Instantly he leaped out and examined the big plane. There were no Department of Commerce markings on it, no identification of any sort. It was a tramp craft of the air, an evil ship of darkness. Reaching under the control panel he opened up a petcock. The pungent smell of gasoline filled the air. It trickled into a dark puddle under the big fuselage.
Agent “X” waited till it spread. Then he got a cloth from under the pilot’s seat, soaked it with gas; balled it up, touched a match to it and tossed it into the plane’s interior.
Another match made a flaming cauldron out of the gas puddle beneath the plane’s fuselage. Agent “X” ducked and ran toward the dark outline of scrubby woods at the field’s farthest edge. He could hear a man’s voice calling out excitedly in a house near the field.
The landing of the tri-motor had aroused curiosity. People would be coming to investigate. But he would let them think he had burned up in the plane. This was an impression he was most anxious to give the criminals, also.
He looked behind him. Bright gasoline flames were licking up around the plane’s metal body now. Cloth and woodwork in the interior of the ship had caught, making the cabin window glow like evil red eyes in the side of some night monster. Then the partially filled gas tank exploded with the heat of the flames beneath. The instrument panel blew back into the cabin of the plane, and the cabin itself became a roaring furnace filled with sprayed gasoline. Windows blew out; white-hot flame melted the metal of the body.
As Agent “X” turned and plunged into the woods he knew there would be nothing left to show how he had escaped from the tail compartment that had held him prisoner.
Chapter V
A CAR chartered in a suburb near the old air field whirled Secret Agent “X” back to the city. Tense and impatient, he sat in the tonneau of the vehicle that rolled smoothly through the night, to all appearances a respectable, gray-haired business man.
“X” ordered the driver to stop at a certain street corner in the heart of the city. He paid his fare, strode briskly away in the darkness. Shadows of night enveloped him.
Four blocks from the spot where he had left the car Agent “X” suddenly entered the vestibule of a small walk-up apartment. Its halls, musty and dark, were lit by flickering gas light. Its janitress, a slovenly old woman, lived in the basement, appearing only when some tenant called her. Here was one of the many hideouts which Secret Agent “X” maintained.
In the seclusion of this small, cheaply furnished apartment, Agent “X” performed miracles with his hands. He stripped off the make-up which had made him resemble a middle-aged man. That disguise had served its purpose, was feasible no longer. The police would be on the lookout for the alleged bank examiner who went by the name of Garrison.
For the space of two minutes Secret Agent “X” appeared as he really was. The gray hair resolved itself into an ingeniously made toupee, which, when removed, revealed sleek brown hair beneath. The pastiness and wrinkles of flabby middle age left behind them the firm, unwrinkled flesh of a strong and distinguished face.
Even his few intimates had never seen Agent “X” like this; never glimpsed those features that were really his own. For they, like his name and identity, were secrets that he guarded with his life.
His face was remarkably youthful for a man who had been through so many strange experiences. It held power, character, understanding. The eyes had the clear brilliance of an original, penetrating mentality. There was kindness and humor, but unflinching determination in the even, mobile lips.
Hawklike strength marked the faintly curving line of the nose; scholarly intelligence was visible in the high, broad forehead. And, like the mystery surrounding his identity, there was mystery in those even features, too. For they seemed to change in different lights.
When the Agent turned his head, selecting a tube of make-up material, preparatory to creating another miracle of disguise, the oblique light brought out lines of maturity, revealed momentarily the visible records that a thousand strange adventures had written on this alertly youthful countenance.
His fingers moved, working the plastic, volatile make-up material over his face. Ingenious pigments covered the skin. This uncanny ability at disguise which made Secret Agent “X” a “Man of a Thousand Faces” had more than once formed the only barrier between himself and hideous death. Upon that ability he had over and over again gambled at desperate odds with life itself the stake. So far, he had always won. So far, no living soul had been able to unmask Secret Agent “X.”
When he rose from his mirrors ten minutes later he had become another person. His features now seemed thinner than formerly, his hair was sandy. The faint hawklike curve of his nose had been straightened. He appeared a mild looking young man of about thirty, with nothing to distinguish him from a thousand other such young men. He changed his suit, for a baggy pepper-and-salt tweed that matched the sandiness of his complexion, then walked quickly out of the apartment.
But he still wore the bullet-proof vest beneath this suit The strange assortment of things that he was accustomed to carry were hidden in the pockets. Inconspicuous though he looked, he was still Secret Agent “X”—a man of mystery and destiny.
At a mid-town garage, he ordered the fast roadster he kept there under the name of A.J. Martin, Associated Press reporter. His other car was still standing a few blocks from the Union Bank Safe Deposit Company. A telephoned call to another garage sent a mechanic after it. The Agent found it expeditious to keep several cars under various cognomens, as well as a number of hideouts.
In this other roadster he drove quickly to a street which held an assortment of small rooming houses. He entered one, asked for Thomas McCarthy, and was conducted to a rear room on the second floor. Here a man of about seventy, white-haired, but still alert and spry, came forward to greet him. He was a veteran police detective, retired now on his small savings and pension. The quick sparkle of his blue eyes showed that he still had an active interest in life.
“Hello, Mr. Martin,” he said. “What can I do for ye, my boy?”
Agent “X” smiled. McCarthy and a few others like him, were among the small number of trusted persons he occasionally employed to aid him in his daring work against the underworld of crime. They shadowed suspects under his direction, supplied bits of information valuable to the Agent. But they did not know that they were working for the greatest investigator alive.
“I’ve got a little job for you, Tom,” the Agent said. “Some fellows I’m watching made a get-away by plane from an airfield outside this city. I want you to hang around that field for about twenty-four hours and let me know what you see. There’s fifty bucks in the job. Would you be willing to tackle it?”
“Would I?” Thomas McCarthy beamed. “It ain’t the money, of course,” he qualified hastily. “It’s just that a feller don’t like to get rusty — and I like to do what I can to help you, Mr. Martin. You’re a hard working newspaper chap with a head on your shoulders. Some day they’ll make you editor of the whole damn sheet.”
“Maybe,” smiled Agent “X.” “And maybe I’ll get fired.”
He took out his wallet, drew out five ten dollar bills and handed them to McCarthy. The old headquarters dick tried to conceal his interest. But Agent “X” knew that the man needed new clothes, knew that this fifty dollars represented money to buy things for numerous small grandchildren. The old man’s pension was a barely liveable one.