Secret Agent "X" – The Complete Series, Volume 4

Chapter I

MISTY rain held the winter’s pall of smoke low over the city. The narrow strip of sky, visible from the street, was like thick gray flannel. There was a vague, unfamiliar quality in the sound of things, as if the bustle of the awakening business world was muffled by some tangible shadow.

In front of the Suburban National Bank and extending for half a block beyond its brass grated doors, was a line of people. There was anxiety on every face, and the mutter of angry threats in every mouth. Men, women, children clutched tightly at passbooks, each selfishly wondering if he or she would be in time to make a withdrawal while the cash still held out.

The custodian of the Suburban National swept moodily with a broom behind the brass-barred gate. He glanced at his watch. It was five minutes to nine.

“Hey, granpa!” a man near the head of the line of depositors shouted to the bank custodian. “Open up. What’s five minutes or so? We want our money!”

“Yeah,” another echoed. “Good, solid money. If we get it at the bank we know it’s good!”

The custodian scowled bitterly. “You’ll get it! Suburban National’s been open every day the law allowed. Never defaulted yet, and ain’t goin’ to start now! You people must be crazy. This bank’s as sound as a rock!”

“You have a hard-earned twenty-dollar bill refused on the grocery bill, and you’d get scared yourself,” a plump-faced woman called back. “We’re getting our money while we know it’s the real thing — and not counterfeit!”

Riot broke out in the rear of the line. A middle-aged man, drunk with panic, was lunging at the line, head lowered and shoulders bucking. A blue-coated policeman stepped from the curb, seized the agitator by the collar and pulled him from the line. Another cop, swinging his stick threateningly, restored some sort of order among the depositors. But the indignant man fought free from the hands of the policeman, and lunged again at the line.

“Here, none o’ that!” This time the cop was less gentle as he yanked the man back to his place. “You wait your turn like the rest or I’ll give you a rap on that thick skull of yours.”

The middle-aged man turned a white, frightened face up to meet the eyes of the policeman. “I’ve got to get in there,” he pleaded. “I can’t wait! It’s a matter of life and death! My wife — she’s got to have an operation! I’ve got to get money — real money. She’s got to have a specialist. It’s more than just grocery bills!”

The policeman’s face softened slightly. But he shook his head discouragingly. “Sorry, buddy. You got to take your chance just like the others. Back to the tail of the line.”

Somewhere, a clock boomed the first stroke of nine. A shout rose from the mob of anxious depositors. There was a sudden surge forward against the gates that barred the entrance to the bank. Simultaneously with the striking of the clock, the morning parade of traffic in the street was broken by three big armored trucks that drew over to the curb in front of the bank. Some one in the line of anxious depositors saw the armored cars and shouted:

“Money! They’re bringing our money!”

As if a bomb had burst in its midst the line of people suddenly broke and became a roaring crowd. The people turned in a disorganized mass and rushed towards the curb and the armored trucks. The handful of police, though battling valiantly to check the tide of humanity, were lost in the mob, their arms pinioned to their sides by the sheer weight of the frantic people.

DISREGARDING the threatening machine gun muzzles that were thrust through the slots in the armor plate sides of the trucks, the mob pressed close. Then some one in the foremost ranks of the bank depositors shouted:

“Back! Give them a chance to get out of the trucks. There’ll be time enough and money enough for all!”

The crowd pressed back. A woman fainted, stifled in the jam. A policeman, poking and prodding with his stick, forced his way through the outer fringes of the crowd. He ran to the call box on the corner. Riot was impending. A squad of police would be needed in another five minutes.

The armored trucks spilled men armed with automatics and machine guns. Some carried heavy leather satchels that were linked to their wrists with chains. All of them ran, with heads lowered and collars turned up, straight towards the bank doors.

In the lobby of the bank stood a man of perhaps forty years of age. His carefully brushed, thick, white hair contrasted sharply with smooth, tanned skin and sharp black eyes. He was Abel Corin, a director in the bank and an executive in half a dozen industrial enterprises. As the armed men from the trucks entered, Corin strode forward, seized the foremost bank messenger by the arm.

“What is the meaning of this?” Corin demanded. “There must be some mistake. You men came here once this morning at the regular time. We have sufficient cash to restore the confidence of the depositors. The people have simply permitted themselves to become overexcited about the sudden flood of counterfeit money that has been discovered in circulation.”

The bank messenger did not reply. Instead, he raised his head and at the same time pushed his hat back from his forehead. Like a dead, unfeeling appendage, Corin’s hand dropped from the man’s sleeve. His face blanched beneath his tanned skin. He retreated step by step before the slowly advancing group of armed men. Corin’s lower lip became pendulous. Saliva drooled from the corners of his mouth. His eyes were terror glazed, staring into the hideous face that the leader of the men had revealed.

It was a strangely inhuman face. Thin features contributed an expression of immeasurable cruelty. Thin lips were parted in a hellish smile as utterly without humor as the grin of a skull. There was a gleam of cunning in the small eyes.

Corin suddenly overcame the paroxysm of terror that had rooted him to the spot. “The police! This is a holdup!” His hoarse voice tocsined throughout the building. He pivoted and fled through the door of the office. The hawk-faced man, shooting from the hip, drilled the window of Corin’s office with a bullet from his automatic.

Then, with a gesture from their hawk-faced leader, the band of armed men broke into two groups and moved swiftly along the walls of the room where the teller’s cages were located. One teller, of cooler nerve than his companions, stamped on the alarm bell. He turned his terror-white face towards his companion in the next cage. For no sound had come from the alarm bell.

“The power’s been cut!” he shouted. “Try the telephone!”

Then following his own order, the teller ran toward the offices located on the balcony at the back of the bank. A tracer of machine-gun bullets chipped granite from the wall behind him. Still he ran — until leaden death caught up with him. He crumpled to the floor, where he lay twitching in a final death struggle. A sharp scream shrilled from a woman. Then a hush fell upon the bank.

THE criminal gang went about its work like a well generaled army. Every man, with the exception of the hawk-faced leader, wore a flesh-colored mask over his face. Those who carried satchels hurried into the vaults at the rear of the building. Others who were armed with Tommy guns nailed bank officials against the walls. Still others ganged across the entrance way. Two police, who had evidently been attracted by the sound of machine-gun fire, were dropped in their tracks as they entered the building.

But with all the activity, not a single masked mobster spoke a word. They seemed like fearsome, tongueless beasts who knew no language but the staccato syllables of rattling machine-gun hail.

The leader seemed to take no part in the looting of the bank. He vaulted over the marble rail that separated the cashier’s booth from the central portion of the room, and approached a white-faced paying teller. The teller flattened himself against the counter and stared at the immobile face of the gang leader like one fascinated by the evil eye of a basilisk. The hawk-faced man advanced slowly, the wolfish grin on his evil face still unchanged. It seemed that he enjoyed to the fullest extent the anguish of his intended victim.

The white-faced teller found his tongue. He mouthed incoherent sentences. “Wh-what are you going to do? I played up. I–I, God! Don’t stare at me! I couldn’t help it! Did everything you told me—” And his pale hands locked over his eyes, trying to shut out the sight of that hideous, lifeless face with its leering slit of a mouth.

Then the hawk-faced monster abandoned his lethargy. He dropped his automatic upon the marble counter. The fingers of his hands crooked like steel talons. He sprang at the cringing teller, his fingernails digging so deeply into the man’s flesh that they drew blood. A cry burbled in the teller’s throat — became a dry rasp as the hawk-faced man increased pressure. The teller made a piteous, desperate effort to free himself from the inexorable, killing grip. But as his strength waned, the killer seemed to absorb it. His fingers dug deeper and deeper until his victim’s lolling tongue was tinged with blue, and his eyes bulged from their sockets.

Then with a movement that was without apparent effort, the hawk-faced man flung the dying teller to the floor. He jerked from his pocket something that was not unlike a fountain pen in appearance. He unscrewed the cap and bared a nib of some strange, wax-like composition. Pen in hand, he knelt beside his victim and boldly traced something upon the dead man’s forehead. A viscous yellow fluid that fumed as it touched the flesh flowed from the nib of the pen. As the killer arose, an ugly wound appeared on the dead teller’s forehead — a figure seven burned in the flesh with acid.

Then the gang leader sprang to the center of the room in time to join his men who were streaming out of the vault, bags in hand. Outside the bank, the bandits made no further attempt to hide the masks which marked them as desperados. One lone policeman tried to keep the gang from entering the armored trucks. But the three shots from his pistol were purposely high and wide to avoid hitting innocent bystanders. He was dropped in his tracks by a snap shot from the gang leader.

While part of the gang had been inside the bank, the rear guard had remained in the trucks and stood ready for action. Up the street, just beyond the entrance of the alley, a huge van had been shunted across the street, blocking westbound traffic. This was obviously the work of the efficient criminal organization, for the cleared traffic lane offered an avenue of escape up the alley. Once there, the parade of three trucks put on full speed and roared out of sight.

The danger momentarily past, an excited tremor ran through the crowd. Where were the police? What had happened to the pride of the city, the capable John Laws? Two blocks beyond the bank an officer was busily engaged in handling a traffic jam. Evidently he was entirely unaware of the slaughter that had taken place only a few rods away. And throughout the neighborhood, the muffled roar of traffic was unbroken by the wail of police sirens.

One man in the crowd in front of the bank seemed suddenly to awake from what had been a hideous nightmare. “Our money!” he shouted. “They’ve taken our money from the bank! Where were the police?”

Spurred by this sudden realization, the mob moved as one man, pushing through the gates of the bank. Mr. Corin, his usually sleek hair hanging over his haggard eyes, met them with arms outthrust as if to check the crowd in its frantic dash.

“Wait!” Corin shouted, hoarsely. “Stop, everybody! You’ve got to listen! Your money’s safe!”

For a moment, silence. Then the crowd broke into a renewed clamor.

“Go back to your homes!” Corin shouted. “The money’s all here in the vaults. They — they didn’t take a penny as far as we know! Incredible, but true. Some slip-up in their plans. All who wish to make withdrawals may do so, but please go away until later. Give the police a chance. There’s been murder—”

“The police!” a man foremost in the crowd scoffed. “What became of the police when they were needed most? Did they answer your alarm? Have they made any effort?”

Corin shook his head sadly. “Some of them have.” And he nodded at the sprawled bodies of the two policemen who had been slaughtered in the path of the criminal army. “Please! They have made a supreme effort!” His voice was choked with emotion.

“Mr. Corin’s right!” A man shouted. “We’ll give the police another chance. Then, if they don’t get busy, we’ll demand a house cleaning!”

“Mr. Corin’s always right!” the crowd shouted. And with considerable more calm than they had yet shown, the people turned and moved back into the street.

Chapter II

IT was five minutes past nine when a tall, gray-templed man entered the office of Police Commissioner Foster. His card — bearing the inscription: James Hunting; Division of Criminal Investigation, Department of Justice — gained him immediate entrance to the commissioner’s private office.

But that card was false. And the face of James Hunting was false. For the face of James Hunting was but one of the thousand faces of Secret Agent “X.”

Secret Agent “X” had just returned from Washington where he had been closely closeted with a high official whose true identity was hidden behind the alias of K9. K9 was the man who sanctioned the mysterious and sometimes greatly misunderstood activities of Agent “X.” The alarming increase of counterfeiting had been the subject of their discussion. Commissioner Foster regarded “X” unsmilingly. The commissioner was justly proud of the police force of his city. That government officials should have to step in, even in case of a federal offense such as counterfeiting, was a source of annoyance to him.

“X” knew the chances he took in confronting Foster. For the police, unable to understand the unorthodox methods of Secret Agent “X,” thought him to be some archcriminal. “X” had often been called upon to trick Foster in his lone battle against crime and upon one occasion, had narrowly escaped detection.

However, if there was any apprehension in Secret Agent “X’s” mind, on entering the office of the police commissioner, his marvelous control of facial muscles prevented him from showing it. The grim lips, that were James Hunting’s, smiled as he said:

“Good morning, commissioner. I have a matter of gravest importance to discuss with you. My name is Hunting—”

Foster’s brusk nod interrupted the Secret Agent. “I’ve seen your card. Now, let me examine your credentials, if you please.” He extended his hand across the desk.

“X” was prepared for this. In his private files he kept proper credentials for many of the disguises which he was forced to assume. He took a pass case from the inner pocket of his coat, removed a folded and official looking document, and handed it to Foster. Then, while the commissioner was looking at the document, “X” dropped into a chair across the desk from Foster.

