The accidents, the stampeding, trampling mobs, could be easily explained now. Autos had crashed because their drivers could not see. Crowds had run in panic from Stygian blackness that seemed to presage the end of the world.
The fingers of Secret Agent “X” clawlike in their tenseness, reached forward, took a clipping from a pigeonhole in his desk. It told of a similar phenomenon, the coming of darkness at high noon, which had occurred a week before in a small town upstate. Only a few people had seen it, a hundred or two at most, and because of the quiet of the rural community and the absence of traffic, there had been no accidents or riots.
The big city dailies, when the story reached them, had made light of it, called it the mass phobia of people who had deluded themselves into seeing something which had no existence.
But Agent “X,” ever on the watch for strange occurrences, had saved the item. A profound student of physical science, he had never before heard of such an occurrence. He had been suspicious that it was somehow man-made. And there had even been in his mind the thought that such a veil of darkness would be a perfect cover for a band of criminals to work beneath.
Now, in the light of today’s robbery, Agent “X” understood. The coming of this darkness in the small town had been merely a preliminary test. There had been a bank in the town, and it had not been robbed. But undoubtedly the criminals who had created the darkness had also made a careful study of the situation — to see whether or not a bank could be robbed. The test, having turned out favorably, they had moved their operations to the neighborhood of a bank in a big city where a daring crime would pay.
AGENT “X” tossed the clipping aside. He searched through the newspapers again, reading over the appalling lists of dead and injured that the accidents during the period of darkness on the block had caused. He looked methodically to see if any of the thousand or more witnesses had enlightening data to give. Perhaps strangers had been seen prowling around the section. Perhaps some odd activity had been noted by some one previous to the darkness. But there were no such reports. The criminals had operated with organized efficiency, with complete secrecy.
Then the Agent came upon a brief item which made him instantly alert, though it was tucked away at the bottom of an inside page. It said:
GIRL SECRETARY MISSING
Craig Banton, president of the Guardian Bank, gave notice to the police this morning that Ellen Dowe, a girl secretary employed by him, was missing. The police were asked to institute a search for the girl after she had failed to report for work, and when her friends and family disclaimed knowledge of her whereabouts. Efforts to locate her have so far failed.
As a news event it was unimportant, vastly overshadowed by the robbery and accidents that had taken place. But to Agent “X” it seemed vital. His alert mind, trained to probe for the hidden seeds of crime, saw in it a possible sinister significance. He wondered instantly if it presaged another hideous robbery such as that which had taken place today. The bank raided during the noon hour just past had been wealthy, but the Guardian was of even more importance, one of the city’s soundest financial institutions, patronized by scores of thrifty workers.
The Agent reached for a telephone on his desk and dialed the number of the Hobart Detective Agency. His own unlimited resources, drawn from a fund subscribed by ten public-spirited men at the outset of his career, had gone into building it up. It was his to command in any way he wished under the guise of A. J. Martin. Often it, and the Bates’ organization, working independently, had been of service to Agent “X,” running down minor leads which left his own time free for the missions that only he could undertake.
Hobart answered quickly, eagerly, recognizing his employer’s voice.
The Agent read the clipping concerning Ellen Dowe over the phone. Then he snapped an order:
“Find her, Jim. Put every man and woman you’ve got on the job. See how she went to and from the bank. Find out who her friends are. Learn where she ate her meals. Get some trace of her!”
There was a brief pause at the other end of the wire. Then Jim Hobart spoke hesitantly: “I thought, boss, you wanted me to comb the crook joints to see if I could pick up any news of that bank gang! I’ve got half the boys out now and—”
“Recall them!” snapped Agent “X.”
Jim Hobart didn’t argue. Often before his boss had moved swiftly, changed his tactics in the twinkling of an eye, working at times on hunches alone. All this Hobart had attributed to “Martin’s” insatiable thirst for news. Now there was an edge in “X’s” voice which demanded quick obedience.
Hobart immediately promised to round up the men and women under him and start the quest for the missing Ellen Dowe.
THE Agent snapped up the receiver and opened a locked compartment in the bottom of his old-fashioned desk. From this he took a black box that was the size of a small valise. He raised the cover, drew out a length of flexible electric cable with a pronged plug at its end. He thrust this into a wall socket, and bent over the open box.
It was one of the most compact radio transmission sets in existence. Its efficiency was proof of the Secret Agent’s ability in the difficult field of radio engineering, for he had built the set himself. Speech or code could be broadcasted from it. The Agent used a small sending key now, reeling off dots and dashes with the touch of an expert wireless telegrapher.
The message he sent out was in a five-letter code known only to one man in the city. This man was Harry Bates, head of the Secret Agent’s second investigating group. Bates had never seen his mysterious employer. He got his instructions by mail, phone or radio. To him, “X” was known only as the “chief.”
At all hours of the day and night Harry Bates kept a small receiving set within hearing, so that when his personal signal was called he might give instant attention. The insect buzz of that secret code generally meant that the chief was beginning one of his startling campaigns to unearth the cryptic details of some hideous crime. And “X” had built and sent by mail to Bates a portable radio set so small that it could be carried inconspicuously on the operative’s person.
When the Agent was sure that the signal code word had been picked up, he gave Bates instructions to send men drifting through the underworld with an ear open for word of the ruthless bank bandits. There was little likelihood that anything would come of it. Criminals clever enough to use such a thing as this curtain of darkness to aid them in their crime would hardly leave traces behind for underworld gossips to talk of. Yet it was a stone that must not be left unturned.
Hours passed, and neither the police nor the Bates organization turned up anything of importance. It wasn’t till the next morning, shortly before noon, that a message reached Agent “X”. It was from the excited, triumphant red-headed Jim Hobart. He said:
“We’ve found her, boss. We’ve got the gal you want, but—” Hobart’s tone became slightly mournful—“she’s been croaked. Hurry, anyway, and you’ll make a scoop on the yarn. Even the cops don’t know about it yet. Dwyer and Lancy Streets, right behind the fence in the vacant lot.”
Agent “X” asked no questions. A strange, harsh light had leaped into his eyes at the news. He got into his car, made rubber burn as he sped through the morning streets. Dwyer and Lancy — that was on the west side of town. Not a nice neighborhood, either.
He saw the red-headed detective lounging on the corner as he turned into Dwyer street. A cigarette hung placidly from Hobart’s lips, but his eyes were snapping. He was proud of the thing his organization had accomplished, proud that he’d been able to fulfil the mission his boss had imposed upon him. The fact that the girl was dead was only a minor disappointment, all in the day’s work. He had seen many corpses in his grimly practical career.