The evil promoter pressed a button and one of the corporation’s black-shirted men entered. A moment later Professor Norton Beale was ushered into the room. Two black-shirted attendants gripped his wrists; but this time nippers were not used. Beale’s wrists were handcuffed directly to those of his captors.
The eyes of the man on the television screen seemed to burn into Beale’s, as though he could see him standing there. The voice in the loudspeaker was ironic.
“Norton Beale, gentlemen — a man who has hounded criminals all his life! A super-scientific sleuth who is responsible for many police activities against the underworld. Indirectly he has caused the deaths of many of our friends. I consider it fortunate that he has fallen into our hands. What shall be his fate, gentlemen?”
AGAIN cries of “death” went up. Hatred glared on the faces of those who stared at Beale, hatred and fear of a man the Octopus said was their enemy. The Octopus spoke once more.
“The prisoner we had here last week escaped the clutches of our official torturer. That must not happen again. Let Beale be taken to room 13 and given into the hands of poor Waldo’s successor. I recommend that the embrace of the Iron Virgin be used to teach Beale that he cannot fight such a group as ourselves with impunity.”
Cries of approval filled the room. The face of the stocky prisoner went white. A sudden light sprang into his eyes. He spoke for the first time, spoke huskily in a voice that held deep fear.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “you are being tricked again. This man you see on the screen before you is an imposter. He is Secret Agent ‘X’ taking my place. He was not killed in the fire. It was he who called you here — not I. I was brought here a prisoner. He is having his revenge. I am the Octopus.”
A stunned silence followed these words. Then came snarls of derision, cat-calls of disbelief.
“Death to the liar! Kill him!” the board members howled.
When the wolfish clamor had partially subsided, Beale’s voice rose again, a quavering note in it now.
“It is true, gentlemen! I am your leader! It was necessary that I keep my identity hidden. The issues at stake were too big. But now you know who I am. Free me and we can go on as before.”
Again cat-calls drowned his words. Beale’s own statements were being hurled back in his teeth. No one would believe that the famous criminologist and the Octopus were one. But Beale held up his hand, his voice grew frenzied.
“I have proof, gentlemen — proof that I am telling you the truth! Each one of you bears on his chest in invisible tattooing the tentacles of an octopus. That was the system worked out by me, agreed upon when we first organized. I carry a design of the creature’s beak. I anticipated that a time might come when I would have to identify myself to you. Now is the time. That man on the screen is an imposter. Last night he took me prisoner, took the gold from the Morencia away from me. Not content with this he wanted to have me tortured, killed by my own men.”
A sudden silence descended on the room now. Eyes stared at the face of the man on the television screen, stared back at Beale.
“Let us test this man’s words,” said Sullwell. “If he bears the head of the Octopus on his chest he is what he claims to be.”
Every man about the table was standing now, faces grim and strained.
“Take him out to the mirror. I appoint three of you as a committee to verify his words or expose him as our enemy.”
THE three named by Sullwell started for the door, then stopped dead in their tracks. A member of the board gave a scream of fear that was like a tortured clot of sound in his throat.
For the door of the boardroom had mysteriously opened. The corridor outside was black with men.
Federal men, detectives, blue uniformed cops from the Cicero police. The foremost of them carried riot guns and sub-caliber rapid firers. Others held drawn automatics and tear gas bombs. A grizzled head of the federal men spoke.
“Kidnaping’s a racket Uncle Sam is interested in. You guys have kidnaped, among other things. If any of you make a move, we’ll mow you down.”
Fear alone sent one of the criminal boardmen plunging for his gun. He went down under a snarling stream from the rapid-flrer. He kicked a moment and lay still.
“That goes for the rest of you,” said the grizzled federal man. He turned to Professor Beale, whose face displayed an ingratiating smile. “You—” he started to say. But Beale interrupted him.
“Good work, sir!” he said. “You were outside! You must have heard me trying to save myself from these devils by bluffing. It was the only way — but I doubt if it would have succeeded. I was only stalling. They’d have come to their senses and murdered me, realizing that Norton Beale could never be a criminal.”
In the excitement, the ghostly presence on the television screen had been momentarily forgotten. Now the voice came from the loudspeaker again.
“Norton Beale is a criminal! Norton Beale is the Octopus — the man who formed a criminal corporation in this country, the man who engineered the Mandel kidnaping, the theft of the gold from the Morencia and a dozen other crimes. You heard his confession. Now put him to the test. Go behind the mirror in the corridor. Have Beale walk toward it. The secret insignia, the head of the Octopus on his chest will show. That is concrete proof that all his lies can’t overcome.”
Beale lifted his voice in shouting denial. The federal man and two others took him by the arm.
“Sorry,” the federal man said, “but we were tipped off. We came here this afternoon and hid before any of you guys arrived. Somebody who knew all about it tipped us. So far, everything he’s said has panned out. If you’ve got that thing on your chest you’ll have to stand trial.”
They took Beale out of the room. Ten minutes passed while those around the board table waited under the threat of police guns. Then Beale, shaken, his face putty-colored, was brought back. His own cunning method of identification had trapped him. He bore the mark of the Octopus on his body.
“Slip the cuffs on him along with the others,” said the federal man. He turned, faced the screen. The lips of the image moved again.
“You will find the Mandel child in Beale’s country place in the Westchester hills,” the image said. “The five million in gold from the Morencia will be in the blimp anchored on his estate when you get there.”
An instant of silence followed, breathless in its portent, while the eyes of the man on the screen seemed to bore into the room with an almost supernatural light. Then the strange voice sounded once again.
“Secret Agent ‘X’ signing off,” it said. “Good night, gentlemen.”
Slowly before their eyes the image faded. A sound came from the loudspeaker, then. It was a whistle — the strange, uncanny whistle of Agent “X,” at once eerie and melodious. That, too, faded gradually as the image had done; and the only sound in the room was the hoarse breathing of tense, excited men.
The Hooded Hordes
Chapter I
THE tall man in the office marked “E.E. Winstead” was restless. He glanced at his watch for the dozenth time, looked at the telephone cradled in its rack, went to the window and stared out.