The commissioner handed back the papers. “Everything seems to be in order, Mr. Hunting,” he said, his tone a little more cordial. “I do not envy you your assignment. You may rest assured that you will have every cooperation from the police. But just what do you purpose to do that has not been done before?”

“First,” replied the Secret Agent, “let me ask you a question. Is there any doubt in your mind as to who is responsible for such perfect replicas as these counterfeit bills?”

Foster gnawed his lip. “None whatever,” he replied quietly. “A German engraver by the name of Joseph Fronberg — the most skillful man in his profession who ever lived—”

“And Fronberg—” the Agent persisted.

Foster looked uncomfortable. “You know as well as I do, Mr. Hunting, that Fronberg is dead. So far as we know, he committed suicide to escape capture.”

“X” NODDED. “His clothes were lying on a river-front wharf. Later, an unidentified body was pulled from the water. It was consequently presumed that Fronberg was dead. Well, suppose he is. Has it occurred to you that before his death he might have produced the plates, now used in printing counterfeit money, and hidden them before his gang was captured? You remember that though the gang was wiped out, the plates were never found. But some one has found them and is using them today.”

Foster nodded. “Proceed.”

“Naturally, we must eventually find the gang responsible for this flow of spurious currency. But until such a time comes and we have learned sufficient about the activities of a criminal organization, that I am convinced is as powerful as it is efficient, I propose that all the banks in the city be closed pending the examination of every greenback in their vaults!”

Foster, overcome by surprise, sprang to his feet. “You can’t believe that the banks are the source of this counterfeit money. Absurd!”

“X” checked Foster with a wave of his hand. “Not the source, but certainly some banks have served as distribution points. Do you recall that a certain well-known bank was entered not a long time ago? So skillfully was this entrance managed that no one was the wiser until it was found all the money on hand was merely worthless paper. That bank had unknowingly been distributing counterfeit money. How the counterfeit had been substituted for the real, we do not know, though I have a theory—”

And the conference between Secret Agent “X” and Commissioner Foster was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of a powerfully built, red-faced man who stormed across the room, pulping the end of a cigar between his teeth.

“Inspector Burks!” exclaimed Foster.

“Yeah, and something’s gone haywire!” Burks roared. “The Suburban National’s been held up, and by the time the police got there, the crooks had ambled away from the place leaving a couple of cops and a bank teller stretched out fit for a slab! Headquarters got word in plenty of time to get squad cars over there. An all-cars call went out over the police radio and not one of the cars picked it up! That was because of—” Burks checked himself. Only at that moment had he noticed Agent “X.” He stared questioningly from “X” to Foster.

“You may speak freely in front of Mr. Hunting,” said Foster. “He is an agent of the Federal Government assigned to investigate the counterfeit racket.”

Burks did not pause to acknowledge his introduction to Hunting. “It was this way, commissioner. A few minutes before the robbery took place, nearly the whole upper police band on the radio was ripped to pieces by static — electrical interference of some sort. One of the prowl-car boys said it sounded to him as though a big electrical generator was feeding directly into the antenna. The noise was right on the police radio station’s frequency and completely knocked out the voice transmission. We did not find out what was wrong until one of the police reported that he couldn’t hear anything from the police radio station. And that’s why the squad cars didn’t get to the Suburban National until after the damage was done!”

COMMISSIONER FOSTER pushed back his chair. “That must be investigated! I want to go over the scene of the crime with you, Burks. Mr. Hunting, I’d like to have you along. One moment, please. I want to get my hat and coat.” And Foster stepped into a small ante-chamber and closed the door behind him.

Burks turned and shook hands with “X,” said: “It’s a long way from stealing real money to making phony stuff, but there’s something in this that ought to interest a federal man.”

“X” raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Yes?”

“That radio noise, I mean. Maybe that comes under the jurisdiction of the Federal Radio Commission.”

“You mean that the electrical interference was not an accident, not some power leak somewhere?”

Burks nodded his head vigorously. “Right. The operator at the radio station made a quick check-up. The police announcer’s voice left the transmitter perfectly clear. That static was broadcast over most of the police band by some mysterious short-wave station for the one purpose of preventing the police cruisers from getting orders. Find that mysterious station and we’ll find the man who planned the bank stick-up!”

Commissioner Foster entered the room, saying:

“Mr. Corin, an officer in the Suburban National Bank just phoned. It seems that the bandits came in armored trucks similar to those used by the Bankers’ Express Agency. However, they were foiled in their attempt to take money from the vault. It looks as though they had had assistance from the inside.”

“But there was murder!” Burks exploded. “Two of our finest men!”

Foster nodded grimly. “Let’s go.” And he started through the door.

Secret Agent “X” insisted on driving Commissioner Foster and Inspector Burks over to the bank in his own car. By the time they arrived, the morgue wagon had backed up to the door. Police had roped off a section of the sidewalk. Outside the cordon morbid onlookers stood in rapt attention while white-garbed attendants carried out a long basket containing the corpse of one of the victims of the ruthless slaughter.

Agent “X” followed Foster and Burks through the crowd and into the bank. The medical examiner had just concluded with the body of George Arthurs, the teller who had been murdered by the gang leader. “Over here, commissioner,” said the medico. “I want you to take a look at the body before the boys move it out to the morgue.”

“X,” close upon Foster’s heels, went over behind the counter where the body lay covered with a ripple of white cloth.

“Not a pleasant sight at all,” said the medical examiner as he raised the sheet. “On first glance, it appears to be ordinary strangulation. But this killer was taking no chances!”

The face of the corpse was a frightful thing with its blue skin, swollen tongue, and protruding eyeballs. Standing out starkly on the forehead was the cruel scar of the figure seven. The throat was marked with small, bloody wounds where the killer’s fingernails had bit deeply into the flesh. These wounds in the throat were points of particular interest to the medical examiner. “The reason I said this killer was taking no chances, is that I believe this man was poisoned. Strangulation wasn’t enough, you understand. The rapid advance of rigor mortis leads me to think a certain poison was used.”

AGENT “X,” had he desired to make himself conspicuous, could have readily told the medical examiner that he was correct in the assumption that Arthurs had been poisoned. There was little doubt in his mind but that the fingernails of the hands that had killed Arthurs had been stained with some preparation containing the deadly drug, curare.

It was a significant point, “X” thought, that every murder victim who was left with the brand of Seven upon the forehead had been killed in some manner that attacked the vocal organs immediately. A man who has been shot or stabbed may utter some dying words of immeasurable value to the police in tracking down the killer. The medical examiner had been exactly right when he had said that the murderer had taken no chances.

Inspector Burks shook his head wearily. “It’s the Seven mob again. That gang certainly gets all the breaks!”

A soft, unpleasant laugh sounded from directly behind them. “X” turned from his contemplation of the corpse to see a tall and remarkably thin man — a man whose distinguishingly different attire, love of good living, and apparently unfailing source of income had made him a figure of importance in the social register. Lynn Falmouth was young in years and old in experience. Having fallen heir to an immense fortune, Falmouth had purchased a large interest in the Suburban National Bank as well as a number of other business enterprises.

Falmouth patted the marcelled wave of his suspiciously yellow hair. His eyes behind gold pince-nez were cold as a mackerel’s. “You might add, Inspector Burks, that what breaks these criminals don’t get, the police give them.”

Burks’ face flamed. His hands clenched. Foster put a restraining hand on Burks’ shoulder.

“I am sure, Mr. Falmouth,” said Foster, soothingly, “that if you knew all the circumstances, you wouldn’t blame the police. I assure you that every effort will be made to track down the killer and his gang.”

Falmouth smiled, and “X,” studying the man intently, found much that was unpleasant in Falmouth’s smile. He was evidently a man who would enjoy watching a worm squirm beneath his heel. He was fully conscious of the position his immense wealth afforded him. “I know every effort will be made, Mr. Commissioner. George Arthurs happened to be a cousin of mine.” And with a smile that was all self-satisfaction, Falmouth turned and sauntered across to the door of an office.

Men from the morgue reappeared with a basket intended for the corpse of George Arthurs. Foster took “X” by the arm and steered him across the floor to where a group of press reporters were standing around Abel Corin, the gray-haired director of the bank. “I am anxious to get Mr. Corin’s version of the holdup,” Foster explained. “He’s level-headed, and we can depend upon whatever he says as being fact. It might be well to sound him out on the counterfeit question, too, Hunting. Corin is a man to think things through.”

On seeing Commissioner Foster, Corin nodded cordially. A reporter, whose persistence had pinned Corin to the wall, fired another question: “An inside job, you say, Mr. Corin? Now, just a word about your suspicions in regard to the inside man. One of your bank employees, of course?”

Corin nodded sadly. “I regret to say that evidence points directly towards one of our tellers — a man by the name of Arthurs.”

The reporter whistled. “The murdered man? That’s a new angle!”

“Yes,” replied Corin. “A fellow clerk who was only a few feet from Arthurs when he was strangled to death, heard a few broken sentences from Arthurs just before he died. As I have told you, our burglar alarm system had been cut off. The electric power was shorted. Arthurs was heard to plead for mercy on the score that he had done everything the leader of the gang had told him to do. In as much as Arthurs had had considerable experience as an electrician before he was employed by the bank, one may come to a logical conclusion.”

The reporter nodded. “And the gang was afraid that Arthurs would squeal. Now, to what do you contribute the gang’s failure to get cash?”

SECRET AGENT “X” waited for no more. It was then as he had feared. The gang had entered the bank with everything to its advantage and had left it without taking any money. It hardly sounded logical and “X” knew that he must act immediately if he expected to save the city from further spread of the noxious germs of panic.

So quietly did Agent “X” move that Foster did not notice that “X” had left his side. In the activity of police investigation, no one noticed him as he advanced to the rear of the bank where the vault was located. The door of the vault was open exactly as it had been left. Certainly there was nothing to fear from a second holdup with the bank filled with police.

Two plainclothes men stood idly by, evidently under orders to watch the vault until a routine examination of its contents could be conducted. But they, too, must have doubted the necessity of such care, for they were busily engaged in conversation irrelevant to the crime. “X” had no difficulty in entering the vault.

Unbroken sheaves of currency were racked along the walls of the vault exactly as they had been delivered by the bank messengers early that morning. “X” hurriedly broke open a pack of new twenties and dropped them on the floor. Then he took from the inner pocket of his coat a folding case. Inside, was a number of bills that he knew to be counterfeit. A careful check-up must be made. The comparison of every line of the treasurer’s signature, of every detail of engraving, of each serial number must be made. He knelt on the floor and began his task, aided by the intense light of a small electric flash.

A low, scarcely audible exclamation escaped from his lips. There could be no doubt. The twenty-dollar bills in the bank vault were worth no more than the paper they were printed on. Masterpieces of the counterfeiter’s criminal genius. He was about to make examination of other bills of different denominations, when he felt a cold draft of air on his back. Alert to every threat of danger, in spite of how intent he might be on any phase of investigation, “X” pivoted. The huge, circular door of the vault was swinging shut.

Instantly, he flung himself forward towards the massive, moving section of impregnable steel. A low sardonic laugh that “X” recognized sounded outside the vault and was immediately chopped off by the clang of the huge bolts as the door completed its swing. “X” found himself pushing against the door of the vault — a door that defied even his Herculean strength. He was trapped. And for what possible reason had he been taken prisoner? Surely no one had penetrated his disguise.

He passed a questioning hand over his features that were so carefully modeled in plastic material. He knew that it was impossible for anyone to discover his true identity, but it was something that he feared more than death itself. For discovery meant that he would be helplessly caught in the toils of the law — the law that hounded him though he befriended it.

What puzzled him still more was the laugh he had heard just before the door had completed its swing. For it was the low, cold laugh of Lynn Falmouth. It had been Falmouth who had trapped him.

Chapter III

“X” KNEW that to shout, hoping to attract attention, was useless; for the vault was soundproof. Five minutes dragged by. Ten minutes. At last “X” saw the mechanism, that worked the bolts of the door, going into action. He dropped on the floor, nonchalantly lighted a cigarette, and permitted his eyelids to droop as though he had become sleepy with waiting.

As Commissioner Foster’s head appeared in the aperture, “X” yawned. “It’s about time,” he said irritably. “Some one closed the door on me by accident. I might have been suffocated in here and no one would have been the wiser.” He stood up. The vault door was open, but his exit was prevented by quite another barrier. Lynn Falmouth, Foster, Burks, and a man whom “X” had never seen before stood in the opening. Burks and the stranger trained automatics on “X.”

The Secret Agent’s jaw dropped in amazement. He tilted his hat back and scratched his head. “What the — say, it’s no wonder you men have trouble in catching your criminals! Don’t point those guns at me!”

