“That’s what we charge, mister. We only take in high class people.”
“That’s entirely too much,” said “X.” “I don’t see how you can get any business.”
The attendant shrugged. “We get along.” He turned away once more. “I think it’s cheaper up the block. Why don’t you try over there?”
“I will. Oh, by the way—”
The attendant stopped once more, annoyed. “What—”
He never finished. For Secret Agent “X” had stepped close to him and, as he turned, delivered a smashing blow to the point of the attendant’s chin. The overalled man staggered backward, his eyes growing glassy, and would have slumped to the floor had “X” not caught him and eased him down slowly. He then dragged the unconscious attendant’s body over to a corner, where he deposited it.
Now he proceeded to scan every corner of the garage. There was no place of concealment anywhere. The walls were of brick, bare, without any sort of covering that might hide a secret door.
The Agent stepped to the doorway, looked out at the street. Directly opposite was a brownstone house, one of the long row that ran to the corner. They had once been the homes of comfortable families, quiet and refined. Now they all had “furnished room” signs. All, that is, except Number 346, which was the one directly opposite. This one had no sign, and did not seem to be occupied at all.
Secret Agent “X” frowned, turned away from the entrance, and went into the office of the garage, which was in the corner, facing the street. There was no one in the office, but he noticed that the large window on the street was of frosted glass, making it impossible to look in from outside.
There was a desk against one wall, and a table in the center. The floor was of concrete. There were two closed doors in the wall opposite the desk. The Agent tried them. The first opened into a wash room, the second into a closet. It was quite a roomy closet. A dozen new tires, still in their wrappings, were stacked at one side. The rest of the closet was occupied by boxes of inner tubes, cans of oil, and other innocent-appearing accessories of a legitimate garage.
The Agent examined the floor and the walls, but could find no trace of an opening. His face was intent, thoughtful.
Before leaving the closet, he put his hands on the top tire of the stack, tried to lift it. He found that it could not be lifted. It was tied to the others by several lengths of heavy wire. “X” gripped the wire, and pulled.
And the whole stack of tires moved outward, toward him!
They had been resting on a metal plate set just above the floor, which moved on a pivot. Below the plate there was disclosed a circular opening leading down into darkness.
Secret Agent “X” peered down into this opening and saw a set of stairs.
HE was taut now, all his senses keenly alert. No sound came from the garage outside the office, no sound came from the depths below. Ominous silence lay about the place, and the gathering dusk seemed to creep upon him with damp, stifling fingers. Here then, was the lair where lurked this murder monster that had held the city in terror. Now at last, after unremitting effort, after thrusting himself into danger time and again, he was going to come to grips once more with that horrible specter of death that caused men to turn into a living blaze of torture.
The Agent lowered himself into the opening, descended the short flight of steps. It was pitch black in here, but he did not light his flash. He reached the bottom, felt a wall at his right, and followed it. He put out his left hand, felt another wall.
He was in a narrow passage, and his sense of direction told him that it ran under the street, toward Number 346, opposite. He followed the passage for about thirty feet, and found himself before a closed door.
Now he risked the flashlight, saw that the door was of steel, with a small peephole, closed now, high up at the level of the eyes.
He set the flashlight on its end so that the beam was diffused upward, and knelt before the lock, taking out his kit of tools. In less than three minutes, working with absolute silence, he had the door open, stepped through into a lighted cubbyhole.
One of the robot-men was seated here, apparently a guard. He sprang up, hand streaking for the silenced automatic that lay on a small table beside him. But the Agent was faster. He had provided himself with another gas gun to replace the one he had lost earlier in the day, and he fired this full in the face of the startled robot. The man sank to the floor without a moan.
The Secret Agent wasted no time. He knelt beside the inert form, set up his portable mirror and laid on the floor his make-up kit.
His fingers worked swiftly, dexterously, as he modeled for himself a face that was the duplicate of the face of the robot who lay before him.
Finally he arose. His gray suit was of the same cut as that of the robots; his face was an exact replica of theirs. He walked stiffly, opened a door at the other side of the cubbyhole, and stepped through, for all the world another one of those merciless killers.
He was in a short hall, musty and dank with the typical cellar smell. This must be the cellar of Number 346. He passed a rickety wooden door, heard a scraping noise behind it.
The door was fastened on the outside by a staple which he removed. He flashed his light into the dark ulterior, saw a huddled form, tied, with mouth and eyes taped.
He stepped inside, knelt beside the figure, and removed the tape from the mouth, leaving the man’s eyes covered. The man was Ed Runkle!
Runkle had not been picked up by Bates’ men — in fact he had been lost sight of after “X” had seen him driving away from Belvidere Road. And this was why he had not been picked up again. He was a prisoner of the monster — Runkle, the attorney who had defended the monster’s man in court, whom “X” had seen driving away from the slaughter house on Belvidere Road!
WITH the tape off his mouth, the little attorney wet his lips, ran his tongue around the outside of his mouth where the tape had torn the skin. “What do you want of me?” he asked huskily. He wriggled his head as if he could in that way remove the tape from his eyes. “Are you one of the — robots? Talk, why don’t you talk! Let me hear you say something!”
“X” kept his ear cocked for the possible approach of anyone along the corridor. He said, “I am not a robot. Answer my questions, but do not raise your voice. How did you get here?”
Runkle’s body seemed to stiffen at the sound of “X’s” voice. He exclaimed, “If you’re not a robot — who are you?” He had seemed to gain courage from the news that this was not another one of the ruthless mechanical-appearing men of the monster. Even his voice seemed to assume a new tone, a tone with a tinge of cunning in it. He repeated the question—“Who are you?”
“Never mind that,” the Agent told him curtly. “There’s no time now for explanations. If I’m to help you, you must answer me quickly. How did you get here?”
With the instinct of his profession, Runkle began to hedge. “You want information? Why don’t you take the tape off my eyes then? When I see who you are, maybe I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
“X” arose from beside him. “I have no time,” he said shortly. “If you won’t talk, I’ll leave you here.” He went toward the door.
Runkle called out in a low, desperate voice, “Wait! Don’t leave me here! I’ll talk.”
The Agent returned, stood above him. “Go on.”
“I don’t know how I got here. I was driving, out in Brooklyn. Suddenly a large truck cut in front of me, forced me to the curb. The rear door of the truck opened, and a small army of these robots swarmed out, grabbed me and hustled me into the truck. They tied me up this way, and taped my eyes. Then I passed out, and I don’t know what happened after that. I came to in here — I don’t know where I am.” He raised his voice in a thin whine. “For God’s sake, get me out of—”