Agent “X” brought his car to a skidding stop, leaped out.
“It was a neat job, if I do say it,” Hobart stated buoyantly. “We found she drove a car, got the tire tracks in her own garage. One of my men located the same tracks in some mud out here. Her own bus was used for the job. Maybe she had a crazy boy friend who did it.”
“Where is she?” asked “X.”
JIM HOBART turned and sauntered into the vacant lot. He moved along the inside of the fence, stopped, and indicated a pile of old boarding that had been shoved away. Under it, a rough hollow had been scooped in the ground, and the body of a girl lay there. Her dress was torn to pieces, like that of the cowering girl he had seen in the bank. On her face, neck and shoulders the cutting marks of the metal-tipped whips showed. Pain and horror were registered on her set face and in her glassy eyes.
“We saw where the car had stopped,” Jim Hobart went on. “Then we found footprints at the edge of the lot and saw somebody had shifted that lumber. Only one guy brought her. He wore number ten shoes. He must have weighed about a hundred and seventy, judging by the depth of the tracks. I knew it was the right gal as soon as I saw her, because one of my boys wangled a picture from a friend. Looks like a crime of passion, boss. Lovers these days—”
But Agent “X” instantly shook his head. The marks of the whip had told him what he wanted to know, confirmed a theory that lay like a black shadow on his mind. This wasn’t the result of a lovers’ quarrel. Cold-blooded purpose had been behind that merciless beating. The Agent turned and snapped quick orders.
“Tell the police about this girl at once, Jim. But say you were employed by a member of her family to find her. And here’s another job for you. Go to my office as fast as you can and get the movie camera you’ll find there in the closet. There’s film in it. You know how to work it. Go to the Guardian Bank where this girl worked. Find a window somewhere across the street overlooking the front entrance. Don’t let anyone see what you’re doing. If the darkness should come again today the way it did yesterday — crank that camera for all you’re worth!”
Jim Hobart’s jaw dropped and he stared in amazement at the man he called Martin — stared as though he thought his chief had suddenly gone crazy.
“You don’t mean, boss — you don’t want me to take pictures in the dark. It wouldn’t do much good. Why—”
The Agent’s answer was low-voiced, grim, with a note in it that Hobart had learned to obey unquestioningly. “You heard me, Jim. Take pictures — no matter how dark it gets. Understand?”
“O. K., boss.”
The Agent turned on his heel, strode to his parked coupé and sped away. He glanced at the clock on the car’s instrument panel. It was twenty minutes of twelve now. Twice the mysterious darkness had descended at high noon; and the second time panic had occurred, grisly accidents had taken place and millions of dollars had been stolen. If what he feared was true, the darkness was about to descend again — and he might be too late to prevent the hideous catastrophe that would surely follow.
Chapter III
YET as Agent “X” raced on his self-imposed mission, he made one swift detour. This was necessary. His disguise of A. J. Martin was valuable. He must run no risk of having it linked with the activities of the mysterious Agent “X.” More important still, it would not serve the purpose he had in mind.
He stopped at a hideout, one of several he maintained, and there made a swift change of disguise. He removed the plainly cast features of A. J. Martin, which formed a carefully molded, flexible covering of plastic material. This had a pyroxyline base, but contained other volatile substances in a compound known only to Agent “X.”
Disguise was the backbone of his strange power, just as it had been of many another great crime hunter, from the incomparable Vidocq on down the line. But Agent “X,” studying the methods of predecessors and contemporaries, had made of disguise an exact science. The skill of a character actor on stage or screen had gone into his work. The art of the sculptor was manifest in the genius with which he caught men’s likenesses.
After the removal of the Martin disguise, including the perfectly fitted sandy-haired toupee, Agent “X” appeared for a moment as he really was. Here was the face that a score of police heads throughout the nation would have given a small fortune to look upon; the face that none, not even his few close intimates, had ever knowingly beheld. For the Agent’s true identity was a jealous secret, guarded with his very life.
The features exposed now in the seclusion of his hideout were as remarkable in some respects as the man himself. Youthful, powerful — they were filled with character and understanding. A forceful, original mentality showed in the clear brilliance of the eyes. Kindness and even a trace of grim humor were combined in the mobile lips. The curve of the nose held hawklike strength. But perhaps the most extraordinary thing of all about his face was its odd changeability. Seen in an oblique light it seemed to grow more mature; planes and hollows were brought out, the indelible marks of a hundred strange adventures and experiences.
Seated before a collapsible, triple-sided mirror, Agent “X” quickly built up a different personality. From a small bottle he washed on darkish pigment that dried almost instantly, owing to its highly rarefied benzine base. Over it he spread a volatile substance that quickly assumed the appearance of ruddy, living flesh. This he molded into the cast of a firm-jawed, stern-looking man of fifty.
He darkened and thickened his eyebrows, slipped a toupee shot with gray over his head — and the transformation was complete. He had aged at least twenty years.
From a small cabinet he took a card bearing the name of Frank Hearndon, agent of the U. S. Department of Justice. This he slipped into his wallet. When it suited his purpose, “X” never hesitated to act as a representative of the law, for, though neither the police nor the D. C. I. suspected it, he had the secret sanction of one of the highest government officials in the land. Messages had often flashed between Agent “X” and a man in Washington, D. C., who preferred to be known only as K9.
The change had taken Agent “X” exactly eight minutes. He slipped into another suit, hurried to the street again. But now he ignored his black coupé, which was registered under the name of Martin. He summoned a taxi instead, and, with a five-dollar bill, bribed the driver to law-breaking speed across town till the Guardian Bank hove into sight.
As he had feared, it was crowded. For this was the first of the month, and at least a hundred depositors jostled at the tellers’ windows, some drawing out cash, others depositing part of their salaries.
“X” strode toward the bank’s rear where a short flight of steps led to a balcony lined with the offices of the officials.
A big man in a blue uniform barred his way by placing a determined hand on the small gate across the steps.
“Sorry, sir,” he said. “We don’t allow—”
“I must see President Banton,” the Agent snapped. “It’s vitally important.”
“Sorry,” repeated the bank guard, “but you’ll have to wait. Mr. Banton is engaged. Take a seat over there. I’ll let you know when you can—”
There was pompous assurance in the guard’s tone, but it vanished in a surprised gasp, as Agent “X” impatiently brushed the man out of his way, snapped open the metal gate, and sprang up the steps.