Then he began work on his own features, first stripping off his present disguise. With his volatile, quick-drying, plastic material he commenced molding the features of Gus Sanzoni upon himself. And here “X” employed the art of the sculptor. He could have done the same thing in clay. He had in the beginning of his strange career made countless experiments with plastic clay, till his powerful fingers had developed an uncanny quickness and accuracy.
Collodion formed one of the basic substances in the materials he used. There were others, known only to “X,” blended by a secret formula over which he had worked for months, till he had achieved just the right degrees of cohesiveness and mobility.
He modeled the flexed jowls of Sanzoni; duplicated the bags under the eyes, the thickened, flabby neck, the gross lips. And this padding of synthetic fleshlike material followed the movement of the real flesh beneath. When he smiled the sculptured features smiled also. When he scowled they moved in accordance with the muscular movement beneath. The principle of “X’s” disguises was no mystery. The only mystery was the lifelike effect his genius achieved.
For when he arose at last from before his triple-sided mirrors, the twin of Gus Sanzoni seemed to be in that room. And when he removed the gangster’s clothes and put them on himself, he seemed to be the real Sanzoni, and the snoring, sleeping man on the couch seemed to be his ghost. The padding over his own firm muscles filled the gangster’s oversized suit.
He practised Sanzoni’s walk across the room. He addressed the walls in Sanzoni’s wheezing, brutal voice. He stuck one of the gangsters cigars between his thickened lips, lighted it, breathed smoke and practised harsh gestures. He was Gus Sanzoni to the life.
But before he left his hideout he added two things to an otherwise perfect disguise. He discolored slightly the plastic material above his cheekbone to look like a bruise. Across his forehead he stuck a small strip of adhesive plaster which seemed to hide a cut. Even the cut was there, a reddish slit in the make-up, in case curious hands should remove the plaster.
TWENTY MINUTES later, a yellow cab drew up before the door of the Montmorency Club, and a man who would have passed anywhere for Gus Sanzoni stepped out. He seemed to be Sanzoni in one of his most evil moods. His heavy brutal features were twisted into a savage scowl. The frayed stub of an unlighted cigar projected from his lips. He flung a coin at the cab driver, turned and clumped sullenly into the club’s vestibule.
The doorman had gone off duty now. The last of the guests had finally left. The band had ceased playing. There was none to see Sanzoni’s apparent return till he mounted the red plush stairs and reached the floor of the club proper.
But the place was not as deserted as it seemed. A rat-faced gunman lounging outside the door of the club’s main room saw the lumbering form of Sanzoni, and gave a hoarse cry of excitement.
“Boss!” he said. “Boss!”
He thrust open the door behind him, called to those inside.
“It’s the boss, gents! He’s come back! He got away from that guy! He’s here.”
A score of silent, tense-faced gangsters were gathered in the room. Some had been leaning against the walls. Others sat glumly at tables with whisky glasses before them. Goldie La Mar, Sanzoni’s moll, looking old and strained, was pacing the room, smoking endless cigarettes. There was a stampede to meet the returning big shot.
Behind the disguise of Sanzoni, one of the most daring impersonations he had ever wrought, Secret Agent “X” was in a state of hair-trigger alertness. This was a challenge hurled into the face of Fate. This was courting death in death’s own stronghold. There was no bullet-proof vest beneath his clothing now. If he made a slip, if one of these men around him, or that nimble-witted woman, learned that he was not Sanzoni at all, but only a clever imposter, guns would blaze murderously. And the menace of the NP bombs would remain to imperil the city. Twice he had escaped close destruction in this building. A third time he had come to make the greatest gamble of all.
Goldie La Mar’s voice sounded above the rest, brittle, shrill with excitement. There was relief in her mascaraed eyes. Her painted lips curved in a dazzling smile. She had thought her meal ticket, her prestige in the underworld, had been snatched from her. Now they had returned in the person of Sanzoni.
She flung her powdered arms around Sanzoni’s neck.
“Gus!” she screeched. “Gus — we thought that mug had croaked you!”
Her cajoling, perfumed lips tried to cling to his. Agent “X,” with an irritable growl, playing the role of a man whose character he had sized up adroitly, flung her away. He made a wry grimace, clutched his shoulder, and winced as though in pain.
“Oh — he hurt you!” said Goldie La Mar. “You’ve got a cut — and a bruise on your face. How did you do it, Gus? How did you get away?”
Others flung questions at him. He was congratulated, admired, cheered. When he reached the inner room, a gangster shoved a glass of liquor toward him. Agent “X” tossed it off at a gulp; threw out his padded chest a little.
“That bird won’t bother us no more!” he said.
“How did you do it, Gus? Where is he?”
“Never mind. Pipe down — all you heels. And you, Goldie — it’s time you hit the hay. Clear out. Scram! I got business to attend to.”
Agent “X” walked on into Sanzoni’s private office. Four slinking gangsters, Sanzoni’s own personal bodyguard and lieutenants, detached themselves from the others and followed.
“X” heaved himself into Sanzoni’s chair, eyed these men who would have sought to kill him instantly had they guessed the truth.
“How did the work go?” he wheezed.
One of the men, a hatchet-faced, macabre-looking Sicilian, stepped nearer. He drew from his pocket a huge paper packet, laid it on Sanzoni’s desk. A half dozen other such packets followed until there was a pile of them.
“It went swell!” the gangster lieutenant said. “Those are all century notes. There are seven hundred of them — seventy grand, and that ain’t all.” He turned to one of his companions. “Cough up, José,” he snapped.
The second mobster disgorged packets of bills from his pockets. The pile on Sanzoni’s desk rose. The face of José cracked in a hideous smile.
“We t’ought you wasn’t comin’ back, boss — an’ we didn’t know w’at we’d do wid dis stuff. De vault opened easy, but we hadda knock off two guys to keep ’em quiet.”
“X” knew that here was more bank loot. Here was more evidence of the black wave of crime that still swamped the city — and would as long as the Terror held the threat of his dread “protection” over Mayor Ballantine’s head.
“X” nodded, drew the money toward him, and asked a sudden question.
“Any phone calls for me?”
The men looked at each other uneasily. The one who had first given him the money nodded and spoke.
“Yeah — a guy called you at two o’clock. But he didn’t say what he wanted. He sounded sore — because you wasn’t here. I said you’d be back later.”
Agent “X” didn’t reply. He lighted one of Sanzoni’s cigars, drew in smoke thoughtfully. But he was inwardly tense. Fingers of dread clutched at his heart. The man who had called had probably been the Terror, wanting to make arrangements for the delivery of his share of the money. Sanzoni had been out. He would not call again tonight, for the cold, gray fingers of the dawn were already stealing in through the window. Agent “X” made an impatient, sullen gesture.
“Scram, all of you. I gotta be alone to think.”
It was true; but not in the way they supposed. The gangsters withdrew and Agent “X” went to Sanzoni’s big safe. He did not know the combination. But, making sure the doors of his office were locked, he knelt before the safe, listened to the faint clicks of the lock mechanism, and easily opened the door. Inside were other packets of bills, and a small leather satchel — loot no doubt ready for delivery. The cash taken in the bank raid tonight formed an allotment, together with that in the safe. The Terror was impatient to receive his seventy per cent.