Cleary led Mr. Black down the street into the headquarters building.
Inspector Burks was alone in his office on the ground floor, when they came in.
Cleary said, “Lieut. Fitzimmons said to bring this man to you, sir.”
Burks’ thick black eyebrows came together as his frown deepened. They contrasted sharply with his white hair. “What do you want here?” he demanded of the stranger.
Mr. James L. Black had by this time entirely lost his casual pose. He said, “I want to see you — alone, inspector.” At the same time he drew a card from his vest pocket, and handed it across the desk. Burks made no offer to take it. His hard eyes were sizing up the visitor.
Mr. James L. Black placed the card on the desk, and stepped back. He smiled blandly. “The card will tell you all about me, inspector.”
Burks jerked his eyes down to the card, and started when he read it. It said:
JAMES L. BLACK
Special Investigator
And in the lower left-hand corner appeared the words,
Office of the United States Attorney General. Washington, D.C.
Burks motioned to Cleary. “Okay, you can go back to your post, Cleary.”
The big detective saluted mechanically, and left.
When the door closed behind him, Burks opened a drawer of the desk. His hand came out holding a heavy service revolver, which he pointed steadily at the visitor. “Now,” he said, “you can show me your credentials. Anybody can have cards printed.”
JAMES L. BLACK bobbed his head and smiled in admiration. “I have always heard that you were a hard man to fool, inspector. I am convinced of it now.” Under the cold muzzle of Burks’ gun he gingerly withdrew a wallet from his breast pocket, extracted a paper from it, which he handed across the desk. “This will serve to identify me.”
Burks took the paper with his free hand and read it over carefully. It was a statement, on the letterhead of the attorney general, to the effect that Mr. James L. Black bore unlimited authority to conduct investigations in the name of the United States Government. Appended to the sheet was a description of Mr. Black which tallied with his appearance, and also a specimen signature.
Burks thrust a sheet of paper across the desk to his visitor, and handed him a pen. “Let’s see your signature,” he ordered.
Mr. Black signed his name with a flourish, and the inspector compared it with that on the sheet. Finally he grunted in satisfaction, and handed back the sheet.
“I guess you’re Black, all right.” He put the gun back in the drawer. “We have to be careful. I’m almost certain that a rescue of Kyle will be attempted, but I can’t tell what direction it will come from. Now, Mr. Black, what can I do for you — or the attorney general’s office?”
Mr. Black carefully folded up his authorization, and replaced it in the wallet. His voice was no longer bantering. It had become businesslike. “I am tracing down a rumor,” he said, “that Killer Kyle was involved in a couple of recent kidnaping cases; cases where the children were never returned to their parents. I should like to talk to Kyle.”
Burks shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Black. Even if you’re from the United States Government, I can’t allow you to see Kyle. Commissioner’s orders are that no one sees him now, until he’s arraigned. You’ll have a chance to talk to him tomorrow, but I can’t accommodate you tonight.”
“This is extremely important,” Mr. Black told him. “I must see Kyle now.”
“Nothing doing! Kyle is in my charge, and I say that nobody sees him. Commissioner Foster is holding me personally responsible for Kyle’s safekeeping.” He got up and came around the desk. “Sorry, old man. It can’t be done.”
Mr. Black protested. “I’ll assume all the responsibility. It is imperative that I see him now. Kidnaping, inspector, is a federal charge, and supersedes any local charges.”
Burks’ eyes flashed angrily. “It doesn’t supersede murder, Mister Investigator. The murder of Michael Crome is still unsolved, and we believe Kyle was mixed up in it somehow. Furthermore, there seems to be some deep crime afoot, and we’re holding on to Kyle like glue till we get to the bottom of it. So,” he tapped Black’s chest, “you don’t see him tonight—”
He stopped short, a strange look coming into his eyes. The tap of his finger on Black’s chest had brought forth a hollow sound. He had struck the concave plates that “X” had used to give his chest the appearance of depth.
Burks exclaimed, “Say—”
But Mr. Black backed away from the inspector.
Burks leaped at him, driving a fist to his face. Mr. Black ducked the fist gracefully, and brought up his own fist to Burks’ chin in a driving blow that sent the inspector sprawling against the desk. Burks recovered his balance, swung around to the front of the desk, and snatched the revolver out of the drawer. He whirled with it, finger contracting on trigger.
But Mr. Black already had in his hand a peculiar-looking gun.
Before Burks could steady his revolver and depress the trigger, Mr. Black fired. Burks was a brave man but he conceived himself to be in the presence of death. He cried:
“God! You—” And then the anaesthetizing gas from Mr. Black’s gun took effect, and the inspector collapsed on the floor, his suddenly numb fingers releasing the revolver without having fired a shot.
Chapter VII
LIKE an actor who steps behind the wings at the end of the play, Secret Agent “X” shed the role of James L. Black, Special Investigator. He glanced down at the unconscious form of the inspector, then moved quickly to the door with the intention of locking it. But the door was an old one, and the catch hadn’t worked for years. Burks had never bothered to have it fixed, for there had never been the necessity of locking it — no one would have dared to walk into that office unannounced any more than to attack a tiger with bare hands.
The Secret Agent shrugged. He would have to take the risk of interruption in the work he was about to do.
His fingers worked swiftly as he removed a flat black case from a pocket. He placed this on the floor beside Burks. From another pocket he took a portable folding mirror, and set it up next to the flat case.
He bent over Burks, and set to work removing the inspector’s clothes. This was a difficult task, as the unconscious form of the inspector was unwieldy. When he got them off, he placed them on the floor, and quickly shed his own outer clothing, donned those of the inspector. He kept his own vest though, as this was equipped with secret pockets where reclined sundry instruments which aided him in his work.
He now knelt before the mirror, and with the help of the contents of the flat black case, he proceeded to change his features. His long, skillful fingers worked with amazing speed, manipulating face plates, wads of cotton, rare pigments, stopping at intervals to inspect the face of the unconscious Burks. All the time, though, he kept half an eye on the unlocked door. At any moment an interruption might occur. Finally, he drew from an inner pocket of his vest a wig, which he adjusted carefully; and a pair of black, bushy things that he pasted above his eyes with infinite care, and which became eyebrows.
When he stood up, he was the living replica of Inspector Burks!
He packed his materials away in the case again, slipped it and the folded mirror into an inner recess of his vest.
Then his eyes scanned the room. At the other end was a door. Quickly he crossed to it and swung it open. Behind it was a room no bigger than a good-sized closet. It had once been used for the purpose of concealing a stenographer when it became desirable to take down statements of suspects, unknown to them. Inspector Burks had trapped many a man in that way in the old days before the dictograph came into use. Now it stood empty and neglected.