Suddenly from below there came a shower of high-powered slugs, as the riflemen stationed outside realized that “X” must be using the smoke screen to escape. The slugs clanged against the drain pipe below the point where the smoke came out. Soon they would raise their sights on the chance that he was working upward instead of down. He could not hope to reach the roof before that; in fact, if he ascended any higher, he would emerge from the protection of the smoke screen and would be a clear target.
He was now alongside the window on the floor directly above his own. Without hesitation he swung his feet over the sill, crashing the glass. He leaped through the jagged opening into the room. It was unfurnished, vacant. His trousers were cut by the glass, there was a long gash in his right hand, and a jagged scratch on his cheek. But he did not stop; he dashed through the room, out into the hall. Doors were opening everywhere, heads were peering out — heads of people who looked bewildered, frightened by the sudden uproar in their house.
On the landing below “X” heard heavy steps, heard the monster ascending the stairs. The monster was quick-witted, had divined what “X” had done to escape, and was coming after him.
The Agent ran up the stairs. People ducked their heads inside at sight of his bloody face, made no move to hinder him as he raced to the roof. He pushed open the skylight, raised himself up, and sped across to the roof of the adjoining house.
He ducked down through the skylight of the next building, just getting a glimpse of the monster’s hideous masked head peering after him out of the opening he had left. The monster was too unwieldy to hoist itself through the skylight after him.
“X” sped down four flights of steps to the street. A crowd was milling around, attracted by the strange happenings. “X” mingled with the crowd, listening to comment. “It’s the murder monster!” some one said. “He came in that truck across the street and went in this house here. And they’re firing out of the truck at the house!”
“X” noted the truck opposite. He could tell that it was armored, an impregnable fortress. He waited until he saw the murder monster appear in the street again. The horrible gas-masked figure was flanked by several of the robots who were carrying the body of Gilly.
From near-by came the sound of a police siren. The Agent hoped fervently that the monster would leave before the police got there, for he knew that the uniformed men wouldn’t stand the ghost of a chance against the horrible weapon of fire that the monster wielded.
He himself had fled from it, for he was not yet ready to meet it on even terms; and a senseless attack at this time would not have served the cause of justice — might even have hindered it by removing the only man in existence who knew the secret of the escaped convicts.
“X” breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the monster and the robots pile into the truck, and the truck pull away before the police car rounded the comer. Then he himself turned and walked away from there swiftly. He had retreated before the monster, had, apparently, lost the first encounter with it. But he was far closer to victory than he had yet been, for he now knew much about the monster and the robots that the monster did not suspect him of knowing.
And he proceeded to act upon that knowledge.
Chapter XIV
THE actions of Secret Agent “X” during the next two or three hours might have appeared highly peculiar to an uninformed observer. He went to another of his apartments and changed back to the disguise of Mr. Vardis. Leaving the apartment, his first stop was at the office of a large theatrical supply firm, where he was closeted with the manager for some twenty minutes before he emerged with a large bundle that he deposited in his car. He then drove to a quiet store in the East Fifties, on the window of which appeared the modest lettering, “Corlear Son, Custom Tailors.” He took his package inside, and spent almost an hour in the fitting room with Mr. Corlear himself.
The casual observer would have wondered that a man engaged in so desperate a battle with crime should find time for such apparently frivolous occupations. But Mr. Vardis seemed to have nothing on his mind but securing a perfect fit in the clothing he was ordering. Mr. Corlear finally escorted him to the door personally, saying, “I promise you, Mr. Vardis, that it will be ready for you by tomorrow morning. I will myself work all night on this job.”
From Corlear’s, Mr. Vardis drove to the nearest pay telephone and phoned Bates. He issued careful instructions. “You will hold the two planes in readiness in the field in Brooklyn. At the first alarm they will go up over the city.”
“The planes will be ready, air,” Bates replied. “How about our other operations — shall we continue them?”
“Absolutely. Keep Runkle under constant observation. I will continue to call you every half hour for news. Have you been able to pick up any trace of ‘Duke’ Marcy as yet?”
“No, sir. I have more than a dozen men on his trail, but no success.”
“Keep after him. It’s important that he be located within the next twenty-four hours.”
When he had completed his call to Bates, the Agent called the office of the Hobart Detective Agency. “This is Mr. Martin,” he told the girl who answered the phone. “Please let me talk to Mr. Hobart.”
That young man was bubbling with excitement when he got on the wire. “I’m glad you called, Mr. Martin. I’ve been offered a retainer to work on this robot murder case, and I was wondering if I should accept it!”
“A retainer? By whom?”
“They’re in my private office now. Young Jack Larrabie, and Randolph Coulter. It seems they expect to be next on the monster’s list. Their friend Pringle—”
“Take the case, Jim! Ask them to wait. I’ll send up a man to handle it for you — a Mr. Fearson. Give him every co-operation; follow his orders as if they were my own. He’ll be there in a half hour!”
He hung up, leaving Jim Hobart slightly bewildered. Now he wasted no time. He returned to his car, and sitting in the back, he set up his portable mirror, worked on his face. In a short time there appeared once more the features of the thin, ascetic looking, middle-aged man who had questioned Gilly a few hours earlier. That completed, he selected a set of cards and papers from a small portfolio. These papers established that he was a Mr. Arvold Fearson, private investigator. He had a license in that name, and the picture attached to that license was a duplicate of his new face. It was only one of a dozen identities which the Agent had prepared in advance for instant use.
Well within the half hour specified, he presented himself to the switchboard girl in the Hobart Detective Agency and gave his name.
The girl flashed him a smile. “Mr. Hobart is expecting you, Mr. Fearson. He has two clients inside, but he told me to let him know the minute you arrived.”
“X” nodded and seated himself while the girl called inside, and he surveyed the busy office. There were five girls employed here; one was Jim Hobart’s secretary, three were file clerks, and one was the switchboard operator. The office was large, well furnished. Behind the telephone girl was the door of Jim Hobart’s sanctum, while to the left was another door leading to a large room where each operative had a desk of his own where he could study material, make out reports, and plan his work.
In the short time that Jim Hobart had been running this agency, he had achieved phenomenal success. This was partly due to the aid which “X” had given him. In his role of Elisha Pond, he had recommended the agency to banks and insurance companies, had helped to secure large and profitable accounts. The Hobart Detective Agency was well known throughout the country now, and it was consulted more and more by people who had heard the name, or seen it mentioned in the papers. This was exactly what “X” wanted, for in this fashion the agency was enabled to build up large files on criminals, on underworld connections, and to keep its pulse on the trend of criminal events.