He was rapidly searched, and an automatic taken from his shoulder holster, together with a few other papers. Then those who held him proceeded to scratch the plaster and make-up from his face.
WHILE they were doing it, the resonant voice of the monster spoke mockingly, “For once the famous Secret Agent ‘X’ has nothing to say; for once he is helpless. At last he has met his master! This, gentlemen, is the end of Secret Agent ‘X’!” There was a note of proud triumph in that voice now — a note of evil, unmerciful triumph, which ended in a gasp of rage as the last of the make-up was removed, revealing the face of — Linky Teagle!
A rustle of excitement spread among the assembled killers, but even then no word was spoken among them — only, here and there were heard gross, unintelligible grunts, and the wheezy, terror-impregnated breathing of Linky Teagle.
Above the sound of those inhuman grunts rose the metallic, but now enraged voice of the murder monster. “If this is a trick, somebody is going to pay for it! Scratch that face and see if it’s another disguise!”
One of the four killers, grinning as a child might grin when it crushes a grasshopper with its foot, drew a knife and scraped the point along the captive’s face, eliciting a muted howl of agony. But no plaster came off. Blood ran freely where the knife point had scored into the flesh. It was indeed Linky Teagle.
The monster uttered a single ominous word, “Explain!”
Teagle gulped, tried to talk, and succeeded only in emitting grotesque sounds. He was in the grip of terror, and he tried desperately to talk. Finally, urged by his dread, he managed to get out some words. The dope was wearing off, easing his throat muscles.
“It’s no joke, boss. I had this guy ‘X’ in the back room, and the bartender brought in the doped drink. But he must have got wise. Because—” he stopped, swallowed hard, and found it impossible to continue.
The monster ordered, “Bring him water.”
One of the four disappeared through the side door, returned in a moment with a glass of water which Teagle gulped at a single draught. His throat felt better, and he went on.
“He must have got wise, somehow. Because all of a sudden he pulls out a funny shaped gun. I says, ‘What’s that, Harder?’—makin’ believe, see, that I still thought he was Harder. An’ he says to me, lookin’ kinda funny, ‘So you know who I am! Well, I will show you how to make a quick change, only you won’t be able to witness it, Linky.’ An’ with that, he shoots off this funny gun that don’t make no noise, an’ I feel a sudden kind of sickish sweet feelin’, an’ that’s all I know till I wake up in the sack! So help me, boss, it ain’t no joke!”
Several of the killers stirred uneasily in the silence that followed Linky’s recital, It was difficult to tell from their impassive countenances what they felt. Only their eyes blazed with a dangerous lust. But they looked tensely at the monster on the platform. Somehow the monster’s rage and bafflement seemed to pervade the whole room.
The resonant voice burst from the bowels of the barrel-like shape. “So he put you to sleep, eh, Teagle? And then he changed places with you — made up as you, and made you up as Harder. Then he came out and sent my men in to put you in the sack.” The voice paused, then continued ruminatively, “And to think — I almost got him. I wondered that Linky Teagle could be so quick-witted as to escape the fire bath!”
Teagle looked up, sudden fear in his eyes. “What do you mean, boss — escape the fire bath?”
“You didn’t think, Teagle, that you would be allowed to live after learning so much of our secret? Well, perhaps you did. So did that foolish bartender. I killed him. I thought I failed with you. This time I shall not fail.”
Slowly the ominous finger rose, pointing at Teagle. “Stand away from him!” ordered the metallic voice.
The four smooth-faced killers who had held him now sprang away. Teagle cried out piteously, “What you gonna do to—”
He never ended the sentence, for he was suddenly enveloped in flames…
Chapter IX
SECRET AGENT “X” did not permit himself to rest after escaping the trap set for him by Linky Teagle.
He knew that the murder monster would quickly discover the ruse by which he had substituted Linky Teagle for himself in the sack. He knew that the murder monster would be spurred to redoubled activity by the realization that it was the Secret Agent, and not Teagle, who had escaped from the menace of the flaming death in the smelly barroom on Eighth Avenue.
And “X,” too, was spurred to feverish activity by the knowledge that there was much to be done yet if the monster was to be prevented from striking again with that horrible flaming death. All hope of gaining admittance to the inner ring of the monster’s cohorts was now dissipated. He must follow along other lines of inquiry.
The most promising lead was the actress, Mabel Boling. She was a former friend of “Duke” Marcy. She had been with Harry Pringle when he was killed. The Agent was to phone her tomorrow. But that was too long to wait. If she knew anything, she must be made to talk before morning.
It was to see her, therefore, that the Agent was now on his way. He had discarded, temporarily, the personality of Mr. Vardis. To appear before Mabel Boling in that character might make her suspicious now. He was Mr. A. J. Martin, a newspaper man. As such, he had every legitimate reason to approach her; he would be collecting news on the atrocity at the bazaar, and it was certain that she would not be asleep after her harrowing experience — she would probably be home, being interviewed by other representatives of the press.
“X” drove toward the address she had given him in the West Eighties. On the way he passed a newsboy crying an extra. He pulled in at the curb, bought a copy.
His hands clenched on the paper, his mouth set grimly as he read the screaming headline:
WOMAN IS LATEST VICTIM OF MURDER MONSTER
—
Mabel Boling, Actress, Is Burned to Death in Her Apartment by Mysterious Death Blast
—
TWO-ALARM FIRE RESULTS
—
At one A.M. this morning, the Murder Monster struck again. This time his victim was a beautiful woman, Mabel Boling.
It will be recalled that she recently broke with “Duke” Marcy—
Secret Agent “X” skipped the rest of the account. He ran his eye to the next column where the heading announced that Deputy Commissioner Pringle, on the job despite the death of his son, had issued a call for every detective on vacation to return to active duty until the murder monster was captured or killed.
It added that the police were seeking “Duke” Marcy for questioning, but that he had disappeared from all his known haunts; a general alarm had been issued for him, and it was expected that he would be apprehended shortly.
The Agent put the paper down, headed his car back the way he had come. The murder monster had acted swiftly. There must be a keen brain, indeed, behind that clumsy automaton; for it had foreseen that Mabel might be a possible source of information, had taken immediate, ruthless steps to eliminate her. Every avenue of information that might lead to the murder monster had been blocked.
With bitterness in his heart, the Agent drove to an apartment that he maintained nearby where he kept copious records of the reports of his far-flung operatives. Here he ensconced himself in solitude, and spent the few remaining hours of the night in studying every angle and manifestation of the case. He had long ago discovered what few men have learned — that two or three hours of concentrated thought are often worth days of feverish activity.