Inspector Burks’ eyes narrowed to mere slits. “This time we didn’t have any trouble!”

“We?” asked Falmouth sarcastically. “I rather think you’ll have to give me credit for this catch. I saw him sneaking over to the vault, followed, and watched him break into that money.”

“X” laughed. “You should have introduced me to Mr. Falmouth, commissioner. It’s my job, you know. I was merely comparing bank notes within the vault with some bills in my own possession.”

Burks motioned with his automatic. “Come out of there. You’ll not talk yourself out of this!”

With a careless shrug, “X” obeyed. “Washington will hear of this, inspector!”

“True enough,” said Foster. “Mr. Lyons, here—” he nodded towards the stranger—“will hear quite a bit, I imagine. Mr. Lyons is a federal man here on the counterfeiting case. You see, just before leaving my office, I took the opportunity of having you looked up. I learned not ten minutes ago that James Hunting, so far as the Washington office is concerned, doesn’t exist!”

“X” thrust his hand into his coat pocket.

“Hold that!” Burks rapped. His gun bobbed up so that his cold, narrowed eyes were centered on Secret Agent “X’s” forehead. “Put your hands up in the air. I’m going to give you the once over.”

“X” smiled disconcertingly. His eyes darted about the room. Police filled the bank. The front entrance was blocked. Iron-barred gates closing over the accounting rooms at the rear would prevent his escape through the back. But with the exception of a single cop, the balcony overlooking the bank proper was deserted. “X” withdrew his hand from his pocket. His fingers were clutched tightly over a small package.

“Surely you’re not afraid of a package of cigarettes, Inspector Burks,” he taunted. He flicked a cigarette from the pack, palmed it a split-second before he tossed the rest of the package onto the marble counter.

BURKS stepped forward until he was able to hide the muzzle of his automatic in “X’s” middle. “You keep your gun on this bird, Mr. Lyons,” Burks directed, “while I frisk him.” Then Burks’ eyes drilled the Secret Agent’s inscrutable face. He said in a whisper: “I’m going to enjoy this, Mr. ‘X’!” And Burks proceeded to make a careful search of “X’s” pockets.

The Agent’s cigarette lighter, which also served as a tiny tear gas gun; a small vial of a powerful but harmless narcotic; a compact tool kit; his gas gun; and a wallet were all handed over to Commissioner Foster.

The contents of “X’s” wallet created considerable disturbance. “Let me see those bills,” Federal Agent Lyons demanded. And Foster had scarcely handed them over before Lyons uttered a triumphant oath. While Lyons and Foster were examining the bank notes which they had taken from “X’s” pocket book, “X” passed his left hand over his mouth, took out the cigarette he had been smoking in the bank vault, and put the fresh one between his lips.

Burks was too good a policeman to allow his attention to waver toward what Foster and Lyons were doing. He watched “X” narrowly to find nothing suspicious in the way “X” lighted the fresh cigarette from the butt of the first.

“X” inhaled smoke deeply, luxuriantly. Actually, he was mentally timing the speed at which the cigarette in his mouth burned. His thumb and forefinger closed over the cigarette as if he were about to remove it from his mouth. Suddenly, his middle finger snapped out, flicking the cigarette straight at Burks.

The cigarette burst with a sharp explosion, emitting a frothy cloud of vapor that for a moment completely hid Burks’ head. For the half inch of tobacco acted simply as a fuse for a small tear-gas bomb concealed within the cigarette. Such a small cartridge could not contain sufficient tear-gas to fill the entire room. It had, however, immediately rendered Burks helpless. He dropped his automatic and dug both fists into his eyes.

But Agent “X” did not wait to see other results of his surprising trick. At the moment the bomb had burst, he had pivoted and dashed toward the balcony. He took the steps four at a stride. The single policeman on the balcony came for him with gun drawn. This was exactly what “X” had anticipated. He knew that police below stairs would not dare shoot at him for fear of hitting their companion.

“X” gambled on the man on the stairs shooting hurriedly and consequently inaccurately. Hurried it might have been but certainly not inaccurate. The slug from the police special walloped squarely into “X’s” chest. Ordinarily, the Secret Agent’s special bullet proof vest of choice manganese steel would have rendered the shot ineffective. But the distance between “X” and the cop was short and the terrific impact of the slug striking the bullet-proof vest was centered directly above an old shrapnel wound which occasionally caused “X” pain.

Master of himself that he was, “X” could not check a wince of pain. For a moment, he staggered and seemed to waver on the brink of oblivion. Then, teeth grinding, he made a superb effort and flung himself upon the cop. The policeman was so sure of the success of his shot that he was taken by complete surprise. “X’s” left arm swung up sharply, his fingers closing over the cop’s gun. The point of his thumb dug deeply between the central knuckles of the policeman’s gun-fist and struck a particularly sensitive nerve. The cop’s fingers stiffened and his gun clattered to the steps. At the same instant, “X” drove hard and fast with his right, straight to the point of the cop’s chin.

THE blow seemed to lift the cop from his feet. The point of his heels slipped on the marble floor. He began sliding down the steps. “X” side-stepped to avoid the falling cop and sprang to the balcony. He had lost precious time. Some of the other police who had received little of the effect of the tear-gas were ganging up the stairs. “X” leaped towards the rear window that looked out upon the alley.

He jerked a glance over his shoulder and saw that he would be hopelessly trapped in another moment. His eyes lighted upon a heavy desk that was used by one of the bank stenographers. Large casters were fitted into its walnut legs. “X” sprang towards it, crouched behind it, and gave it a powerful heave. The desk rolled straight to the top of the stairs, where its momentum carried it over the edge and crashing into the advancing police. The falling desk turned the group of policemen into a tangle of sliding, tumbling bodies.

“X” picked up an office chair and lunged with it towards the high-arched windows at the rear of the balcony. The pane crashed into a thousand cutting fragments. With a pang of disappointment, “X” saw that behind the frosted glass window pane were heavy iron bars. He dropped the chair and leaped into one of the private booths opening from the balcony and placed there for the convenience of the owners of safety deposit boxes. A frosted glass window at the end of the narrow booth admitted light. “X” twisted the window catch and threw up the sash. Nothing but a wood-framed copper screen was now between him and freedom.

A bullet lanced the thin wood panel of the booth. There was not a minute to lose. He kicked out the screen with his heel, threw a leg over the sill, swung full length out the window and hung for a moment from the sill. Since the balcony was between the first and second stories of the building, it could not be more than fifteen feet to the alley pavement. Kicking against the wall as he released his grip, “X” threw himself out as far as possible to avoid hitting any projections on the wall of the building. He landed on his hands and knees, and regained his balance only in time to scuttle crablike out of the way of a huge van that was bearing down upon him. Past experience had taught him to make the most of any opportunity offered, and as the truck rumbled past him he leaped to the rear platform and crawled beneath the tarpaulin that partially covered the end of the van.

In this haven of comparative safety, he immediately set about changing his make-up. Darkness and lack of makeup material made any elaborate disguise impossible. However, he removed his hat and tossed it into a corner of the van. He next took off his gray-flecked toupee that had been a part of his disguise as Federal Agent Hunting. His own natural brown hair was revealed.

His deft fingers smoothed out the lines in the make-up material which covered his face. Then standing upright in the moving truck, he removed his overcoat and quickly turned it inside out. A plaid gray lining rendered the coat reversible and, on putting it on again, it had all the appearance of a sporty topcoat. Simple as these alterations were, “X” looked like quite another person when he dropped from the rear of the moving truck a few minutes later.

Inasmuch as a few pieces of small change remained in his pocket, he boarded an elevated as the quickest means of getting to one of his hide-outs.

Chapter IV

ON leaving the elevated, “X” walked westward for two blocks. He came to a small one-car garage that jutted out from an old house that appeared to be abandoned. He unlocked the garage door and went in. The garage contained a small sedan. Using his key, “X” opened a door in the wall of the garage that led into the house. He hastened up creaking stairs and turned into a small room at the top. All the shades were drawn and it was necessary for him to turn on the light.

Seating himself before a small dressing table, “X” opened a drawer and took out a make-up kit. The disguise which he was about to assume was so well known to him that he might have made the changes in the dark. His fingers worked swiftly, building up the contours of his face with metal plates and layers of plastic volatile material.

When he had completed his task a few minutes later his face appeared to be that of a man about forty years old with commonplace features that no one would look at twice. While he was getting into another suit of clothes, he crossed the room to a small compact radio and tuned in the police band. He set the pointer of the dial for the local police radio station in hope of hearing a repetition of the mysterious “static” that had prevented police headquarters from communicating with the prowl cars.

As “X” buttoned the vest of a gray tweed suit, he heard the monotonous voice of the police announcer droning out the description of a man.

“About medium height; weight about a hundred and sixty pounds; hair, dark varying to gray about the temples; thin, slightly Roman nose; name, James Hunting. This is probably an assumed name. He is wanted by federal authorities on an alleged counterfeiting charge. All police be on the look out for James Hunting—”

“X” took a final look in the mirror above the dressing table. He wondered what Inspector Burks would think if he knew that the man known as James Hunting had become A. J. Martin, an Associated Press correspondent in the matter of a few minutes time.

Then, disguised as A. J. Martin, “X” left the house through the garage where he entered the small sedan, and drove in the direction of an office which he leased under the name of Martin. He stopped on the way, however, to telephone. On calling the Suburban National Bank, “X” left an anonymous message for Commissioner Foster. “Do not permit any of the money in the bank vault to be distributed until it has been carefully checked over,” he said, disguising his voice. “I am convinced that it is all counterfeit.” He did not say that it was his belief that the bank hold-up was not the failure it appeared to be. He was certain that the nefarious gang which trade-marked its exploits with the brand of the figure seven had actually looted the vault, substituting counterfeit bills in place of the real ones. Thus the criminals probably hoped to gain time for the disposal of their loot.

HIS first act on entering the office of A. J. Martin was to telephone the Hobart Detective Agency and get in touch with Jim Hobart. He told Hobart to meet him at the office as soon as possible. Then “X” went over to a steel index file that stood in one corner of the office. He pulled a sheet of onion-skin paper from the division marked “F.”

At the top of the page was a single name “Fronberg.” The rest of the report would have presented an almost indecipherable puzzle to even a cryptographer. It dealt with the particulars of the German engraver, Joseph Fronberg, who had turned his genius into the paths of crime and was thought to have headed a band of counterfeiters that persistent federal men had wiped out a few years back. Every member of the Fronberg gang was either thought to be dead or behind the bars of some federal prison with the exception of one man.

That man was a killer known as Pete Tolman. It had been impossible to tie Tolman up definitely with the Fronberg gang, though “X” was convinced that he had taken an active part in the counterfeiting. But Tolman, too, was about to meet his just deserts. Tolman was being held in a Louisiana penitentiary on a first degree murder charge. One of Jim Hobart’s most trusted operatives had been watching Tolman for some days and had already gained information that “X” considered invaluable.

As “X” was reinserting the report sheet in the cabinet file, he heard Jim Hobart’s knock on the office door.

“Come in, Jim,” the Secret Agent cordially invited in the voice that was associated with his identity as Martin.

Hobart entered, smiling. “Hello, Mr. Martin. I’ve got some good news for you.”

“X” seated himself on the top of his desk and swung one leg back and forth impatiently. “Let’s have it, Jim.”

“You were right about Pete Tolman communicating with some one outside the penitentiary. My man has been watching Tolman’s cell after dark. Tolman gets up to the window and smokes a cigarette. If you weren’t on the lookout, you’d never notice it, but Tolman isn’t smoking for pleasure. He sends Morse signals! He takes a long pull on the cigarette for a dash and a short for a dot. The glow from the cigarette can be seen from outside! What’s more, every message is addressed to somebody by the name of Seven!”

“Good, Jim! You be ready to leave for Baton Rouge in about an hour.”

Though Hobart expected quick moves from Martin, he was a little taken back by this announcement. “What’s up this time, boss?” he asked.

The Secret Agent’s eyes twinkled. “No questions asked. Simply go out to that little airport where I keep my plane. There you’ll meet a man in aviator togs. Obey him implicitly. His name will be Bedford. That’s all now, Jim.”

As soon as Hobart had left the office, “X” locked the door and set about changing his make-up. When the job was completed fifteen minutes later, “X” appeared to be a heavier man than Martin. His face was dark, brooding, and hell-scarred. A toupee that looked like a shock of unruly black hair added to his unpleasant features. He was wearing a suit of flagrant checks, a tan overcoat with exaggerated, padded shoulders, and a derby hat.

