“Write as I dictate,” he said.
QUADE took the pencil, but shook his head again. “I’m not going to sign any sort of confession. I haven’t done anything.”
“This won’t be a confession,” said “X” mildly. His alert gaze was fixed on Quade’s face.
Suddenly the gambler drew in his breath with a hiss. He grew rigid in his chair. His eyes bulged. They were focused on the blank paper before him. On its surface the hideous outline of an octopus was appearing, written there by “X” in ink that turned dark under the influence of light. Quade’s reaction betrayed him. He had obviously seen this strange symbol before.
The Agent’s voice was low, insinuating. “You know the trademark, I see, Quade. Do you also know the man who uses it?”
Fear thickened Quade’s reply. “No — I swear it. I’ve seen the mark — yes. But the man — is a dark horse to me! He’s behind the stock — but I don’t know who he is.”
“Give me Tasha Merlo’s address then,” ordered Agent “X” again. “And if you lie to me about it — nothing, not even all your money, can save you.”
“I won’t lie,” babbled Quade. Something about this strange visitor’s manner and voice had struck terror to his soul. How had the man entered in spite of all the locks and alarms? How had he learned about the secret symbol of the Octopus? Quade gave the Agent the notorious fence’s address. When he had finished, Agent “X” took the gas gun from the fat gambler’s neck. As Quade turned in surprise, Agent “X” fired full into the man’s open mouth. The scream of terror that rose to Quade’s lips was blocked and stifled by the choking cloud of gas. It entered his mouth, nostrils, lungs, and, without a sound, he slipped sidewise in his chair and fell to the floor.
AGENT “X” stooped for a moment, pressed the point of a small hypo-syringe into Quade’s fat arm. In it was a harmless anesthetizing drug that would insure Quade’s unconsciousness for at least six hours. It would prevent Quade from warning the beautiful fence, Tasha Merlo, that a certain stranger had been making inquiries about her and the stock she now dealt in.
As quickly as he had come Agent “X” left the ex-gambler’s mansion. He had learned all he wanted from Quade. His next dealings would be with a clever, unusual woman, who was reputed to be as unscrupulous as she was beautiful.
In preparation for this visit Agent “X” made another trip to his main hideout in the Montgomery Mansion. Dawn would soon be stealing over the city, though it was still dark.
From a filing cabinet in his hide-out, Agent “X” drew the photograph of a man, with a recent newspaper clipping attached.
The man, with aristocratic features and a wispy blonde mustache, who stared out at him from the photo was an international jewel thief named St. John. The clipping told that he had made a daring escape from an English prison a week before. The photo was a copy of one held in the rogues’ gallery of New Scotland Yard. A British photographer in the pay of Agent “X” had shipped it to him along with others. It showed front and side views of St. John.
Agent “X” studied these for long moments; then set up his triple-sided mirror. The contours of the jewel thief’s face were not hard for a master of disguise such as “X” to duplicate.
At the end of five minutes, his long, skilled fingers had sculpted the plastic material into St. John’s features. Every line and plane was matched with amazing fidelity. St. John’s hair was blonde. Agent “X” selected a blonde wig from his collection that held hair of every texture and color. Over this blonde wig he mysteriously placed another that was jet black. It could be removed without disturbing the lower one. He did not duplicate St. John’s blonde mustache that showed in the photo.
When his disguise was complete Agent “X” went to a drawer which contained many articles of jewelry. Watches, rings, cuff links, scarf pins — all objects that he had occasion to use in his disguises. At the very bottom of the drawer was a gleaming woman’s necklace, apparently of blue-white diamonds. The jewels were really imitation, made of a special fused paste. Agent “X” slipped this into an inner pocket. Then, putting on a battered old hat and coat, he left his hideout for the second time that night.
The first gray streaks of dawn were breaking in the east as he walked to the address that Quade had given him — the address of Tasha Merlo. A few milkmen and push cart peddlers were the only living souls abroad. The semi-gloom of early morning seemed as sinister as the darkness. The evil forces of the night, soon to be put to rout, seemed gathering close over the city. Through shadowed streets more than one denizen of the underworld was stealing to his daytime hideout after a night of evil.
Agent “X,” hat pulled down, coat collar turned up, seemed like a criminal himself, hurrying to escape the probing light of day. He walked up to the house of Tasha Merlo, pressed the bell quickly.
It was minutes before any indication of life came. Then abruptly the door in front of “X” opened, and a giant mulatto stood in the gloom of the hall. His long face, almost Mongolian in its cast, had the fixed expression of a statue. His slanted eyes gleamed. He said nothing, waited for “X” to speak.
“I want to see Tasha Merlo,” the Agent said hoarsely.
“She is not up,” the mulatto answered. “You can’t see her. Who are you?”
“I must see her,” “X” said. “I have business.”
For an instant his fingers reached into his pocket. He drew out the top of the necklace, so that the faint light of the hallway caught its imitation jewels and sent prismatic flashes into the big mulatto’s face. The man’s eyes widened. “X” dropped the thing back into his coat.
“You understand why I must see Miss Merlo?”
The servant made a slight motion with his hand, beckoned “X” into the hallway. The door closed after him.
“Wait here,” the mulatto said. “I will see.”
HE disappeared like a dim wraith. It was ten minutes before he returned. He nodded then to “X” again, led him along the hall up a flight of stairs, into a room the door of which was hung with heavy black draperies. There was a strange scent in this room, exotic perfume that was heavy, cloying in its sweetness.
Two chairs, an ebony table, a divan, formed the only furniture. A shaded bulb overhead gave soft light. The place was almost like the rear room of some funeral parlor.
Again Agent “X” was left to wait. Several dark draperies hung along the walls. He could not tell from which Tasha Merlo would emerge. He had the feeling that eyes were watching him. His first intimation of her presence was the soft, strange drawl of her voice.
Agent “X” turned. A red-haired woman, beautifully molded in face and figure, had stepped from behind the draperies directly behind him. Her violet, heavily lidded eyes were upon him. The lines of her face showed little outward character. They were deceptively mild, almost babyish. Yet “X” knew that here was a woman whose record was on many police blotters. Here was a woman who had taken part in many crimes, before she had won her way to a position in the underworld as one of its most highly successful fences.
“You wish to see me?” the strange woman said.
Agent “X” studied her for an instant. She wore dark lounging pajamas, a silk robe thrown over them. Her hair was becomingly arranged. Her nails were sleekly polished. She did not look as though she had slept at all.
“Yes, I wanted to see you,” said “X,” again bringing a hoarse tremble in to his voice. “You may have heard of me. I am Horace St. John, of England.”