“X” approached Fleer, inspected him closely. Fleer glared at him, but there was apprehension in his face. He seemed to be trying to give him a message. “X” shook his head, turned away. “The men were masked, but I’d know them. It wasn’t this one.” He crossed the room and looked at Jurgen. “Nor this one.”
Denvers asked, “You’re sure it wasn’t Mr. Hanscom or Mr. Thane?”
“X” shook his head.
BOTH Thane and Hanscom looked relieved, as if they had expected a different answer. Hanscom said, “Look here, Guy. Major Denvers thinks a lot of you. Maybe you can get him to stop this damn fool investigation. After all, Thane and I are pretty big men in the state.” He came close to “X,” said slowly, “And you, yourself, perhaps, should not want to have this go on—for a very good reason?”
“X” looked from him to Thane, then to Denvers. “On the contrary, I insist that this investigation proceed. I have nothing to fear!”
Thane’s lips curled in a snarl. “Nothing to fear, eh?” He pointed to the body on the floor, said to Denvers, “Show him how Gates died!”
Just then there was a commotion in the corridor outside. A moment later, two troopers entered, supporting a third man between them. The man seemed to be in bad shape, on the verge of exhaustion.
Betty Dale uttered a gasp of dismay when she saw his face. The others in the room stiffened, looks of amazement appearing on their countenances. Hanscom exclaimed:
“Good God! What—” and seemed to choke on his cigar. Major Denvers’ eyes narrowed in suspicion.
For the man whom the two troopers were supporting was — Governor-elect Farrell.
He and “X” might have been twin brothers for all the difference between them.
There was one point, however, that did not coincide. “X” wore no rings, while on the third finger of the governor-elect’s right hand — the hand that was flung around a trooper’s shoulder, there gleamed the strange Egyptian ring that he had worn at the interview at the Clayton.
The two troopers who had brought him in stared in stupefaction at “X.” One of them murmured, “What the hell — how many of them are there?”
Of them all, “X” alone was cool. His eye strayed to Betty, and he nodded to her in reassurance. But her apprehension was far from quieted. “X” would surely be shown up now, as an impostor. Nothing could save him.
Major Denvers was the first to recover from his astonishment. “Close the door!” he roared. “Plimpton! Stand guard at that door. Allow no one to leave this room!” He motioned to one of his men. “You, lock the window and take your post before it.” Then he demanded of the troopers who had just come in with Farrell, “Now, what’s it all about?”
Farrell’s eyes had been half closed. He had evidently been through some terrible experience. At the sound of Denvers’ voice, he raised his head, but continued to lean for support on the two uniformed men. He said meekly, “These two troopers found me in the cellar. I’m sure I’d have been killed if they hadn’t found me. I was kidnaped!”
One of the troopers said, “We found Judge Farrell down at the east end of the cellar, sir. He was partly unconscious.”
Denvers said, “Yes, yes. But—” he turned to “X” and pointed at him—“who’s this?”
“X” said, “I, as you know, am Judge Farrell. This man is an impostor.” He had cleverly taken the offensive, though there was little, if any chance, of succeeding in the bluff.
Farrell shook his head violently to clear it, and tried to stand on his own feet, succeeded. He looked at “X,” apparently saw him for the first time, and cried, “That man — he looks like me! What’s he doing here?”
Denvers said dryly, “That’s what I’d like to know. And I’m going to find out.”
He turned to Hanscom, who had almost bitten through his cigar in the stress of his amazement. “Look here. Mr. Hanscom, you know Judge Farrell quite well. I confess that I myself am puzzled. Is there any way that you can tell which of these men is Judge Farrell, and which an impostor?”
Hanscom’s eyes rested on Farrell’s ring. “That,” he said, “is the ring that Judge Farrell has worn for the last few days. This man,” he indicated “X,” “has no ring.”
The Secret Agent said, quickly, “The ring was taken from me when I was kidnaped. This man must have put it on and come here to pose as me. He knew I had been kidnaped — probably directed it himself — so he arranged to be found in the cellar.”
Judge Farrell’s eyes flashed. “This is preposterous! I demand that you test this man — ask him some questions!”
Denvers suddenly snapped his fingers, eyes flashing. “I’ve got it! Inspector Burks told me on the wire about the clever impersonator who got Kyle out — he told me who he suspected it was!” He stopped a moment, then went on, slowly, portentously. “Gentlemen, we know that one of these men is an impostor. I know that one of these men is — Secret Agent ‘X,’ the most notorious criminal of the age! And I propose to expose him now!” He glared from Farrell to “X.” “One of you two has make-up on his face. It’ll be easy to tell which!”
Chapter XIX
SERGEANT PLIMPTON had drawn his gun when he took his place at the door. Now, Major Denvers drew his, and the two of them dominated the room.
Thane stood smiling easily. He was enjoying the situation, for some obscure reason. Hanscom looked puzzled, and at the same, time apprehensive. Fleer and Jurgen were entirely beyond their depth.
Betty Dale felt most poignantly of all of them. The moment she dreaded was here — the moment when “X” would be exposed, when his life work would be ended — ignominiously.
The Secret Agent stood in the center of the room, his hands at his sides, and if he felt any perturbation, he concealed it marvelously.
Betty suddenly came to a decision. She would not stand there idly and let the man she admired most in the world be ruined in this tragic manner. She edged, unnoticed, toward the door. Plimpton paid her no attention; his eyes were following Denvers, who had strode up close to “X,” and peered into his face, gun barrel almost touching his chest. “You first, mister,” he said. “I’d have sworn you were Judge Farrell. Perhaps you are. But we have to make sure.” He raised his free hand to scrape “X’s” cheek. “Pardon me, but this is necessary. If that’s make-up on your face, it ought to come off.”
And just then, Betty Dale tensed, her hand flew to the electric light switch, pressed, and the room was plunged in darkness.
Hanscom’s voice, fraught with deep terror, cut through the blackness. “God! The killer! He’ll get some one else!”
But Hanscom’s voice was drowned out by the reverberation of Denvers’ thirty-eight. He had squeezed down on the trigger when “X” gripped his wrist and swung the muzzle away from his chest under cover of darkness. Now “X” brought up his fist to the major’s jaw, and Denvers staggered back, dazed, ran into Thane, and the two of them grappled. The dark room was full of moving, struggling bodies, reeked with the fumes of gunpowder.
The Secret Agent made his way swiftly to the door. He had his gas gun out, now.
Sergeant Plimpton discerned his shadow approaching, shouted, “Nobody leaves. Stand back from the door!” He reached to put on the light switch, but Betty Dale was in his way. A moment later, “X” discharged his gas gun full in Plimpton’s face, and the sergeant slid to the floor, unconscious.
“X” found Betty’s arm in the dark, pressed it, murmured in her ear, “Good girl,” then opened the door and slid through into the lighted hallway.