“X” LEFT the office of A. J. Martin and taxied out of the city to a small, private airport maintained in the name of Martin. He entered the hangar where his mechanic was fussing over a low-winged Lockheed monoplane.

“I’m takin’ Mr. Martin’s bus up,” he explained to the mechanic. “Here’s a note from him so’s you won’t think it’s a steal.” And “X” tossed an envelope to the mechanic. Then he went to a locker and had time to put on flying togs before Jim Hobart arrived.

“X” greeted Hobart with a deep, raucous voice that suited his rough appearance perfectly. “Guess you must be Hobart. I’m Nick Bedford, You’ve got your orders, so put on a flyin’ suit and we’ll get going.”

Jim obeyed and in another ten minutes they taxied across the field into the wind. From a clean take off, “X” circled the field, pointed the nose of the plane southwest and gave it the gun.

It was nearly seven-thirty that evening when they landed at the Louisiana capital. According to information “X” had obtained through Hobart’s operative, the change of guard, in the death house where Pete Tolman awaited the hangman, occurred at eight-thirty. From the same source, “X” had learned the particular habits of the two guards who were on night duty in the condemned cell. They were granted a few hours leave preceding their check-in for the night’s work. Hobart’s operative had been directed to shadow these two guards and make reports at thirty-minute intervals to a companion who had been installed in a private dwelling in the city. Hobart telephoned directly from the airport and learned that the two guards were at present in a small lunch-room near the penitentiary. Jim Hobart and “X” taxied to a garage where, by previous arrangement, “X” had stationed one of his own cars. Not far from the garage he had established a temporary hide-out as was his custom before entering a city on dangerous business.

“Now get this, Hobart,” the Agent said, as they drove toward the restaurant where the two guards were passing the time. “I’m on orders, same as you. And what we do is wait until they come out of that hamburger house and then give ’em a blast with the guns—”

“Hold on,” Hobart interrupted. “If it’s just the same to you, I’ll use my fists.”

“Gas guns, yah sap!” “X” growled. “The boss wouldn’t stand for any lead shooting.” He took a pair of chromium-plated gas guns from his pocket. They were not unlike ordinary pistols in appearance. An invention of Secret Agent “X’s” fertile brain, these guns could shoot a highly concentrated but harmless anesthetizing vapor. He handed one to Hobart. “Be careful with that thing and don’t look in the end to see if it’s loaded. What we’ve got to do is wait until everything’s clear, then get out of the car and stick ’em up. Don’t give ’em a chance. Give ’em a shot of gas right in the pan.”

They were cruising past the restaurant and “X” saw two men wearing the uniforms of the prison guards hunched over the lunch counter. Another figure, standing in the shadow of a billboard, seemed intent on watching the lunchroom. “X” recognized this man as Hobart’s operative. “That guy standing in front, is he your man?” “X” asked.

Jim Hobart nodded. “That’s Carson.”

“Right. You get out now and tell him his job’s done. If we can do as well as he did — well, we’ll be okeh.” And “X” stopped the car long enough to permit Hobart to get out. Then he speeded the car to the next corner and turned around.

Hobart’s man had no sooner disappeared than the two guards came out of the lunchroom, and started in the direction of the place where “X” waited with the car. The Secret Agent saw that Hobart was following them a short distance behind. He swung from the car and ambled leisurely towards the guards. An unlighted cigarette dangled from his lips.

“Hello, buddy,” he said, addressing one of the guards. “Either one of you got a match?”

The two men stopped, and “X” saw, to his satisfaction, that Hobart was closing in from behind.

“I think I have,” replied one of the guards, groping in his pocket.

“X” glanced up and down the street. Everything was clear. He jerked his gas gun from his pocket and fired directly into the unsuspecting guard’s face. The man uttered a surprised exclamation. His hand got halfway to his holster. Then his legs seemed to desert him and he wilted to the sidewalk. Hobart was somewhat slower than “X.” The second guard fired a wild shot before the gas from Jim’s gun pitched him forward on his face.

“Quick, Hobart!” the Agent snapped. “Get your man to the car. Not a spare second!” And “X” picked up one of the guards by the middle, slung him like a sack of meal over his shoulder, and hurried towards the car. Jim followed with his man, cursing his own clumsiness.

The two unconscious men had been tumbled into the rear seat of the car and the door had been closed before “X” heard the sound of heavy footsteps. Some one was running up the street toward them. “X” looked up just in time to see a policeman turn the corner.

INSTEAD of arousing suspicion by an attempted getaway, “X” rounded the nose of the car and opened the hood.

The policeman stopped abruptly and looked up and down the street. Then he looked over to where “X” was pretending to fuss with the motor of his car. “Say, didn’t you hear a shot, mister?” he asked.

“X” said: “Just my car. Carburetor is a little off, I guess. You must have the shakes tonight. What’s goin’ on?”

The cop’s face reddened. “Well, we’ve got some special orders to keep our eyes open for trouble. It’s on account of Pete Tolman.”

“Who?” the Agent asked as though he had never heard of the name.

“Tolman, the killer. He goes on a necktie party tonight. He always was a blowhard, and he’s boastin’ that they’ll never hang him. He’s got a lot of friends in the underworld who might try to stir up a prison break or something.”

“X” laughed as he climbed into the front seat of the car. “Well, Telman or whatever his name is, must be an optimist!” He gave the motor a spin and steered from the curb.

“Gosh, that was a narrow squeak, Bedford!” Jim Hobart exclaimed. “You’ve got nerves like ice!”

“X” bent over the wheel. His face was grim. Minutes were sliding by all too fast. At eight-thirty the two unconscious guards in the back seat were supposed to go on duty. At twelve midnight Pete Tolman was to go to the scaffold. These were two things which Agent “X” was resolved should not happen.

“X” pulled the car to a sliding stop in front of a ramshackle old house that he had previously selected because of its comparative isolation. For some reason or other neighboring houses had been vacated. The street was dark and deserted. From the floor of the front compartment of the car, “X” took out a compact traveling kit.

“I’m going into that house and open up,” he said to Hobart. “Make certain that you’re not being watched, then carry the two guards in after me.”

With traveling bag in hand, “X” hurried up the walk that led to the door of the dark old house. He entered without a light and walked through the central hall to the back room. There, he turned on a light. The windows of the room were all boarded over, and he was certain that not a ray of light penetrated to the outside. Agent “X” opened his traveling kit and removed a hypodermic needle and a small bottle which contained a narcotic compound known only to Agent “X.” He had time to load the needle before he heard Jim Hobart stumbling around in the front part of the house. Calling softly through the door, he directed Hobart to bring the two guards into the back room.

When Hobart had completed his share of the task, “X” walked over to where Jim stood looking down at the two senseless guards. “I’m goin’ to fade out now,” he said gruffly. “And the next guy who’ll be your boss will look enough like that sandy-haired guard to be his twin brother.”

Then with a movement swift as a striking snake, “X” drove the hypodermic needle squarely into Hobart’s biceps. Hobart stepped back, bewilderment clouding his face. Then before he could say a word, his legs buckled under him and he fell to the floor.

The hard-lined face of Bedford softened. His lips twisted in a smile. “Sorry, Jim,” whispered the real voice of Secret Agent “X.”

Chapter V

“X” ENTERED immediately upon a task of seeming impossibility. First he removed the uniforms from the two guards. Putting them to one side, he opened his traveling kit and selected tubes of plastic volatile material, pigments, and plates for changing the contour of the face. Then he straightened out Hobart’s crumpled form and, kneeling over him, went to work.

A few minutes later, he stood up and glanced from the face of the guard and back to the newly created face of Jim Hobart. No sculptor could have made a more remarkable similarity. He had only to select a toupee from the large stock which he carried to make the disguise complete. He noticed regretfully that Jim was about two inches taller than the guard.

“X” took out a folding triple mirror and set it up on a table in front of him. Following the lines of the sandy-haired guard’s face, “X” reproduced every feature in his own make-up. He then stripped off the uniform of the sandy-haired guard and put it on. A glance at the identification card on the uniform he was wearing, told “X” that the man whom he impersonated was named Lawson.

Next, he gave both of the guards a dose of his harmless narcotic, dragged them to a closet, and closed the door.

Though Secret Agent “X” had only heard Lawson speak four words, a moment’s practice enabled him to imitate the man’s voice. His next task was to revive Jim Hobart. This was accomplished by injecting the antidote for his narcotic into Jim’s arm. When the private detective came to a few seconds later, he stared about in bewilderment. “Snap out of it, Hobart,” said “X,” speaking in the voice of Lawson, the guard whom he impersonated.

“Who are you?” Hobart asked. “Where’s Bedford? He drugged me!”

“X” nodded. “He was acting upon orders just as I am. You can call me Lawson. Your name, according to the tag on that uniform which you are going to put on, is Johnas. That uniform will be a little small for you, but we’ve got to chance it.”

Used to the strange orders he had received since being employed by the man whom he knew as Mr. Martin, Hobart obeyed without hesitation. However, his shock at seeing his own reflection in the mirror was almost too much for him. “I’ll never believe it’s me!” he gasped. “Will — will I ever get back to normal? This may be an improvement over my face, but I still don’t like it!” He rubbed his fingers lightly over his new face.

“X” said: “Don’t worry. It will come off. Now, I’ll take the initiative in everything. You just keep still. Don’t answer anyone except in grunts. Forget that you are Jim Hobart and try to identify yourself with the guard Johnas.”

“Okeh. But what’s the idea?”

“We’re going to prison, Hobart. Right into the death house. Come along. I’ll explain while we’re getting over there.”

They had only five minutes to get out to the penitentiary and check in. It would be necessary to use the car.

“Get this, Jim,” Agent “X” explained as the car jounced over the rocky street, “I’m going to enter the cell of Pete Tolman. Tolman is coming out. He will be wearing a guard’s uniform, and it is your duty to watch him. He’ll do whatever you say. Don’t answer his questions, but let him know that you’re a member of the criminal gang known as the Seven Silent Men. You get him back to New York in Martin’s plane. Take him to Martin’s office and guard him yourself until you hear from Martin. Remember, Tolman is a killer.”

Hobart wagged his head. “I’ve got it all right. It’s some risk, but it will make a knockout of a news story.”

They abandoned the car a short distance from the prison gates and continued on foot. They were admitted to the prison without question from the guards at the gate. “X,” who had acquainted himself with the plan of the penitentiary before they had left New York, led the way straight to the cells. He approached the head guard and said: “Lawson and Johnas going on duty, sir.”

“A rotten time you’ll have of it, too,” responded the head guard. “Tolman’s nuts.”

“Nerve broke?” the Agent inquired.

“Nope. More nerve than ever now. He just swears he’ll never hang. All the other cons have been removed from your block of cells. Tolman’s yelling is a little more punishment than is due them.”

“The rope will soon finish that,” said “X” grimly as he passed into the hall that led down between the tiers of barred cells. Hobart followed him closely without uttering a word.

A BLACK steel door closed upon the condemned block. A knock admitted them into the beehive of iron-barred cells where many a man spent his last moments in the shadow of the scaffold. The condemned men had been removed to another part of the prison.

At least there was sufficient kindliness in the law to spare them the sight of their fellow’s hanging. At the end of the room was a sort of alcove, high and narrow with walls and floors immaculately clean. There stood the gallows, newly erected for the hanging of Pete Tolman.

The Secret Agent exchanged a few shallow pleasantries with the two guards whom he and Hobart relieved, watched them leave the death house, and listened to the sound of their footsteps receding down corridor. Hobart was pacing the floor nervously, glancing in the direction of the only occupied cell. From the bunk behind the bars came the sound of lusty snoring. Beyond the black door of the death house, guards paced monotonously back and forth, their footsteps sounding like a dozen death clocks, clicking off the narrow span of Tolman’s life. Yet Pete Tolman seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

“X” walked over to the condemned man’s cell. He cleared his throat. Tolman snored on. “X” coughed loudly. Tolman stirred and opened his vicious little eyes. He sat up and yawned. But Secret Agent “X,” judging from the appearance of Tolman’s eyes, knew that he had not been sleeping.

“What time is it, screw?” Tolman asked in a sharp, nasal voice.

“X” looked at his watch. “It’s eight-forty-five.” Then he added in a lower tone: “Are you waiting for Seven?”

At the mention of the number seven, Tolman’s face became a studied blank. “X” was sure that his long shot had gone home. “Not long now until you trot up the thirteen steps,” said “X” quietly. He was anxious to provoke further conversation with Tolman in hope of gaining some scrap of information.

Tolman, however, merely snorted through his high, thin nostrils, turned his back on “X” and paced to the window of his cell. Outside, the sky was tar black.

“X” quietly removed the keys from the belt of his uniform and inserted the proper one in the lock of the grating. Tolman whirled. His hands clasped and unclasped as though he was eager to kill yet another man before his death.

“X” pressed a finger to his lips, swung back the door, and entered the cell.

“What the hell!” Tolman muttered. Hope and bewilderment battled on his face.

“You want to escape, don’t you?” “X” asked quietly.

Tolman looked suspicious. He didn’t answer, fearing to say the wrong thing and send his hopes on the rocks. “X” walked quickly towards Tolman. His right hand was hidden behind his back. There was a flash of fear in Tolman’s eyes. He backed slowly towards the wall. Had “X” approached him with gun drawn, Tolman might have put up a fight. But the invisible threat of “X’s” hidden hand was too much for Tolman’s ratlike courage. He dropped to the bunk, shrinking, as far from Secret Agent “X” as he could.

“Wh-what are you?” he whimpered. “D-don’t stare at me! I’m goin’ to get topped anyway. Y-you get out a here!”

“Who do you think I am?” “X” demanded.

Tolman’s little eyes screwed up as though he was thinking very hard. “Why, you’re just a guard — Lawson or something like that.”

“And who else?” “X” persisted.

Tolman swallowed. His voice was a scarcely audible whisper. “You might be one of the Seven Silent Men.”

THEN the Secret Agent’s conjecture had been correct. The Seven gang had been in communication with Pete Tolman. It was all the information he could hope to get from Tolman. If he questioned the killer further, Tolman might become suspicious.

Without a moment’s hesitation, “X” jerked his hand from behind his back. In it, he held a hypodermic needle loaded with his special drug. He plunged the needle straight into Tolman’s arm. The killer squealed, tried desperately to get to his feet, then sank back as still as death.

“X” looked out of the cell towards Jim Hobart. The private detective was standing still, staring in awe at Tolman. “X” frowned, shook his head, and motioned to Hobart to continue his pacing.

Then Secret Agent “X” began his work. His nerves dictated frenzied haste. He realized that he was in the narrowest strait of his career. He knew that once he had taken the step he contemplated, nothing, nothing in the power of man could save him from death if the Seven Silent Men failed to do what Agent “X” expected them to do. But he must make sure. The hideous phantoms of panic and famine hovered over his country. The Seven Silent Men and the devils’ coin they distributed must be checked.

“X” crossed to the window of the cell. Through this alone Tolman could have received communication from The Seven gang. Outside the window, “X” could hear the patient pacing of the guards in the prison yard. But standing out against the black sky, far from the prison, was a square of light. The name of a popular cigarette was emblazoned in colored lights that flashed in and out. “X” watched the sign, counting mentally the intervals between the flashes.

An exclamation escaped his lips. How simple it all was. For as he watched, he became conscious that the sign did not flash at regular intervals. It was sending out dots and dashes in Morse code. Yet the making and breaking of the circuit was so carefully handled that the casual observer would not have noticed it.

“X” translated as the message flashed out: “Seven…. Seven…. Seven,” repeated over and over.

It was for this signal that Tolman had been watching. Then came a pause in the message. Not for long, however. Soon again, came halting but intelligible words:

“X” turned from the window. He lifted Tolman from the cot, then raised the scanty bed clothes that covered the hard pallet. Next to the thin mattress he found them — two small, white cellophane-wrapped cylinders. Putting these to one side, “X” hurriedly straightened the cot. Then he stripped the coarse prison garments from Pete Tolman’s inert form. From beneath the uniform that he wore, “X” took his compact make-up kit.

For ten tedious minutes, he worked, molding and proportioning Tolman’s face until it resembled the face of Lawson which “X” had assumed. The next part of his preparation called for his finest efforts. With the aid of a mirror, he transformed his own face so that it looked exactly like Pete Tolman’s.

AFTER a short time, satisfied with the results of his painstaking efforts, “X” donned the trousers and coarse shirt that Tolman had worn. Then he clothed Tolman in the discarded clothes of the prison guard. He would have liked to spend more time on Tolman’s disguise. He knew that he should have given Tolman some detailed instructions. However, at almost any moment, he expected to be interrupted by the entrance of some prison official. He immediately injected the antidote for the narcotic into Tolman’s arm.

The killer opened his eyes. He stared about bewilderedly. His eyes met “X’s” face and his jaw sagged in wonder. “It’s over,” Tolman muttered huskily. “They didn’t save me after all. I’m dead. I’m—”

“That’s enough!” “X” rapped, imitating Tolman’s nasal voice. He held the mirror before Tolman’s face so that the killer could see the remarkable change that had taken place.

Tolman ran a finger around the band of his collar. “Lord! I’m not me! I’m that screw, Lawson!”

“Exactly,” replied the Secret Agent. “Act like him. Get up on your feet. You’re going to get clear of the big house. You’re going to escape, just as the Seven Silent Men promised. You’re perfectly safe as long as you obey that guard out there—” indicating Jim Hobart. “If you don’t do as he says, you’ll pray for a return to the death cell!”

Tolman stood up and wandered to the door of the cell. “You mean I’m to walk out?”

“Yes. Lock me in the cell and keep right on pacing the floor until you’re relieved from duty or until the other guard gets an opportunity to get out. If you must talk, imitate Lawson’s voice as near as possible. Tell anyone who questions you that you’ve got a cold. You can take that make-up off when you’re out of here.”

“Don’t worry. I’m pretty good!” Tolman assured him. Something of gangland’s eternal swagger was already returning to this man who had escaped the gallows — for a time. Tolman opened the door, went out, and locked the door after him. Then with burlesqued dignity, he began pacing the floor, following the amazed Jim Hobart.

“X” looked at his watch. Two short hours until midnight. One hundred and twenty minutes until he, Secret Agent “X,” innocent of crime, would face the hangman. No horrible nightmare, but stark reality, the very thought of which would send the average man mad. But “X” immediately set about disposing of all his special weapons and devices. Makeup kit, gas gun, his kit of special drugs — all must be hidden in the cot in the death cell. From here on, “X” was in other hands than his own.

His train of thought was suddenly interrupted by the opening of an iron door that led into the death house. Another guard entered, accompanied by a man in severe, black garments. The prison chaplain had come to pay a visit to the condemned man.

And all the while, Pete Tolman, wearing the garb of a prison guard, smirked behind the sky-pilot’s back, already confident that he had cheated the gallows.

Chapter VI

WITH braggart gestures, Agent “X” scorned the ministrations of the prison chaplain. He was acting the part as Pete Tolman would have acted. He threatened to cram the chaplain’s prayer book down his throat. By the time the chaplain had given up in despair, many minutes had passed slowly for “X.” The impersonation of Tolman taxed his dramatic powers to the utmost.

As the time for execution approached, several workmen entered the room and proceeded to the end where the gallows stood. “X” knew that they had come to fix the four ropes, one of which would manipulate the catch on the gallows trap. These ropes would lead through the wall into a room beyond and for each rope there would be a guard to pull it. Since only one of the ropes actually opened the trap, the identity of the real executioner would be forever a mystery.

A short time later, reporters and witnesses of the execution could be heard filing into the end of the room. Even the most calloused reporter seemed awed by the proximity of the death swing and there was an almost churchly hush over the room. Then the black steel door at the opposite end of the room opened to admit the prison officials: chaplain, prison doctor, additional guards, and the warden.

Secret Agent “X” quickly inserted the two white cartridges, which had been provided by the Seven gang, in his nostrils. In another moment, he was gratified to see that Hobart and the real Tolman were ordered to leave the room. “X” felt certain that Hobart would lose no time in getting Tolman away from the prison.

As the warden approached the death cell, “X” could see that his stern gray face was beaded with sweat. He tried to smile kindly, gave it up, and resorted to a scowl that he apparently hoped would hide his emotions. For the warden’s was a disagreeable task — giving the signal for the gallows trap to be released.

“Are you ready, Tolman?” asked the warden huskily.

“Well, not exactly,” replied “X” in the nasal voice of Tolman. “But seein’ that it’s you, I wouldn’t keep you waitin’.” He turned to the prison doctor. “It’d be hell to be late for your own funeral, eh, doc?”

The doctor did not answer. He had spent his life learning to save lives. Now, he must stand with arms folded and watch a man die without raising a finger to save him. He did not relish his job.

“My son,” said the chaplain, kindly, “I beg you to think what you are about to do.”

“Ah, nertz!” the Agent snarled.

The door was opened, and “X” was marched between lines of guards towards the scaffold that stood like some gigantic beast waiting to be fed. “X” nodded at the news reporters and shouted: “Give me a good send-off, boys. Tell ’em I’m game. Slap it on in streamers: ‘Pete Tolman’s got guts!’ That’ll — that’ll—”

“X” pawed nervously at his neck. The yellow pine steps that led to the platform of death confronted him. It was becoming more and more difficult to be flippant. What was more, the two cylindrical capsules that he had placed in his nose interfered somewhat with his imitation of Tolman’s voice. Then, if the Seven gang failed, if something went wrong with their plans—

AGENT “X” pushed such thoughts from his head. There was only a little time remaining. Somehow, his legs carried him up the steps. The guards centered him on the trap so that in falling through he might not strike the sides and thus save his neck from breaking. Then heavy straps were tightened about his arms and legs. He found his brain groping frantically for some means of escape. He might, in his last seconds, call out that he wasn’t Pete Tolman. He might demand that fingerprints be compared to prove it.

To the amazement of the guard who was strapping him, “X” uttered a sardonic laugh. Who would believe that he wasn’t Pete Tolman? His disguise was perfect, his impersonation too genuine.

He saw the hangman, a citrous-faced, stocky man, picking up the black death cap that was to hide the hideous death grimaces of the condemned man. The rope dangled like a dead snake from the beam above, its noose yawning like the very jaws of death. “X” looked down upon the nervous spectators. He recognized only one face in the group — that of Milo Leads, a medical man interested chiefly in toxicology.

Not one man in this entire group could be “X’s” rescuer. His jaws ached to spring apart and shout that he wasn’t Tolman. He fought back the desire — as strenuous a battle as he had ever waged. He knew it was hopeless. If he was to die, if he had indeed overplayed his hand, his identity would die with him. There was no alternative.

The warden had taken out his handkerchief. He would drop it as a signal for the trap to spring. The hangman was inspecting his noose, getting ready to slip it over “X’s” head.

“Peter Tolman—” the warden’s voice was tremulous—“have you anything to say before you die?”

“No!” said “X” sharply. A black ring of shadow appeared on the pine boards of the platform. The noose was directly above his head. In a moment—

“Breathe only through your nose!” A warning whispered within the death chamber. Perhaps it was inaudible to any but Agent “X.” But “X” knew that the warning was intended for him. He knew that somewhere among the state witnesses was a member of the Seven Silent Men. The lips of Secret Agent “X” clamped shut.

Suddenly, it came — a roar that was a concentrated thunderclap. Hell seemed to crack open. “X” had a momentary glimpse of a black line that streaked across the floor. A jagged hole broke through the concrete and a venomous looking cloud of yellow green vapor spurted from the yawning pit.

With a sound like the twang of a bowstring, the scaffold trap sprang open. “X” felt himself dropping like a leaden thing straight into the pit of swirling green mist. “Poison gas!” his mind shrieked. It burned his eyes like acid. But he did not forget to breathe only through his nose.

He had scarcely landed at the bottom of the pit before strong hands seized him. In the glow of subdued light, he saw the heads of several men — faces that were rendered simian in appearance because of the gas masks covering them. He was hurried, surrounded by men, over a rough floor in a direction unknown.

As the green mist of poison gas cleared, he knew that he was being carried through a newly constructed tunnel, evidently reaching far under the prison wall. He knew that the people in the death chamber were helpless to follow. The poison gas would see to that.

His rescuers paused only long enough to remove the straps that bound his legs. When they continued their flight up the passage, “X” panted out, “Whew! That was some narrow squeak!”

There was no reply. Only the shuffling of feet along the floor disturbed the silence.

Directly ahead, the tunnel slanted sharply upward. Warm fresh air fanned “X’s” flushed face. In another moment they were in the open. A brief glimpse of his surroundings — a scattering of small houses, and “X” was lifted into a motor car. The man at his side removed his gas mask as the car rolled smoothly away.

The Secret Agent’s eyes were searching the compartment trying to see the faces of the men who had saved him from the gallows. As the car sped beneath a lone street lamp near the outskirts of the city, a beam of light fell directly across the face of the man at his side. “X” could scarcely repress an exclamation of astonishment.

For the face of the man had not a single animate feature. Rather, it was like the painted, waxen face of a doll. The features were thin, the nose hawklike, the fixed expression terrifying. Only the eyes seemed part of the living man and they were deep, dark pools where nameless evil dwelt.

