“Hey — you can’t do that! Mr. Banton is—”
His words fell on unheeding ears. “X” was already half across the balcony. He swiftly passed a dozen doors lettered in gold. The bond department. The trust officers’ rooms. The chambers of the vice-presidents. He yanked open a door marked, “President,” entered a small, luxurious outer office.
An angry voice reached his ears, not Banton’s, but that of a man who stood before the desk of the girl receptionist. “X” paused an instant to stare. A dispute was obviously in progress and the two engaged in it were too excited to notice his entry.
THE man was firm-jawed, powerful, with a face that was familiar to Agent “X”—a face that had the stubborn cragginess of rough-hewn granite. He was Norman Coe, head of the Citizens Banking Committee, an organization representing the claims and complaints of depositors in a dozen closed banks, and a man who had made life unpleasant for more than one shady banker.
“I tell you,” he shouted, “that Craig Banton can’t treat me like this. I’ve waited for twenty minutes now, and I’m going in or—”
The girl at the desk was stubborn also, with the scared determination of one eager to make good on her job. She shook her head. “It can’t be helped. You’ve got to wait — like any one else. Please be patient.”
Norman Coe broke into another angry tirade, pointing a shaking finger at his watch.
“Twenty minutes, I say — twenty minutes. My time is worth—”
Agent “X” took the opportunity to cross the room swiftly. Coe heard him and whirled. The girl at the desk gave a startled shriek, putting her hand to her mouth. But Agent “X” had already flung open the door of the president’s office. It might serve as an adequate barrier even to such an important person as Norman Coe, but it couldn’t stop the Man of a Thousand Faces when the threat of crime spurred him on. He saw at once, however, that the girl at the desk hadn’t lied. Craig Banton was busy — very much so.
A fashionably-dressed woman was seated close to his side — a woman whose face was familiar to the Agent, just as Norman Coe’s had been. While Banton let Coe cool his heels in the outer office, he was having a tete-a-tete with Vivian de Graf, society beauty, whose sensational affairs had formed front-page gossip for the scandal sheets. Only recently her name had been connected with that of Roswell Sully, millionaire utility magnate, called the most hated man in America.
Arresting, exotic, Vivian de Graf was the type to attract men wherever she went. And she made a point of doing so. Her tailored clothes subtly accentuated the perfection of her statuesque figure. Her beauty was carried with poised arrogance. At the front of her gown, contrasting with the dazzling whiteness of her throat, were the spread petals of an orchid, yellow as saffron, spotted like a leopard’s coat. The flower was as exotic as its wearer — and had something poisonous in its loveliness that seemed symbolic of Vivian de Graf’s spotted career.
The caressing smile on her crimson lips, the coyly arched eyebrows, and the confiding closeness of her chair to Banton’s, indicated to “X” that he had broken in on a very intimate conversation.
Craig Banton, red-faced, bull-necked, looking a little foolish at the moment, raised glittering eyeglasses and made an angry sound in his fat throat at “X’s” informal entry.
“How the devil did you get in here?” he barked. “I thought I told—”
Secret Agent “X” strode forward sternly, plucking the card of Frank Hearndon from his wallet and thrusting it under Banton’s nose.
THE bank president’s beefy face got redder still. “Hearndon!” he spluttered. “Hearndon, eh! What in thunder do you want? Why do you come in like this? I don’t understand and—”
Agent “X” spoke a single swift sentence. “I want you to close this bank, Banton.”
At his blunt words, Craig Banton gasped; then gaped, thunderstruck.
“Get every depositor out of here as fast as you can,” the Secret Agent ordered. “Shut and lock the doors. Get the vault closed.”
“You’re mad!” Banton found his voice in a scornful exclamation. “Do you know what you’re saying? I’ve received no orders—”
“Never mind orders!” the Agent snapped. “This bank must be closed — at once! Do you understand?”
Vivian de Graf gave a silvery, rippling laugh. “It’s just too thrilling!” she drawled. “Like a motion picture!”
Watching Agent “X” amusedly, she opened her small handbag. Her slender fingers, conspicuously scarlet-tipped, reached for a cigarette. Stray sunlight from a high window danced and shimmered on a mirror on the inner edge of her bag as she snapped a small lighter into flame, touched it to her cigarette. She leaned back and blew smoke through her nostrils. Still smiling, she said:
“Go on with the show! I came here expecting to be bored with a lot of business details, but all this is vastly entertaining.”
Craig Banton made a gesture of annoyance. He cleared his throat harshly. “This may be amusing to you, Mrs. De Graf,” he said sourly, “but it hardly amuses me!” He stared at the Agent tense with irritation. “I say again you must be mad! What you ask is utterly impossible! Don’t you realize that closing the bank would be taken by the depositors as a sign of weakness, that—”
Agent “X” struck the desk. His eyes snapping, he glared into Banton’s face. “If you don’t get every depositor out of your bank,” he said slowly with, grim emphasis, “if you don’t close up at once without further quibbling, you may regret it to the end of your days!”
Speechless, impressed in spite of himself with the Agent’s words, Craig Banton stared uncertainly at the man who had come in like a human cyclone and made his astounding demand. He started to protest again. But the words died in his throat, and an expression of stark terror replaced the sneer on his face. Slowly, woodenly, he turned his head. And Vivian de Graf dropped her cigarette. The sunlight streaming through the window seemed suddenly to have grown dimmer.
Agent “X” felt a sudden, faint sense of giddiness. A humming sound buzzed in his head. Pinpoints of colored light danced abruptly before his eyes. Then they stopped — and he saw that dimness was filling the office as though twilight were swiftly falling.
Craig Banton spoke thickly, harshly, clutching the edge of his desk with shaking hands. “Good God! It — it’s getting dark!”
Vivian de Graf, close beside “X”, gave a small, stifled shriek. Her aplomb, her smiling amusement, had vanished. Agent “X” took one step toward the window and stopped. He could hardly see at all now. Uncanny, awe-inspiring darkness was descending like swift night, blotting out the sunlight, making the luxurious office of Craig Banton a sightless cavern.
And Agent “X” knew what it meant. He had come too late. The ruthless devils of darkness had arrived.
Chapter IV
A SMOTHERED exclamation burst from his lips. He had been prepared — but the stunning actuality of the thing was beyond all reason. The silhouette of the window had faded before his eyes. The last vestige of light had disappeared from the street outside. The glare of the sun, high overhead, shooting its bright beams straight down, had vanished as though a total eclipse had taken place.
Blood pounded in the Agent’s temples. His throat felt constricted. He whipped a small flash from his pocket, clicked it on. He couldn’t see it at all. He brought it to within an inch of his eyes. For an instant a faint, cherry-red glow was visible. Then that diminished, too — like a coal dying out. The terrible blackness was complete!
There was noise, mad confusion in the big bank. Girls screamed. Men were shouting. Agent “X” could hear the clatter of running feet. There would be another stampede, bringing horrible death in its wake, as when the first bank was robbed. He turned, groped his way toward the door of Banton’s office, flung it open. At the top of his voice he shouted a warning: