“Good work, Jim,” the Agent commended. “I’ll get in touch with you later. There’ll be more work to do today,” he added grimly.
Before leaving the booth, he made one more phone call, to Bates. He ordered Bates to place two men on the task of shadowing Runkle, the lawyer, and of checking up on anybody he might meet.
That done, the Agent returned to his car and drove to the apartment on Eighth Avenue. He could not know that even at that moment, the taxi driver, Kardos, was phoning certain information to a number not listed in any telephone directory.
At the apartment, which was on the third floor of an old, run-down apartment house, the Agent nodded in satisfaction as he saw the bound and blindfolded figure of the robot killer squirming on the floor. Here was his only avenue of approach to the murder monster. By his own daring and ingenuity he had balked the monster in its attempt to rescue this killer; he now had him alone where it might be possible to apply sufficient pressure to draw out certain information.
Before removing the blindfold, the Agent stepped to a mirror and worked swiftly on his own face. The features of A. J. Martin disappeared, were replaced by those of a thin, ascetic looking man in the middle forties. The purpose of this was to save the personality of A. J. Martin for future use; he was not ready to discard it, and if this killer should see him as Martin, the personality of Martin would be helpless.
“X” now stepped to the side of the killer, removed the gag. The killer’s features were smooth, expressionless. Only his eyes showed emotion, and they stared up at the Agent with mingled defiance and fear.
“X” examined him closely, stooped and touched his face with long, sensitive fingers. The killer shrank from his touch, looked around the room, for the first time became aware of his surroundings. He tried to roll away from “X’s” searching fingers on his face, but the Agent held him firmly with one hand.
Suddenly the Agent uttered an exclamation of surprise. His sensitive, probing fingers had found something that it would have been impossible for anyone whose senses were less keenly on the alert to discover. It was a slight ridge under the chin, so infinitesimal as to be invisible to the naked eye.
The Agent’s eyes glittered, as he seized the killer under the arms, dragged him, squirming and struggling, to the opposite side of the room where his make-up table stood. He placed him on the floor, and turned on the powerful lamp that stood beside the table.
The lamp, which the Agent used when he fashioned his careful disguises, bathed the helpless killer’s face in a merciless light, illuminating every detail of his features.
Now the Agent went to the cabinet in the corner, brought out a peculiarly shaped magnifying glass. This was constructed along the lines of the lenses used by bacteriologists, but more adaptable to being carried about for handy use. There was little that this instrument did not reveal when applied under a strong light.
“X” held the killer in a viselike grip while he examined his face. The glass showed a tiny line that ran under the chin from ear to ear. It was such a line as might have been left by a healing scar that was perfectly tended. The Agent followed that line from the right ear, up along the fringe of the killer’s scalp, and around to the other ear.
For a long time he studied it, maintaining utter silence. Then at last he smiled softly.
“I see, my friend,” he said.
But his eyes were clouded with a strange emotion — the emotion of discovering something that has hitherto been considered incredible by the mind of man. For that line, indicative of a healed scar, had given him the clue to a momentous discovery. It had given him a glimpse of a thing so weird, so monstrous, as to stagger the imagination.
The Agent’s grip tightened; he held the other helpless in the crook of his arm, while the long, sensitive fingers of his right hand probed further, feeling the contours of the man’s head. The brownish, nondescript-colored hair was wiry, unnatural. The Agent pressed with his thumb and forefinger, and the whole scalp seemed to move. The man was wearing a cunningly contrived wig!
The killer’s eyes betrayed a venomous hatred as “X” removed the wig. It was fitted with a suction cap that clung to his shaven skull. At one spot on that skull, the Agent’s magnifying glass revealed another scar, not more than an inch long, and entirely healed.
The Agent did not examine the scar at this time. His mind was occupied with the horrid, monstrous secret he had discovered.
He said, “My friend, the masquerade is over!”
The killer glared up at him, tried to heave himself upright, and emitted a series of inarticulate, horrible grunts.
“X” studied the killer’s eyes. He was interested in them, for they seemed to evoke a memory somewhere within him — a memory of another face, of those same eyes peering out of a face that in no way resembled this one. He went on, watching the other intently.
“Your face has been changed, my friend — changed by a marvelous job of plastic surgery. This monster master of yours has had your face changed to resemble the others whom he uses. You acted like robots to fool the public and the police — and why shouldn’t they be fooled, when you were all facsimiles of each other!”
“X” knew he was right in his findings, because the killer bared his teeth in a snarl, threw him a venomous glance.
THE Agent hardly dared to put into concrete thoughts the revolting conclusion suggested by that line around the rim of the killer’s face. But now, as he noted the killer’s reaction, he was convinced that he had guessed right — this man had had his face transformed by a highly skilled surgeon!
At the urge of a sudden flash of inspiration, Secret Agent “X” twisted the killer’s body around, seized the handcuffed wrists, and examined his fingertips. They were smooth, white, soft. Holding the killer’s hand firmly, the Agent directed his magnifying glass on the right thumb. And under that glass, which mercilessly showed every line and mark, the Agent was able to detect a minute scar running across the under side of the thumb. Each finger in turn that he examined showed the same scar. A remarkably skillful surgeon had grafted fresh skin onto each finger — skin that had been miraculously provided with a set of loops and whorls!
The Agent’s lips set grimly. “Very clever — very clever indeed!” he remarked. “No wonder the police could discover no record for you!”
Once more he turned the killer around facing him. “Your fingertips have also been changed. You have been made into a different man. I wonder if you knew in advance that you were going to be made into a replica of those others — or did your master have that done to you against your will?”
The killer regarded him sullenly, saying nothing.
“X” arose from his knees, stood over him. “All the world knows now that you and your fellows are not robots. Why continue the pretense? Why don’t you talk now? Is it because you are afraid to let me hear your voice? Are you afraid that I will recognize you — Gilly?”
That last sentence, deliberately spoken with sudden intensity, seemed to have the effect of a charge of electricity upon the killer. His whole body shook with an uncontrollable spasm of terror. His mouth opened, but no sound issued except a short series of horrible inarticulate grunting noises. The man seemed to be straining his larynx to utter words that rebelled at being spoken.
The Agent said to him, “You wonder how I guessed who you are, Gilly?” He smiled grimly. “I wasn’t quite sure — but now I see that I am right. It was your eyes that gave you away, Gilly. You could change your face a thousand times, but I would always remember your eyes!”