Suddenly, the creature at his side moved with startling rapidity. Pain knifed through “X’s” arm. Fire flowed momentarily in his veins. He saw the flash of a hypodermic needle as it was drawn from his flesh. His brain suddenly became clouded. His body gained new buoyancy. He was plunged into a drugged sleep.

Chapter VII

THE Agent’s awakening was like returning from the grave. Something seemed to explode within his body. The shock was so sudden that he found himself panting as though he had been suddenly showered with water.

He was standing upright, body rigid. For an instant, his surroundings dazed him. He was in a vast, high-ceilinged room. The walls, paneled in oak were apparently of incredible age. A huge fireplace was a maw of crackling flames. The room seemed to be without doors or windows and the only source of light was a wrought-iron chandelier that dropped from a chain from the ceiling.

“X” was in his shirt sleeves, and standing in the center of a circle of seven chairs. Six of the chairs were occupied by men wearing sombre gray suits, identical in every way. A small diamond badge, fashioned in the form of an Arabic numeral, was pinned to the lapel of each man’s coat. The chairs, too, were all alike. However, the man whose badge designated him as Number One occupied a slightly larger chair than the others.

The faces of the six men were what astonished “X” more than anything else. For to a feature, all faces were alike — waxen, doll-like, hideous in their lack of human expression.

“Tolman,” began the man who was designated as Number One, “you have been selected for membership in our organization for several reasons. You have an admirable criminal record.”

“X” bobbed his head. “Thanks, chief,” he said in the voice of Pete Tolman, better now that the capsules had been removed from his nostrils. “And thanks for savin’ me from bein’ topped.”

“Silence! You must know that silence is our golden rule. Only because we, the leaders of a mighty order, have maintained silence have we successfully carried out every stage of our Herculean task.

“My purpose in rescuing you was a selfish one. Your service with this group will be for my own selfish purposes. However, you will find that you will be paid beyond your wildest imaginings and that you will be able to retire in a few years, independently wealthy — if you obey me in all things.

“Our battle is waged with the most powerful weapon known to man. I mean money — two kinds of money. Hard, sound currency for our friends and colleagues; spurious bills for our enemies.

“Let me enumerate your present duties. First of all, you will obtain for us the engraving plates for the production of five and ten dollar bills which were made by your old friend, Joseph Fronberg. We have all of Fronberg’s plates with the exception of the ones just named. Do you know where they are hidden?”

“X” thought quickly. It was evident that Pete Tolman had been an important wheel in the old Fronberg machine. Surely he would be expected to know what had been done with the plates. He replied: “Sure, chief. Old Fronberg, hid ’em. I got a pretty good idea where they are. May take some time for me to get ’em.”

“There is no great hurry, Tolman. There are other tasks of greater importance at present. There is but one man who might thwart our purposes. That man’s identity is a mystery, making your job even more difficult. I speak of the man who has hidden himself behind the identity of Secret Agent ‘X.’ When you have found that man, you are to kill him.”

“X” uttered a low whistle. “That’s a tough un, chief! From what I hear he’s a slick guy.”

NUMBER ONE nodded. “Yet he is not as clever as I. You will have every assistance from other members of the group.

“Now, perhaps you have wondered why our group, wealthy and powerful as it is, has remained such a mystery to the police. I doubt very much if even Secret Agent ‘X’ has succeeded in gaining any information about us.”

“We are known as the Seven Silent Men because to drop the slightest information regarding our organization means death — at the hands of the law or in our own execution chamber. On occasion in meting out punishment to members who might be inclined to inform, the law is our servant. Here at headquarters I have an iron-bound book. Upon its pages are signed confessions to murder.

“Every member upon initiation to our order must commit murder under the eyes of a witness and then sign his name to a full confession of the deed. If any member should be so careless as to let information drop concerning the Seven Silent Men, his confession may be promptly sent to the police. Admission to our headquarters, the one haven of certain safety, would be refused him. There is no escape for the traitor. Now you know why the Seven Men are also the Silent Men. Any question?”

“X” bobbed his head. “It’s a swell idea, sure, but it looks to me as though there were only six guys in the gang.”

“At present, there are only six leaders,” replied Number One. “Number Six displeased us. His name was Arthurs, a teller in the Suburban National Bank. He is dead. You will take his place—after you have proved yourself worthy.

“You will now advance to my chair,” continued Number One.

“X” obeyed. The leader of the gang reached into his pocket and drew out a pair of ivory dice and a folded slip of paper. These he handed to “X.”

“The dice,” he explained, “will serve as a means of designating the servants of the Seven Silent Men. You will understand when you examine them. Carry them with you always. The slip of paper is inscribed with the name of the person whom you are to murder as a part of the initiation into our order. You may look at the paper now.”

Secret Agent “X” carefully unfolded the paper. His heart was throbbing with excitement. The formidable difficulties which he must overcome to outwit this archcriminal and his gang were piling up ahead of him, forming a seemingly impassable barrier. Murder! He was expected to murder — Secret Agent “X” was expected to take life when his own code seldom permitted him to use lethal weapons.

But upon looking down at the piece of paper open in his hands, he experienced a stab of pain far more cruel than a wound from an assassin’s knife. For the name written upon the paper was dear to him beyond all others. It was Betty Dale, the beautiful girl reporter who had aided “X” in countless battles against crime.

“X” SUDDENLY became aware that all eyes were fixed upon him. He was thankful that the plastic substance covering his face would hide the fact that he had most certainly paled at the thought of what was expected of him. However, something in his eyes must have betrayed his shock to Number One. The leader of the Seven Silent Men spoke icily.

“Does the killing of a woman seem such a disagreeable task to you? Would you prefer to return to the death house?”

“Cheez, no, boss!” the Agent cried. “I just ain’t never knifed a woman. Give me the goose pimples at first, s’ help me! But I’ll do it. Just you watch me!”

“That is the better spirit!” Number One commended. “I intend that Betty Dale shall be killed, that she shall be branded with the mark of Seven, and that she shall be thrown into the river from the wharf. My idea is that such an act will force Secret Agent ‘X’ into open warfare. If I am any judge, Betty Dale is more to ‘X’ than a mere ally.

“You may wonder how this killing will be arranged. Leave that to me. Surely you realize the extent of our power. A group capable of tunneling under the walls of a penitentiary, blasting through the floor of the death house, and rescuing a prisoner from the gallows, is also capable of arranging a mere murder. And when Betty Dale is found, a corpse floating in the East River, well—” Number One uttered an evil chuckle—“Mr. ‘X’ will be pretty badly upset. He’ll be in such a frenzy that he’ll turn the city upside-down in a frantic effort to find the hiding place of the Seven Silent Men. Then—then he will show his hand. Then Pete Tolman’s knife will know where to strike. Am I right, Tolman?”

“Sure, boss!” the Agent spoke confidently. “But you haven’t told me where this headquarters is yet. Some old millionaire’s dump?”

Number One’s voice lost every hint of cordiality. “Do not be too inquisitive, lest your eternal silence be assured. We are rather clever at this business of ripping out a man’s tongue!” Number One snapped his fingers. “Number Three and Number Four, you will attend Tolman. See that he is suitably disguised. Then take him away. He will be free to do as he pleases until his services are required to murder Betty Dale.”

Two of the Silent Men rose from their chairs. “X” saw an oak panel open to reveal a scarlet-curtained doorway. Through this he was led by Number Three and Number Four into a small room hardly bigger than a closet. There he was furnished with a red wig, a sandy mustache, and grease paints — clumsy accessories of disguise that would have caused Agent “X” to laugh had there remained any humor in his heart.

When “X” had completed this clumsy disguise, Number Four approached him with a large, brutal looking hypodermic needle. He was forced to submit to several injections to nerve centers throughout the body. He felt the strange drug oozing over him.

He realized suddenly, that he was going blind. His mind was strangely dulled, his sense of equilibrium upset. He was like a corpse with only the motor nerves that activated his arms and legs remaining alive. Later, he recognized the rumble of a motor. Then he knew that he was walking. But his brain was far too deadened for him to remember the direction taken or the interval of time between the administration of the drug and his sudden and violent reawakening.

Chapter VIII

SLOWLY, Agent “X’s” sense of sight returned to him. A red mist that swam before his eyes parted and he was dazzled by the glitter of a million lights. He was in the middle of the sidewalk. Hurrying people jostled him rudely. In the street was the continual stream of heavy traffic. He realized that he was in New York — in fact, he was standing in the very shadow of the mammoth Falmouth Tower Building. It was eight-thirty P. M.

But as far as he knew, he might have been brought miles and miles from the Seven gang’s headquarters. Certainly among the gleaming spires and dancing lights of the city, he would find no old house boasting such a room as the oak-paneled one occupied by the Seven Silent Men.

As he walked down the street, three newsboys came by shouting their sensational ware. The Herald had put out an extra. Black headlines screamed:

“X” reached into his pocket to find it well stocked with bills and change. Evidently Number One believed in keeping his hirelings happy with money. “X” hailed one of the newshawkers and bought a paper. He glanced at the headlines as he hurried along. Much had happened since he and Jim Hobart had flown to Baton Rouge.

The caldron of trouble brewed and bubbled. Banks had closed to prevent runs. The Bankers Express Agency had been ordered to stop work because it was impossible to tell their armored trucks from those employed by the counterfeiters in the distribution of spurious money. The Falmouth Manufacturing Company had actually paid out thousands of dollars in worthless currency — money that they had supposed had come from a legitimate bank.

“X” remembered the blond, unpleasant Lynn Falmouth. Falmouth presented a baffling enigma to Agent “X.” He was a character beyond fathoming, even to an astute psychologist like Secret Agent “X.” Nor could he forget that Falmouth’s cousin, George Arthurs, had been Number Six of the Silent Men.

Rounding the corner, “X” came abruptly on a knot of people gathered around a hollow-eyed young man who was haranguing on the failure of the government to stop the flow of counterfeit money. He flaunted a copy of the Herald in their faces.

“Look, brothers!” he shouted. “A supposedly reputable firm has been paying for the daily labor of hundreds of our companions. Paying not in check and not in cash. Paying them in worthless paper! Shall we stand idle as the police do? How do you know, John Smith, or you, Mary Jones, that the money in your pocket will buy the daily bread or be refused as so much waste paper?”

“X” waited for no more. He recognized the young man as Malvin Stein, an agitator who had given up his position as heir to the Stein fortune in order to air his crack-brained schemes and epic visions from soap boxes. He was a feeble orator and, had it not been that his subject was of such vital importance, he would have probably lacked an audience. Yet the incident plainly showed the spread of the germs of discontent.

“X” stepped into a rolling taxi and gave the address of an apartment building where he sometimes made his headquarters. Looking back through the window, he saw a crippled, twisted form of a man pull from the crowd and hobble into a second taxi. “X” wondered if the pitiful wreck of humanity was following him. Beggers seldom rode in taxis.

The cab containing the cripple nosed determinedly after them. When “X” ordered the driver to stop a few blocks from this apartment, he saw that the second cab dropped back to the corner, obviously to permit the begger to alight. “X” walked on towards his apartment, certain that he heard the strange, shuffling steps of the cripple behind him. Once he turned his head and saw the grotesquely shaped man dragging himself along with a diagonal gait peculiar to a certain type of paralytic.

“X” entered the apartment building — a tall, stone-fronted old house that had been remodeled for its present use. He climbed the steps to the second floor and let himself in by means of a combination lock concealed beneath the mailbox flap.

HIS first act on turning on the light was to pull down the blinds. Then, through a small hole in the curtain, he looked down upon the street. Directly opposite the apartment building, he could see the cripple. The man was squatting on the sidewalk, holding a tray of lead pencils which he offered to every passer-by.

Secret Agent “X” had previously-devised a piece of apparatus for just such an emergency. He went to a closet, unlocked it, and dragged out a strange sort of motion picture projector. It was mounted on a steel frame and in place of the usual film spools there were two flanged pulleys mounted on two arms that extended from a few inches from the floor nearly to the ceiling. Over these pulleys ran a belt of motion picture film.

He focused the projector lens directly upon the drawn blind of the front window. An electric switch on an extension cord enabled him to snap out the light of the room at exactly the same time that he turned on the projector. The illusion was perfect. The projector cast the silhouette of a man sitting in a chair directly upon the blind. From the outside it must havs appeared that “X” had suddenly seated himself in a chair and begun reading. As the belt of film turned, the silhouette made lifelike movements — turning the pages of a book and puffing on a pipe.

