Then, with the stock crash of ’29, Sully’s utilities empire had collapsed in chaos, dragging thousands of investors down with it. And Vivian de Graf had aided the former wizard of high finance in the secluded life forced upon him by the debacle. She had acted for him as go-between in financial matters — and “X” knew for a fact that she received handsome commissions on every deal he managed to put through with her help.
Possibly some business of Sully’s explained her presence at the Guardian Bank at the moment when it was raided. Possibly Sully was responsible for the presence of Norman Coe, too. For Coe had helped expose Sully after the big crash, and had worked tirelessly to have him prosecuted for the ruin he had caused. These things the Agent knew. But the woman herself was still an enigma — an exotic, mysterious personality.
The car she had come in, a luxurious phaeton, was parked outside the gates. Sully would allow no vehicle within his grounds. The old carriage entrance was kept closed and locked. Rain or shine, visitors were forced to walk up the long drive. Coal and provisions came the same way. Frequent harsh threats made against Roswell Sully by the investors he had mulcted had made him wary. His past haunted him always like a grim specter, even though he had salvaged enough for himself to live on in luxury. He had been called the most hated man in America.
Agent “X” climbed the wall and dropped silently into the forbidden grounds. With the bleak winter wind stirring the branches of the trees overhead, he crept forward. His senses were alert. It was rumored that Sully kept guards.
“X” was disguised as a young, nattily dressed man; not Martin, but another personality for which he had chosen the cognomen of “Sid Granville.” Under one arm he carried a newspaperman’s camera with focal plane shutter and high-speed lens. If caught, he was prepared to play his bluff to the limit. Vivian de Graf must not be made suspicious — and she would only be amused at the predicament of a young reporter, eager for a scoop. He would admit that he had followed her in the hope of getting a good news story, and a flashlight picture for his sheet. The news value of her presence at the raided bank would be his excuse.
But suddenly the Agent paused and listened. He had heard an ominous sound in the darkness ahead — a dog’s soft growl. He tensed, standing close to the fragrant blackness of an ornamental spruce.
ACROSS the lawn an electric lantern flashed, and sent its sharp white beam straight toward “X” as its bearer came forward through the trees. The Agent darted to the left, moving with swift strides. He watched with relief as the light continued in the direction of the wall. But an instant later he heard a rustle in the dry grass behind him, and whirled to see phosphorescent eyes gleaming.
He crouched and waited as the dogs came toward him. There were at least four. They did not bark again. Trained watchdogs, they had been taught not to yelp at everything they saw. They would ring their quarry first, then give warning.
He heard the pad of feet, then saw their silhouettes against a street light shining over the wall. They were huge police dogs, ears alertly pricked, hackles stiff. Soon they would give tongue, or attack with flashing fangs.
But the Agent didn’t even feel for the only weapon he carried — his gas gun. Instead, he sent a low whistle into the night. It was the strange, weirdly melodious whistle of Secret Agent “X,” as eerie as the note of some wild thing.
The dogs stood still as though frozen. Then they approached him slowly, and he spoke to them with low, soothing words, holding out his hand. For a tense moment they held back, fangs bared and legs stiff. Then with a low whine the leader went forward. Agent “X” stroked the animal’s muzzle and at that sign of friendship, the others came close, too. The watchdogs set to guard Sully had become “X’s” friends.
An ironic smile twitched the Agent’s lips as he moved on toward the house. He was approaching with an escort, now. He could hear the man by the wall whistling, baffled by the disappearance of his dogs. But the great beasts preferred the company of their new-found friend to that of their master.
“X” SENT them away with a low-whispered command when he came close to the mansion. He could risk no sound from them, to interfere with the daring entrée he had planned.
As he stepped near the house, his fingers felt for the ingenious chromium tools and master keys hidden cunningly in secret pockets of his suit. Choosing an unlighted sun-porch at the building’s side, he had the door open in less than a minute and was tiptoeing across the porch in his rubber-soled shoes.
Before entering the door into the house itself, he drew a case strapped close against his thigh an instrument no larger than the smallest vest pocket camera. It looked so much like a camera that it would deceive anyone. But when he opened it, no lens or bellows showed. There was a small rubber disc and a coil of flexible cable inside instead.
He pressed the disc to the outside of the door, put the body of the instrument to his ear, and fingered what appeared to be a film wind. This was a delicate rheostat control. There was no film inside the thing, but small round batteries which seemed to correspond. In the Agent’s hand was the most compact and powerful sound amplifier in existence, a mechanism which he had worked out himself.
Carefully adjusting the rheostat control, he listened to various noises far in the interior of the big house. Somewhere footsteps sounded, but they were several rooms away. Voices came to him — but the thicknesses of intervening walls made the words too indistinct even for the instrument in his hands to clarify.
Convinced that no one was behind the door, he opened it quickly, entered, and found himself in a large music room. A grand piano stood against one wall. The Agent tiptoed toward it, blinked on his small light. Faint dust on the keys showed that the piano had not been used for months. This room, eloquent of the big parties Sully had indulged in in bygone days, was empty now. He had made a wise choice in entering it.
The Agent crossed it swiftly. Beyond, through heavy portieres, he came to a small reception room with a thick, soft carpet underfoot. There was a door at the end of this and a faint spot of light gleamed through the keyhole. Another door led to a wide hall, where he saw the faint glow of a shaded light. He moved toward this, then stopped abruptly. A board somewhere under the heavy carpet had squeaked under his stealthy tread.
The sound was faint, mouse-like, yet a shadow moved instantly in the hall. Agent “X” could see huge shoulders and a giant head thrown in black silhouette on the opposite wall. The shadow moved, changed size as the man behind it approached slowly.
Sucking breath between his teeth, the Agent backed into the shadows of the reception room. He crouched behind a chair and waited.
The shadow moved to the door, and the man was revealed in the subdued light behind him. Big, heavy-set, he had the flattened features of an ape. His head was bent forward on a thick, bull neck. Something in his fingers gleamed dully. An automatic — proving that this was one of Roswell Sully’s paid guards. The financier had taken a tip from the racketeers he resembled, had hired paid gunmen to protect him.
Agent “X” drew his gas gun from his pocket, but hesitated. He dared not use it now. The faint chemical smell of the gas might drift through the house and attract attention. It might arouse the suspicion of whoever was in the room behind the lighted keyhole. No, he could not use the gas gun, though it was his only weapon. As he waited, “X” heard voices raised in the room beyond. It made him tingle with excitement. He felt a stab of annoyance at this interruption.
The apelike gunman came through the door and moved stealthily toward a wall switch, obviously intending to flood the room with light. And that would not do! As the man’s fingers reached for the switch, “X” sprang.