Then, philosophically, with a box of cigarettes, a pencil and sheets of paper handy, he settled himself in a big chair under the light. Patience and perhaps hours of work lay ahead of him, but he knew how to go about the task in hand.
In forty-five minutes, by use of word frequency tables, he had mastered the code of Morvay’s paper. His eyes gleamed with excitement. Besides giving methods of work, countersigns, times of meeting, and types of acids used by the “Torture Trust,” there were two names listed. The names were Albert Bartholdy and Eric Van Houten, M.D. Names which had a ring to them — names which seemed to carry dignity and prestige.
The Agent’s face hardened. Crime in its most hideous form sometimes blossomed in high places just as the deadliest fungi grew in the richest soil. It was not always the spawn of the poor, the downtrodden, and suffering who turned to the byways of evil. Nature worked strange contrasts.
He put the paper away in his pocket and reached for the telephone book, then paused. There had come a sudden strident ringing of the front door bell. Supposing it were Van Houten or Bartholdy come to pay a social visit to their colleague in crime? His disguise would fool them, but could he play his part, knowing nothing of their relations with Morvay? With wildly beating heart he strode to the door, opened it, then stepped back, for once finding it difficult to maintain his composure. For the man who stood before him was Inspector John Burks of the city Homicide Squad.
Chapter XVI
TENSE and alert, Agent “X” stared at the man before him. Then he noticed the expression on Burks’s face. That expression was grave, thoughtful — not the look of a man who has come to make an arrest or cross-question a suspect. He waited for the inspector to speak first.
“You don’t know me,” the detective chief said. “I’m Inspector Burks. They told me about you at City College. They said you might be a good man to talk to.”
Again the Agent found it difficult not to show amazement. A man of a thousand faces should expect to create strange situations. But this one was unbelievably fantastic.
“Come in, inspector,” he said, making an effort to keep his voice casual.
The inspector entered stolidly, his pale, gaunt face composed.
“It’s about these torture murders, Morvay,” he said when they were seated. “I’ve got a theory I want to talk over with an expert — someone like you. These killings strike me as being the work of an abnormal man.”
“A sadist,” said the Agent quietly.
Burks leaned forward in excitement.
“That’s the word. But would a man like that — a sadist who likes to hurt people, have enough brains to execute such a series of crimes? Wouldn’t he be deficient mentally?”
The Agent leaned back in his chair, a cigarette in his long fingers, smoke curling lazily from his nostrils. He was enjoying the situation now. What would Burks do if he knew his real identity? It was grotesque, ironic, that the two men pursuing the same group of criminals should meet under such circumstances.
“Have you ever thought,” he said, “that these acid throwers may be only the tools of some greater criminal, or criminals? The money extorted by the ‘Torture Trust’ has been gotten with the greatest cleverness. There are cunning brains behind this.”
The inspector leaned forward, his eyes snapping.
“By God, I know it! And if there’s a master criminal back of this racket, I know who it is!”
“You do?”
“Yes, a man who calls himself Secret Agent ‘X.’ A man who’s as cunning as a fox.”
For a moment there was silence so complete that the clock on the mantel seemed to give out sledge-hammer blows. Then the Agent spoke.
“Why not go after him?”
The inspector swore bitterly.
“I had him the other night. A cop caught him sneaking down a fire escape after an acid throwing. But he got away — I won’t say how. There are twenty headquarters men out looking for him now.”
“Tell them to keep at it,” was the Agent’s calm rejoinder.
Burks didn’t catch the faintly mocking note, and if he had he wouldn’t have understood. He asked another question relating to sadism. And Agent “X,” posing as the psychologist Morvay, began a learned discussion of the subject.
When Inspector Burks left, he was impressed with the fact that Morvay was a well-informed man.
THE instant the door had closed, Agent “X” sprang out of his chair and set to work again on Morvay’s desk. All his casualness of manner had left him. A fierce inward fire seemed to be driving him on. He hadn’t forgotten those terrible moments in the subterranean corridors of the black-robed trio’s hide-out. He hadn’t forgotten the haggard, terror-stricken look on Betty Dale’s face when he had come in time to save her from awful mutilation. And at any moment the “Torture Trust” might strike again. The threat of it was a black, ever present menace. The inspector’s words had brought home to him the utter bafflement of the police.
He finished with the desk and took out Morvay’s wallet. It contained sixty dollars in bills, membership cards to several exclusive clubs, a driver’s license. Then, in an inside pocket, he found a crumpled newspaper clipping.
It was marked by pencil and announced the sailing to America on board the steamship Victoria of Sir Anthony Dunsmark, distinguished official of the Bank of England.
For long seconds the Agent stared at the clipping, his eyes glowing strangely.
He reached again for the telephone book. Albert Bartholdy and Doctor Eric Van Houten were both listed, their addresses given. The Agent paused in doubt. He was faced with one of the biggest problems of his life.
If Bartholdy and Van Houten were the other members of the trio, he would have to proceed with the greatest caution. A false step now would put them on their guard. Yet he would have to act quickly, before the disappearance of Morvay was suspected. That tiny clipping mentioning the coming of Dunsmark might be the key to the situation. Why was Morvay interested in Dunsmark?
The Agent left Morvay’s house and went first to the address of Albert Bartholdy. He changed his disguise, on the way to H.J. Martin.
Bartholdy lived in a fashionable apartment building. Posing as a credit investigator, Agent “X” learned from the apartment manager that Bartholdy was a lawyer employed as an assistant in the district attorney’s office. That explained the trio’s uncanny knowledge of police movements.
He got his car out of the mid-town garage, drove to Doctor Van Houten’s address, and his eyes brightened. It was a private home.
He parked his car far up the block, then, under cover of the darkness he slipped through a servant’s alley, crossed a back yard and circled the house till he located the windows of what appeared to be an office.
Using fingers and toe holds and risking a fall, he climbed stealthily up the side of the building till he got a view into the window under the narrow space below the shade.
A thin, gray-haired man inside was sitting at a desk interviewing a lady. “X” could not hear what was being said, but the thin man’s manner was studied, professional. He drew a prescription pad from a drawer of the desk, wrote something on it, and handed it to the lady, as “X” watched. The man was unquestionably Doctor Van Houten.