Then, taking care not to step in front of the beam from the projector, “X” walked into another room. There, he opened a small writing desk and produced a folded sheet of paper which he read over quickly. It was an invitation directed to Elisha Pond from Abel Corin, the wealthy bank director. It read:

“X” returned the note to the desk and entered a small room at the back of the apartment. There he kept elaborate material for make-up as well as an extensive wardrobe. Seating himself before a three-sided mirror, he effected a miraculous change in his appearance. When he rose from the mirror he had become the wealthy, eccentric, and mild-faced man who was known throughout the city as Elisha Pond.

OPENING a window in the same room, “X” swung over the sill, hand-traveled along the ledge until he could grasp the metal downspout leading from the eaves to the alley below. He was in the act of sliding down the pipe, when a window directly opposite opened. A shrill, feminine voice screamed:

“A burglar! Help! P’lice!”

“X” hastened his descent, sliding as rapidly as he dared without burning his hands. The woman was still screaming when he found footing on the alley pavement, “X,” sprinting towards the end of the alley, was forced to leap to one side to avoid running headlong into a policeman. The cop yanked at his gun.

“X” drove a smashing, paralyzing blow to the cop’s gun arm. The pistol bounded to the pavement. The cop swung his nightstick over the Secret Agent’s head. But “X” ducked out of the way, and led his right to the policeman’s jaw. The cop was set back on his heels by the force of the blow. “X” took the advantage thus gained to duck around the corner and run up the street.

A police whistle shrilled. The answering signal came from a policeman near at hand. The sound of running feet coming towards him through the darkness halted “X.” He drew himself up to the full dignity that fitted his portrayal of Elisha Pond; for Pond, although an eccentric, would certainly not be suspected of climbing down spouts and tussling with policemen.

The copper accosted “X,” turned a flashlight in his face, but paused only long enough to apologize to Mr. Pond. Then he hurried up the alley to join his fellow policeman.

“X” hastened to a neighboring garage where he kept one of his cars. He backed it out, nosed into the street, and speeded downtown.

A short time later. Secret Agent “X” entered the gleaming, silvery doors of the Falmouth Tower. An elevator whisked him to the sumptuous offices where Abel Corin directed major cogs in the machine of finance. In an outer office he was met by a strikingly beautiful brunette. Her scarlet lips, and warm, dark eyes flashed him a smile of welcome. “X” stood in the doorway, fussing with a small, leather case.

“Eh — young lady, if you will just take my card to Mr. Corin, I — er—”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Pond,” said the woman. “Mr. Corin is expecting you. The meeting is already in progress. Please step this way.” And she led “X” through a lavishly appointed lounge and towards Mr. Corin’s private office.

Though he had never seen the woman before, “X” supposed her to be Alice Neves whose name had been closely linked with that of Abel Corin. She had acted as his secretary for some time, and it was rumored that the announcement of her engagement to Corin was to be expected. Miss Neves opened the door of the inner office and then followed “X” in.

The Secret Agent glanced about the room and saw several men with whom he had come in contact in the role of Elisha Pond. Abel Corin, of course, was there, as well as Police Commissioner Foster. Suddenly the heart of Secret Agent “X” gave a bound. For seated demurely away from the circle of anxious-faced men, was Betty Dale, her reporters’ notebook in hand.

Never had she looked more charming. The arrangement of her golden hair seemed to lend new enchantment to her bright blue eyes. Her slim, lovely figure was attired so as to achieve that rare combination of practicality and smartness. She smiled pleasantly upon Elisha Pond, little knowing that beneath this disguise was the man whom she regarded with respect and admiration — even love, had she permitted herself to admit it.

Gray-haired Mr. Corin advanced, shook hands with Agent “X,” and led him across the floor that was uniquely ornamented with colored tiles representing the playing pieces of a chess game. A short, heavy-set man whose broad face approached the flaming color of his hair was introduced to “X” as Sven Gerlak, Milwaukee’s famed “Gang-buster.”

COMMISSIONER FOSTER called the meeting to order. He plainly stated the condition within the city, then presented Sven Gerlak. The energetic, red-haired little man propped one foot upon a swivel chair and addressed his audience emphatically.

“A grave problem indeed!” he began abruptly, pounding the top of a desk with his big fist. “Frankly, I am at a loss to know just where to begin. The underworld, in which my secret operatives are at work, is strangely inactive, or if not inactive, it is hiding its work so well that no information can be gained. Of one thing we are sure: the leader of the Seven Silent Men terrifies his hirelings into absolute secrecy. That, I think is evident.

“But there is one man, to my knowledge, who could give us immediate assistance.” Gerlak paused, removing great horn-rimmed glasses and polishing them upon his tie. “That man,” he suddenly exploded, “is that mysterious person known as Secret Agent ‘X’!”

This announcement created a fervor in the audience. Agent “X,” in the voice that was always associated with elderly Mr. Pond, spoke up. “But, my dear sir, Secret Agent ‘X’ is thought to be a criminal!”

“Precisely!” exclaimed Gerlak, fixing Elisha Pond with eyes that were greatly magnified by the lenses of his glasses. “But he is a most clever criminal. There is an old adage — something about it taking a thief to catch a thief. Why, so clever is Secret Agent ‘X’ that he might be in this room at this very moment!”

“Has it occurred to you,” said Abel Corin, as he reflectively gazed at the wisp of smoke from the tip of his cigar, “that this man who calls himself ‘X’ might be at the bottom of this business?”

“X” glanced at Betty Dale. The girl reporter had turned a little pale. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. He knew that Betty would have liked to speak a word in defense of the Secret Agent.

Gerlak shook his head in answer to Corin’s question. “Criminal, Mr. ‘X’ may be, but he is not a member of the Seven. You must admit that there are no police records charging Agent ‘X’ with murder. The Seven gang has no scruples about blood-letting.”

Commissioner Foster had to admit that the records concerning Secret Agent “X” were very few in number. “The man has been too clever,” he concluded.

The meeting was suddenly interrupted by an impatient knock at the door of the office. Alice Neves answered the knocking, and the door had scarcely been unlocked before a detective sergeant burst into the room. Commissioner Foster’s reprimanding glance melted with the explosion of words from the plainclothes man.

“We’ve picked up one of the Seven gang, sir. I knew you’d want to know—”

“Where, man?” cried Foster, springing to his feet.

“Right outside the building here. He was thrown from a passing car — dead! But you can tell by his face. It’s exactly like the face of the man who held up the Suburban National. But there’s something else—”

“Speak up, man!” Sven Gerlak prompted.

“Well, sir,” murmured the detective, “this sounds nuts, I know. But to look at his face — well, it just isn’t like a human’s face at all, and yet—”

“Imagination! Sheer lunacy!” sputtered Gerlak. He sprang for the door of the office. The meeting was abruptly terminated. All crowded out of the office at Gerlak’s heels. And among the others, displaying remarkable vigor for a man of his years, was Elisha Pond.

Chapter IX

POLICE had hastily formed a cordon about a sprawling thing on the sidewalk in front of the Falmouth Tower. Following through the opening in the ring of police made by Commissioner Foster, Agent “X,” Betty Dale, and Sven Gerlak came within a few feet of the corpse. Though her life as a newspaper woman had to some extent hardened Betty Dale to the sight of sudden and violent death, the sight of the face of the man on the sidewalk made her gasp.

It was, indeed, as the detective-sergeant had said, an inhuman sort of a face — the doll-like, leering visage of one of the Silent Men. The corpse was clad in a dark-brown suit, but there was no diamond insignia upon his coat lapel.

With a movement of catlike swiftness, Sven Gerlak knelt beside the body. “This is obviously the work of Secret Agent ‘X,’ Commissioner. The body was thrown from a passing car. ‘X’ has taken up the fight against the Seven Silent Men!”

“That’s jumping at conclusions, Gerlak,” said Foster dryly.

“This face, you see,” said Gerlak, pointing at the grinning face of the corpse, “is merely a mask of something similar to wax.” And before Foster could raise his voice to check the impulsive Gerlak, the private detective had given the waxen mask a quick tap with the butt of his automatic. The mask cracked from forehead to chin and fell apart in two jagged-edged pieces.

A scream from one of the onlookers; hoarse exclamations from the police; an oath from Foster. “X” turned to Betty Dale. She was braving the sudden shock of the gruesome revelation with eyes averted and lower lip locked between her teeth. Color had drained from her face.

The true face beneath the waxen mask was a hellish contortion. Unseeing, pain-seared eyes stared from beneath beetling brows. A figure seven was burned in the flesh of the forehead. Chin and neck were covered with a beard of clotting gore. Jaws were strained open, and beyond the stained teeth was a hideous vacancy that screamed the revolting truth of the method of murder. The tongue had been torn out by the roots.

“Good Lord!” breathed Foster. “Good Lord! This isn’t a member of the gang. This — this poor devil is Detective Fletcher of the homicide squad!”

Gerlak’s dynamic energy was unchecked by the gruesome face of the corpse. His exploring fingers had yanked a slip of paper from the breast pocket of the corpse. He hastily opened the paper and read it to himself. Though he was several feet away, Agent “X” had no trouble in reading the large, clear handwriting.

“X” turned suddenly and seized Betty Dale’s arm. The girl’s blue eyes widened in surprise. “Young lady,” said “X” in the voice of Elisha Pond, “if you have any influence with your editor, do not permit him to dwell upon this incident in tomorrow’s paper. The people are already beginning to lose confidence in their police force. Any hint that the police are not capable of grappling with this evil may be the brand that fires many a mob into action. Such a thing as this note which Gerlak has, has been sent for the sole purpose of goading the people to action. Do you understand?”

And without waiting for an answer, Elisha Pond, who was expected to make abrupt movements, elbowed his way through the crowd and disappeared.

SECRET AGENT “X” drove his car to a sedate old office building. There he maintained a hideout which was of great importance to him because of its location near the very center of the business world. He enacted a marvelous change, assuming one of his stock disguises — a red-haired, freckled reporter. Then he called the Herald office and asked for Betty Dale.

He knew that she would be at her desk turning out her story of the meeting in Corin’s office and the grisly manner in which it had been terminated. When he heard Betty’s pleasant but businesslike voice over the phone, he said: “Wouldn’t you like to meet a gentleman of the press in about twenty minutes?”

“Who is speaking?” asked Betty, a note of cold restraint in her voice.

One of those brief, infrequent flashes of merriment appeared in Agent “X’s” eyes. He puckered his lips and uttered a peculiar, vibrant whistle.

Betty gasped in surprise. “You! Why, of course, I’ll meet you. Where?”

“At your apartment, please. And just as soon as you can possibly make it.”

“Leaving right away,” replied the girl.

“X” forked the receiver, and left the office. He drove as swiftly as traffic would permit to the modern apartment building where Betty Dale lived. Alighting from the elevator, some time later, he proceeded at once to her door. His knock was unanswered. She had evidently not yet returned from the news office.

Though special master keys would have permitted him to enter the girl’s apartment, he refrained from doing so rather than run the slightest risk of jeopardizing Betty’s reputation. He waited in the hall until he heard her brisk step. She took no notice of the freckled-faced man who was standing watching her. As she was unlocking the door, “X” stepped up to her and touched her arm. She was startled. Her eyes searched his face, waiting for him to speak.

“I’m Mr. Harris,” The Secret Agent whispered. Then he quickly drew an “X” on the panel of the door with his finger.

“Why, Mr. Harris!” Betty smiled, falling into the little act which was obviously for the benefit of any prying eyes. For since “X” had returned from the Seven gang’s headquarters, he believed that Betty Dale would be watched as carefully as the man whom the gang believed to be Pete Tolman. “Just come in, please,” Betty invited. “I’m sure we can iron out that little difficulty concerning that story in yesterday’s paper.”

On closing the door, Betty turned around, leaned against the panel, and looked earnestly into his face, or rather the face of the reporter called Harris. Neither Betty nor anyone else had ever seen the true face of Secret Agent “X.”

“Something is troubling you,” she said decidedly. “A master of disguise though you may be, I can read that much in your eyes.”

“X” SMILED. “It has been my great misfortune never to see you unless there is something of the gravest importance to worry about. Betty, I have now partially succeeded in establishing myself as a member of the gang known as the Seven Silent Men. Will you help me when I tell you that you will be put to the most severe trial of your life?”

Unhesitatingly she nodded her head, “I’m not very capable; not very brave, either,” she replied. “But I will do my best for — for your sake.” Her eyes dropped. Her face flushed a little.

