But Secret Agent “X” paid him no attention. He was concentrating on that message, picking out the words that counted — one French, one German, one English; one German, one English, one French, and so on. Decoding the message mentally required a swift-thinking, keen intellect. “X” could not write the words now; he had to remember each one that counted, and at the same time keep track of the progressive changes from one language to another.
He shut out his surroundings, focused his whole attention on Bates’s voice. And while the others in the speeding car made petulant comments, to him those words began to assume significance.
Bates was saying, “Suspicious truck reported opposite home of Randolph Coulter. Have ordered plane number one to go up to circle the neighborhood. Am awaiting further instructions.”
Bates began to repeat the message, but “X” had no need to listen. He had decoded the message as he heard it. A truck in front of Ranny Coulter’s house — and Coulter and Larrabie both staying there. The truck might be innocent enough, but “X” had a vivid picture of the monster stepping into that other truck when it had nearly caught him in the apartment on Eighth Avenue.
Should he tell Frazer? The sergeant wouldn’t believe him, would think “X” was trying some sort of trick. If Coulter and Larrabie were still home, they must be warned against going out, must stay inside the house until the truck had been investigated.
There was no time to be lost. “X” must get away from his captors at once; if the suspicions of Bates’s operative were well grounded, then this might be the opportunity that “X” had been waiting for.
In addition, there was another, perhaps more immediate danger looming up. If the Agent were brought to headquarters, he would be thoroughly searched. The things that would be found on him would damn him a thousand times over in the eyes of the police; his bullet-proof vest, his kit of chromium tools, his make-up material. Above all, they must not be allowed to examine Mr. Corlear’s suit too closely.
“X” LOOKED up, saw that they were approaching the Manhattan end of the Brooklyn Bridge, and reached a swift decision. His manacled hands moved inconspicuously. His fingers flicked to his tie, came away with a small glass capsule that had laid in an ingeniously contrived pocket of the lining.
Too late, the detective at his right saw what he was doing and reached out to grip his hand, exclaiming, “Say! What the—”
He did not complete the sentence, for the Agent had flipped the glass capsule into the air, over the driver’s shoulder. The capsule struck the windshield, shattered; and the powerful, pungent odor of concentrated ammonia gas filled the car.
Frazer and the two detectives began to cough as the stinging gas entered their throats; their eyes clouded with burning tears. The driver, in a panic of sudden agony, let go of the wheel to rub at his eyes, and the car swerved, careened into the rail at the side of the bridge. All four of them forgot completely about the presence of their prisoner in the abrupt anguish which attacked their eyes, noses and throats.
Secret Agent “X” had taken a deep breath as he hurled the capsule, and now he held it while his fingers dipped into the vest pocket of the detective at his right, emerged with the key to the handcuffs. In a twinkling the steel links were loosened and dropped to the floorboards.
The impact of the car against the rail sent them all flying in a heap to the floor, but it was the Agent who acted with the precision of a machine. He kept his eyes closed as a protection against the gas, heaved himself up, and twisted the knob of the door. The car had come to a standstill as he leaped out. Brakes screamed as the traffic behind came to an abrupt stop.
The Agent took a deep breath of the clean fresh air, and looked around. Another car had come to a halt beside them, the driver looking over at them with wide eyes. “X” sprang over, wrenched open the rear door, and swung inside.
“Drive ahead!” he ordered with a crisp incisiveness that brooked no opposition.
The driver hesitated only an instant. The Agent gripped his shoulder with hard fingers. “Get going, or I’ll throw you out and drive myself!”
The man at the wheel quailed under the quiet threat of that voice. He mumbled something indistinguishable, shifted into first, and put the car in motion.
Behind them came hoarse shouts from Frazer and the other detectives in the squad car. They were not hurt, but they were helpless, blinded for the moment by the gas. An officer was lumbering toward the scene from the Manhattan end of the bridge. He did not even look toward the car that passed him, in which “X” was riding; he had eyes only for the accident farther up.
“X’s” unwilling chauffeur slowed up almost imperceptibly, half-turned toward the bluecoat outside. But the Agent divined his purpose at once, pressed the hard end of a fountain pen flashlight into his shoulder blade. “Just keep going,” he ordered softly.
The driver obeyed.
As they left the bridge behind, “X” moved over to the right side of the seat so that the man at the wheel could not see him in the rear vision mirror. “Turn left,” he instructed. “Drive downtown till I tell you to stop.”
The owner of the car did as directed. At the next corner there was a red light. “I’ll have to stop for this,” he said over his shoulder. “Is it okay for me to—” His voice trailed off, and he braked to a stop with a bewildered expression on his face. Then he pulled over to the curb and swore. For he had been talking to thin air.
As he had slowed up for the light, his passenger had opened the right-hand door and leaped from the car, disappearing into the lunch hour crowd around city hall. The only evidence that he had even been present in the car was a folded twenty-dollar bill which he had placed conspicuously in the slot of the door handle.
Chapter XVIII
THE Agent crossed City Hall Park at a fast walk, and entered the drug store at the corner of Broadway and Chambers. He looked up the number of Ranny Coulter’s house, and hurried into a phone booth, put in the call, hoping that nothing had happened there yet.
He was relieved to hear Jack Larrabie’s voice over the wire.
He said crisply, “This is Fearson, Larrabie. Is young Coulter there with you?”
“Yes,” Larrabie answered. “We were just leaving to go down to headquarters. Harry Pringle’s father, the deputy commissioner, has offered to deputize us so that we can go after the monster. We’re sick and tired of sticking in the house and doing nothing!”
The Agent’s voice rang with a sudden note of authority as he said, “Neither of you must leave the house till I get there, Larrabie! There is a truck parked outside which may be waiting for you to come out. Do nothing until I arrive. Is that clear?”
“Well—” young Larrabie said reluctantly.
The Agent interrupted him. “On no condition must you go out. I’ll be there in less than a half hour. And stay away from the windows, too!”
He hung up without waiting for an answer, but he did not leave at once. Instead he turned his back to the glass door of the booth, set up his portable mirror on the corner of the small shelf where the telephone rested, and set to work on his face. Within three minutes, Arvold Fearson had disappeared. Mr. Vardis now stood in the booth. Though the gray suit was the same, the Agent’s whole bearing was different.
As he stepped out of the booth, he no longer walked with the shuffling slouch of Fearson. Instead, he strode erect, with head held high. So perfect was the transformation, that by the very change in bearing he seemed to be inches taller than Fearson had appeared.
Out on Broadway, he met a scene of wild excitement. The street was aswarm with police. Frazer and the plain-clothes men must have recovered by this time from the effects of the ammonia gas and given the description of Fearson.