Agent “X” snatched the two articles of clothing from their hooks. He strode into a space behind the coal bin where he saw a workbench and a rack of rusty tools. He slipped into the overalls with lightning speed; then, before snapping the shoulder straps, he took certain articles from an inner pocket of his own suit
A light, silk mesh toupee was among the articles. He discarded his hat, throwing it into a refuse can and dropping a soiled burlap bag over it. Next he slipped the toupee over his head. He peeled away portions of the flexible, pliant material forming his disguise, giving his face a suddenly cadaverous look.
From a small vial in his pocket he smeared reddish brown pigment over his features; black pigment beneath his eyes. Then he dabbed dust and cinders over his already changed face. The result was startling.
In the space of a few seconds the Man of a Thousand Faces had created a new personality. He was, to all intents and purposes, a hatchet-faced, bent old man now. The plastic material remaining still on his chin, nose, upper lip and forehead, distorted the whole shape of his face. He let his shoulders droop, swung his head from side to side. He no longer resembled the man who had entered Ridley’s room.
He could hear faint noises. The sinister members of the DOAC gang would arrive in the basement any moment, knowing that the man they had pursued must come through that window.
“X” picked a wrench from the tool rack. At the end of the chamber behind the coal bin was a massive boiler. A tangle of pipes led from this along the wall. Several faucets led from the pipes. Agent “X” clamped the wrench over one faucet, turning the handle slightly at the same time so that water ran out. He flung some in his cupped palm over another pipe elbow. He bent forward and thrust the wrench in among the pipes. The glow of the dim bulb shed sufficient light for a man to work by.
As he stooped over, back turned, his sensitive ears told him that he wasn’t alone in the cellar. Cautious footsteps sounded. The Agent deliberately rattled his wrench on a pipe elbow. So quietly that he could barely hear them, the footsteps approached.
It took all the Agent’s will power not to turn. Lax as he seemed, he was ready for a lightninglike spring if he was attacked. Death was close at hand. But he was gambling on the perfection of his quick disguise. This bent, white-haired old man in slack overalls and jumper, stooped over the pipes, surely didn’t look like that agile-footed person the DOACs had pursued across a maze of yards.
Then he felt the hard, vicious snout of a gun thrust against his ribs. A harsh voice told him:
“Stick ’em up!”
The words, the accents of the voice, smacked of the underworld. Agent “X” gave a deliberate start of surprise. He straightened slightly, mustered his breath in cracked accents. Then he turned, raising his arm as he did so, and letting the wrench fall.
A man was standing before him, a man with a blue, close-fitting hood over his head. Only his eyes showed; glittering, feverish in their brightness, and the cruel, thin slit of a mouth. The man’s hands on the big automatic were as white as a girl’s however. The man’s pressed trousers spoke of the dandy.
Behind that macabre hood was the vicious gunman type that “X” had met with before. It confirmed his suspicion that there were hardened criminals within the DOAC ranks. Looking over the gunman’s shoulder he saw other hooded faces staring at him in the gloom of the cellar, other guns pointing his way.
The slightest out-of-character gesture on his part now and he would be cut down mercilessly. Here were the flitting figures that had pursued him across the yard. Here were the ruthless human wolves set to hunt him down.
Agent “X,” playing his part in masterly fashion, let his body grow still more lax and let his jaw sag. When he spoke his tongue clucked and stuttered as though in mortal terror.
“Go — easy — there, f-fella! I–I ain’t got nothin’—you want!”
The hooded man’s eyes bored into his. The Agent’s dust-streaked face worked with apparent fear — worked as an old man’s might, helpless before desperate criminals. He could feel the eyes of the others searching him, too. Life or death dwelt in their gaze. He waited to see whether his disguise would be adequate.
TENSE seconds passed. The gunman snarled an abrupt question. “Was there a guy in here a minute ago?”
Agent “X” shook his head, moving his lips as though they were palsied. The muzzle of the gun was jabbed closer.
“N-no. I didn’t see nobody,” “X” stuttered.
The sinister beings in the room debated a moment. Then one of them spoke commandingly.
“Keep him covered — we’ll look around.” The hooded figures moved away, all but the one guarding “X.”
He heard their feet cross the cellar floor, heard them poking in every cranny and corner. Then their footsteps whispered up the stairs into the house. He knew they wouldn’t stop till they searched every floor, every apartment. They were out for the Agent’s death or capture.
“X” still waited, body slack, backed up against the pipes, staring at the blue, vulturelike head before him. He could barely make out the human features beneath the glazed, rubberized material of the strange hood. The slitted mouth, the eye holes, gave the man the appearance of some grotesque devil conjured up in a nightmare.
The Agent’s lax, palsied manner made the gunman less vigilant. This was what “X” had anticipated. He waited, weighing each sound that reached him — waited till he was certain the others were on the floor above. Then, with an abruptness that took the gunman by surprise, Agent “X” swung both arms forward and down. One sliced to waist level, knocking the automatic from the hooded gunman’s fingers. The other, doubled up, struck the gunman’s chin in a perfect knockout blow.
The man collapsed to the floor of the cellar soundlessly. His gun made only a faint metallic clatter. The Agent stood tensely, waiting, but nothing happened. The others were intent upon their search of the house.
“X” stooped, lifted the front of the gunman’s rubber hood and saw the vicious, brutal face of some underworld character, a stranger to “X.” He groped in the man’s pockets for some identifying article, found nothing and lowered the hood. Then, all in one movement it seemed, he stripped overalls, jumper and white wig off. He snatched his own rubber hood out — the one he had taken from Ridley — slipped it quickly over his own head. The next instant he moved toward the open window of the cellar, and as he did so he heard some of the men above returning.
Chapter V
WITH the quickness of a cat Agent “X” raised himself and slipped across the sill. The use of the blue, vulturelike hood proved instantly to be a wise precaution. For, as his own body blotted out the light of the window, forming a silhouette, a hoarse voice sounded in the darkness, asking an abrupt question.
“You got him?”
Agent “X” straightened. He made out then the dim form of a DOAC guard, gun in hand. The man had been posted outside by the others to keep watch.
So quickly that the guard never knew what struck him, Agent “X” lashed out. Again his knuckles cracked against flesh and bone, and the guard flung backwards, dropping to the sparse turf. A second only, “X” stooped to run swift fingers through the man’s pockets, hoping again to learn a DOAC’s name. But the man carried nothing except the gun in his hand and an extra box of shells.
Agent “X” arose, crossed the apartment’s rear yard and merged with the shadows. He swung over a fence cautiously, waited, eyes probing the darkness to see if he were being followed. There was no sign of movement behind.