quickly.”
Randall’s mouth set in a stubborn line. “I will answer nothing. I demand that you release me at once!”
The Agent’s voice was impatient. “Mr. Randall, you are a wealthy, powerful man. But you are a fool. Your life is in danger, and I am the only man who can help you.”
Randall’s face paled. “How — how do you know that my life is in danger?”
“I know many things. I know that you received a call from Commissioner Foster. I know that you have been seeking protection from a detective agency.”
“Who — who are you!” Randall demanded.
“X” hesitated a moment. Only his eyes, burning, intense, were visible from behind his mask. Then he said: “I am going to tell you something, Randall — something that I have hoped I would not have to disclose. I am — Secret Agent ‘X’.”
Randall started perceptibly, fear showed in his face. “You—”
“You must believe me,” the Agent went on swiftly, “when I tell you that I have only your interests at heart in doing this. Men have died — died in cruel fashion. You are in danger, too. Are you willing to take a chance — blindly, in order to be saved?”
“But — but — if you are Secret Agent ‘X’—”
The Agent laughed bitterly. “I know what you are thinking — that perhaps it is I who is behind these murders. That is what Inspector Burks thinks, and what Commissioner Foster thinks. And I shall never be able to correct them.” He shrugged. “But it doesn’t matter. Perhaps it is better that they should think that way…. Randall, will you believe me? Will you believe that I mean you no harm — that I am working in your interests?”
Randall stammered: “B-but how do I know t-that you are Secret Agent ‘X’? There’s been much talk about you. Many people defend you. But even if Secret Agent ‘X’ is not a criminal, even if he is on the side of the law, how do I know that you are he?”
“I will prove it to you,” the Agent told him. Slowly he raised his hand, removed the mask.
Randall watched him, fascinated, as the mask was drawn away. Then he uttered a hoarse cry. He was staring into his own countenance.
“My God!” He blinked his eyes, stared again. Then he said in an awed voice: “Everything they say about you must be true. They say you are a superman. And only a superman could disguise himself like that. Why — I could swear that I was looking at myself!”
THE Agent bent close, demanded tensely: “Will you trust me? Will you answer my questions?”
Randall sighed, still staring, and nodded. “Your voice — it compels me to trust you. What do you want?”
“You had a talk with Commissioner Foster today. What was it about?”
“The commissioner called me. I am to be at his office at six o’clock tonight. He said that my life is in danger; that it’s about those wild-beast murders. He says he has information that I am scheduled to die!”
“I thought so,” the Agent breathed. “Six o’clock, you say?”
“Yes. Six o’clock tonight. Foster told me that there were to be some others there. That’s all I know.”
“Is there anybody who hates you—” the Agent asked him—“who might have reason to wreak such a terrible vengeance upon you? You were quite friendly with some of the others who died. Did you know of anything in their lives that might account for their being marked for such gruesome deaths?”