At a low-voiced order, the man operating the torch pressed a lever. The dazzling jet of flame leaped out. Agent “X” was amazed at the ease with which it ate into the vault’s molybdenum steel. They were attacking the time-lock itself. As though it were hardly more than solder, the tempered steel melted away. The man at the torch’s end wore a mask to protect his eyes. It gave him the look of a devil.
There was no question now that they would succeed in their plan. Here was another of those devilishly ingenious crimes — a link in that chain that Agent “X” had sensed. Here was a group of the very criminals he had set himself to fight. He couldn’t stand by and watch them loot the vault of hundreds of thousands. For once, it was a situation when he could logically summon the police.
Stealthily, “X” edged around the desk, crept toward the door. With the bandits preoccupied over the vault he hoped to leave unseen. But hardly had he moved when a guttural voice sounded in the darkness against the wall at his left. One of the bandit gang had been stationed inside as a guard. The bright beam of a flashlight swung toward Agent “X.” A hoarse order was given.
From the snout of the sub-machine gun in the crouching bandit’s hand a flicker of greenish flame spewed forth. There were no sharp reports. Only a series of dull pops. The gun was silenced — the first of its kind “X” had ever seen. But even as he tried to leap aside, there came the sickening smack of bullets striking him. They beat a weird tattoo against his chest. He staggered, clawed at the air a moment, while breath whistled through his teeth. Then he collapsed on the floor and lay still.
Chapter II
THE bandit with the gun ceased firing abruptly. He and the man with the light walked over to the spot where Agent “X” lay. The gunman gave the inert body a vicious kick. He turned “X” over on his back, stared down.
There was no indication of life. It seemed certain that no living thing could have withstood that hail of merciless, bronze-jacketed lead. The gunman grunted, spat, moved back to his position by the wall. The man with the light walked close to the vault. The killing of a human being was only a minor incident to these men.
But Agent “X” wasn’t dead. When the hail of machine-gun bullets had struck his chest it had seemed that someone was delivering a series of sledge-hammer blows close to his heart. He was wearing a bullet-proof vest — one of the most ingenious in existence. Two shells of metal, the inner one hardest manganese steel, the outer one bronze alloy, with an insulating stuffing of raw silk between.
Even bullets fired at close range couldn’t puncture that inner shell. But the concussion of the sub-machine gun pellets fired so closely had battered him into unconsciousness. They had gone through the outer bronze alloy covering of the vest, buried themselves in the raw silk, flattened noses pressed against the inner shell. The holes in his clothing showed plainly. He was unconscious. It was natural for the bandits to think he was dead.
He lay helpless while they succeeded in burning the time-lock mechanism of the great vault. They swung the ponderous door open, stuffed hundreds of thousands of dollars into canvas sacks, withdrew from the bank like a pack of slinking gray volves. A high-powered car purred outside. Gears clashed. The car sped away into the night….
Agent “X” stirred. Another sound had cut through his dazed consciousness — the persistent wail of a police siren, coming nearer and nearer. No sooner had the bandits’ car left the bank than a small, bright-eyed man who had been watching outside went to a drugstore telephone down the block. He sent in a hurry call to headquarters. He was a notorious police stool pigeon, an underworld rat named Clawdon.
As the sleek police cruiser roared up to the curb, Clawdon leaped on the running-board, spoke hoarsely.
“I just seen a gang of guys leavin’ the bank, chief. They must a done a job on it. I was down the block and seen the light here go out. Then I heard some one holler and came as fast as I could.”
A cop leaped out of the car and swore harshly as he stumbled against something and almost fell. The bank guard, his horizon-blue uniform sodden and stained with crimson, lay on the sidewalk. He had been callously left there by the bandits, the back of his head smashed in by a vicious blow.
“Geez! They moidered him,” screamed the stool pigeon.
One of the cops sent an emergency call into headquarters. The other went into the bank, with Clawdon, the stoolie, at his heels.
Agent “X” dimly heard the thud of their feet. But he was still too dazed to move. The awful hammer beat of those bullets had almost paralyzed his body.
He did not open his eyes until a second and third police siren cut hysterically through the air. A half dozen headquarters cars were converging on the raided bank. When Agent “X” became fully aroused to consciousness a group of harsh-faced cops were standing above him. One was prodding him with the end of a nightstick.
Clawdon, the stoolie, was staring down in bright-eyed speculation. As Agent “X” rose to a sitting position, the stoolie slipped out of the bank unobtrusively and disappeared along the night-darkened street.
A BIG man with a pale, aquiline face and black eyebrows that jutted menacingly above cold, piercing eyes shoved through the group of cops. He was Inspector John Burks, head of the city homicide squad. Murder as well as robbery had taken place. Burks, dealer in death, was on hand.
A grim smile twitched the corners of Agent “X’s” mouth. The man above him was one of his worst enemies on the force.
Burks stooped down, laid his hand not too gently on the Agent’s shoulder.
“What’s your name?” he challenged.
Before “X” could speak the inspector’s piercing eyes had detected the bullet holes in the front of the Agent’s coat. “Good God! This man has been shot a dozen times. Call an ambulance!” Then his face hardened, his fingers pawed the cloth.
“Wait. We don’t need an ambulance. He’s wearing a bullet-proof vest. He’s O.K.”
The words had a startling effect on the men around. They tensed. Agent “X” could feel their eyes boring into him with piercing suspicion. One, a sergeant of detectives, spoke harshly!
“I’ll bet he’s one of the gang, chief. Maybe they tried to knock him off so he wouldn’t squeal.”
The inspector thrust his jaw close to the Agent’s. “Speak up — who are you and what are you doing here?”
Agent “X” was silent a moment, then he waved his hand toward the opened vault.
“That’s more important, inspector. Find out who robbed this bank. I happened to be here when the gang came in. I was going to call the police; but they shot me down before I could do it. This thing I’ve got on wasn’t built to stand machine-gun bullets.”
He was fencing for time. He knew he was in a tight spot. The secret of his identity must not be uncovered.
“You happened to be here!” barked Burks. He reached forward, located the Agent’s gas gun, jerked it out. “You happened to be carrying that, too, I suppose, and wearing that vest!”
A slow smile overspread the Agent’s disguised face. He took a card from his pocket, presented it to Burks. It bore the name: “W. T. Garrison, Investigator, American Bankers Association.” Prepared for any emergency, he had even anticipated the possibility of being caught and questioned. But Burks did not seem satisfied. He fingered the card, continued to glare at “X.”
“If you saw these men,” he said, “maybe you can give a description of them. Who were they and how many were there?”