“For our country’s sake, primarily,” the Agent corrected her gently. “I must explain to you that every member of the Seven Silent Men is compelled to commit murder. In this manner his lips are sealed against squealing on his fellow members. In my case, the leader of the gang insists that I kill some one who is very dear to me. Of course, since he does not know who I am, he does not know this. Naturally, I must pretend to murder this person, and I must coach you in the part you are to play in order to carry off this deception.”

“You mean — you mean that I am the one?” Her cheeks flushed a deeper hue.

“Yes, you are the one.”

For a moment, Betty was unable to speak, for the pounding of her heart warned her that if she opened her lips she would cry out: “I’m glad! I’m glad!” For though she had often guessed that this mysterious man held her in high regard, he had never openly stated that she was dear to him. Yet she knew that the important work of Secret Agent “X” must not be hindered by any emotion. When she was certain that she had complete control of herself, she asked: “What am I to do?”

“In a very few hours,” he explained, “you will be confronted by a band of assassins. I will be among them. Rest assured that no hands but mine shall touch you. You will pretend to be terrified. I will pretend to stab you. You must feign death. It will be difficult, I know, but we dare not fail. According to present plans, you will be taken to the river front and thrown into the water. I would not ask you to do this if I did not know that you are an excellent swimmer. Upon striking the water, you must swim beneath the surface as far out from shore as possible. As soon as you break the surface, there will be a boat not far distant waiting to pick you up. I will make all arrangements. Are you game?”

“You know I am. It doesn’t sound so very hard. But just how do you pretend to stab me?”

“We must prepare for that at once.” And Secret Agent “X” took a flat leather case of make-up materials from the inner pocket of his coat. He opened it and took out a flat, rubber bladder that he had brought from his hideout. “This,” he explained to Betty, “contains an aniline dye of such color and consistency as to deceive the average person into thinking that it is blood. Though the little sack contains just a small amount of the liquid dye, I hope that it will be sufficient for our deception.”

Agent “X” then told Betty to sit down. With a strip of light adhesive tape, he fastened the rubber sack to her throat. Then he covered the sack with plastic volatile material, modeling like a sculptor in clay until he achieved the desired effect. Carefully tinted with pigments, the make-up material concealed the small bladder perfectly. Next he placed a thin metal plate over Betty’s forehead. This was similarly covered and tinted. Thus the white skin beneath was protected from the acid with which the Seven Silent Men were accustomed to brand their victims.

“Now,” said the Agent as he repacked his make-up kit, “you must not be afraid of anything, but you must act afraid. Remember that when the gang members come, I will be there, too.”

Secret Agent “X” pressed Betty’s hand warmly, reassuringly, and left the apartment.

Chapter X

IT was ten minutes later that Secret Agent “X” drove his car in front of the apartment building where the crippled pencil vender still watched. He noted, to his satisfaction, the silhouette thrown on the blind of his front window. Certainly it had served its purpose in fooling the crippled spy of the Silent Men. He promptly returned his car to its garage and hurried up the alley behind the apartment. This time, there were no curious watchers to call upon the police when Agent “X” scaled the downspout and returned through the rear window of his apartment.

His first act in entering was to change his make-up back to the Pete Tolman disguise. To this outfit he added the red wig and mustache that the Seven gang had furnished him. This done, he went into a small dining room and approached what appeared to be a sideboard. Actually, the cabinet concealed special radio receiving and transmitting equipment.

He drew a chair up before the instrument, sat down, and made several minor adjustments in the transmitting set. Then, using a telegraph key, he sent out spark transmission to a man by the name of Bates who maintained a large group of men and women employed by “X” for the purpose of obtaining information for him. Bates knew his employer only by the sound of his voice and by the special code he used in telegraphic messages.

When he heard the answering call which assured him that he had succeeded in contacting Bates, “X” tapped out complete instructions. Bates was to put every available man to patrolling the river front in small boats for the purpose of picking up Betty Dale after the murder hoax had been carried out and she had been thrown into the water.

“X” heard a vigorous knock at the door. He closed the radio cabinet, hurried into the front room, and turned off the motion picture projector. He then shoved the projector and all its accessories back into the closet and returned to answer the door.

“Telegram for you, sir,” said a khaki-clad messenger as he shoved his way into the room. The messenger drove his hand into the pocket of his breeches. In the act of locating the telegram, a pair of ivory dice dropped from the messenger’s pocket. The eyes of Secret Agent “X” followed the dice as they fell to the floor.

HE knew that it was not mere coincidence that the dice landed with the five and two uppermost. Agent “X” remembered the dice that the leader of the Seven had given him. He took them from his pocket and dropped them on the floor beside the other pair. They, too, rolled so that the sum of their exposed surfaces totaled seven. His shrewd eyes drilled the messenger.

The man in khaki nodded, handed a telegraph slip to “X.” Upon its surface was scribbled:

“X” winked knowingly at the messenger, pressed a fifty-cent piece into the man’s hand, and opened the door for him to depart.

Secret Agent “X” required a few minutes to collect the equipment that he thought might be useful. True to his character as Pete Tolman, “X” had to carry a small dagger. Tolman preferred the knife to any other form of weapon. Then there was his own gas gun as well as small vials of drugs which he had found most useful in his battle against crime. The latter were contained in a small, velvet-lined leather case together with hypodermic needles for their injection.

Leaving the apartment building, he walked slowly towards the corner. Down the street, a car glided smoothly from the curb and cruised towards “X”. A searchlight attached to the car’s windshield was turned directly upon “X’s” face as the car approached. At the corner, it drew up. One of the two men in the back seat lighted a cigarette. In the yellow flame, “X” made out the inhuman, waxen features of the mask which characterized a member of the gang. He walked to the car and without a word stepped inside.

Immediately, the driver shifted gears and accelerated to the center of the street.

“You are punctual, Pete Tolman,” said a soft, curiously intonated voice of the man at Secret Agent “X’s” side. “Might I inquire how a man so suddenly released from prison, has managed to engage an apartment so quickly? As you may have guessed, you were followed from our headquarters.”

“That’s easy,” explained the Agent. “I leased that apartment for a girl friend of mine just a few days before the bulls picked me up. I had it paid for a long way in advance. When I goes up there tonight, whatcha think? The skirt has walked out on me! But you never catch me tearin’ my hair over no dame!”

THE man seemed satisfied for he dropped the subject at once. “There has been some slight alteration in the plans of Number One. The river front swarms with police looking for the body of Lewey, the Smoke, who made his exit at the same time that Detective Fletcher did. It will be necessary to kill Miss Dale at the place where our spies say that she may be found — at her apartment.” At this announcement, “X” went cold.

“You are capable of killing without making a sound, Tolman?” asked the other man — a man whose voice “X” instantly recognized as belonging to that member of the gang whom the leader had referred to as Number Four.

“Sure,” the Agent replied instantly. “They don’t talk before nor after. A Chink in Frisco taught me a trick or two with the knife. No noise and not much blood, see? I use a toad sticker, give ’em just a little prick, and that’s that. Some sort of poison smeared on the blade does the trick.”

“Aconite?” questioned Number Four.

“Aco-what? Oh, I gets it. You mean the name of the poison. Cripes, I dunno! Some Chink stuff. It’s sure death no matter what’s its monicker.”

As a matter of fact, there would be no poison on the knife. Agent “X’s” hands were busily at work in the dark of the car. Through slits in his overcoat pocket, he had reached the little leather-covered case containing various drugs. Different shaped caps on every bottle told him which one to select. As the car sped along, “X” filled a hypodermic needle with a powerful sedative which injected into Betty would immediately depress her heart to such an extent that pulse would be detectable only by an expert. But the one danger was — she was totally unprepared for it. This, however, “X” had to risk.

Suddenly, Number Four said to his companion: “Number Three, you are to hand Tolman one of our masks which designate the members of the Seven group. Such were the orders of Number One. He is to wear it when engaged in this job.”

The soft-spoken man addressed as Number Three, handed the mask to “X”. He put it on at once. Number Three and Number Four held a brief conversation in whispers. Suddenly, “X” felt a sharp, fiery sting in his left arm. A long needle had entered his flesh. Its cargo of dope was pumped into his blood stream. “X” cried out sharply: “Say, what is this?”

“Just a little something to make you relish the job,” replied Number Three. “You will probably not recognize the symptoms of the drug as it spreads over your body. But if you had no appetite for killing before, you will have one now!”

Flame seemed to consume “X”. He writhed with the agony of it, yet with the pain was a strange, exhilarating sensation. Muscles tightened. Fists clenched. An inexplicable voice in his mind screamed: “Kill…. Kill…. Kill!”

Then something snapped within his brain. He was plunged into a mental battle such as he had never before experienced. His knowledge of narcotics served him well. He knew the dread, fiery substance that was seeping through his body. He understood, too, the frantic desire to kill. The narcotic which had been injected in him was some preparation of hashish. What was more, he knew that the effects of the drug were augmented by hypnotic suggestion that at that very moment battled to enslave his mind.

The soft-spoken man at his side immediately became as noxious as a serpent. “X” understood the honey in his voice. For the man at his side was an expert of hypnotic suggestion.

Agent “X” feverishly marshaled his superb mental control to prevent himself from falling beneath the insidious charm of the dreaded assassin’s drug. A cold chill trickled along his spine. For if he permitted both the drug and the hypnotic suggestion to take effect, he would have the desire to kill, would take the keenest pleasure in plunging his knife into the lovely body of Betty Dale.

Chapter XI

IT was close to midnight when the car stopped at the rear entrance of the apartment where Betty Dale lived.

“Number One thinks of everything,” the soft-voiced man explained. “That the custodian should be dead drunk tonight is not a coincidence.”

They got out of the car and one of the men unlocked the door with a key that had probably been obtained from the drunken janitor. The hall was deserted, and they had no difficulty in entering the automatic elevator, and mounting to the third floor.

In front of Betty’s door, the trio stopped. The man who was known as Number Three listened a moment at the door. “There’s a typewriter going inside. The noise of it will mask the sound of our entrance.” He fitted another key into the lock, twisted it slowly, and flung open the door. An automatic sprouted from the fist of Number Three.

Agent “X,” bathed in cold sweat, weakened by the terrific mental battle he was still waging, went unsteadily into the room.

Betty Dale sprang up from her desk. Her face blanched. She smothered a scream with the back of her hand, and retreated slowly step by step as the three sinister figures approached. “X’s” iron will alone forced him to spring ahead of his companions. He was like a wolf eager for the kill. With the two gang members at his back, he brandished his drawn knife in such a manner as to draw a letter “X” in the air.

The glimmer of recognition in Betty’s eyes would have been noticeable to only Secret Agent “X.” His long left arm flung out, strong fingers seizing her shoulder, dragging her to him, smothering her scream against his chest. Betty kicked mercilessly at his ankles, pounded his back with small fists.

The knife in the Secret Agent’s hand darted upwards. The terror at that instant in Betty Dale’s eyes was involuntary. Yet it cut Agent “X” to the quick, unnerved him so that he dropped the knife as soon as the deed was done. The blood-colored dye, gushing apparently from the soft flesh of her throat, was almost too realistic. Still he held her tightly, teeth grimly clenched over his lips lest he open his mouth and cry out a word of encouragement.

Her struggle had abated somewhat. She was playing her part like a veteran actress. “X” snapped a look over his shoulder. The two waxen-faced witnesses were standing back near the door. They could not possibly have detected “X’s” movement as he drew out the small hypodermic needle which he had prepared. He thrust the fine, sharp point deeply into her shoulder. He pressed the plunger to the limit. This was something that he had not prepared Betty for. Doubt and pain of the needle-thrust battled in her eyes as they raised appealingly to meet his face — a face that was as hideous and inhuman as those of his companions.

That appeal was more than Agent “X” could resist. Beneath the mask, his lips parted. “Courage,” he whispered, his voice sounding alarmingly loud behind the hollow of his mask. But it was doubtful if Betty could have heard it even so. The powerful sedative had already taken effect. Her eyes, still open, were glazed. Terror had frozen there as unconsciousness had crept upon her. Her body became limp in his grasp.

He let her fall as gently as possible and still retain a semblance of callousness in the action. She lay on the carpet, a pitiful, huddled form, throat darkly stained in contrast to her pale face. So realistic was the picture, that “X” went cold with horror. He feverishly wondered if he had won the battle with the insidious hashish.

“X” stooped, picked up his knife, and wiped its edge on his handkerchief. With the swaggering air that was characteristic of Pete Tolman, he turned to the silent figures at the door. “That job’s done. Neat, too, if I do say so myself.”

THE men in the doorway bobbed their heads. Then Number Three advanced to where Betty lay. He gave her body a push with his foot. Wrath that was almost beyond control boiled within Secret Agent “X”. Yet he swallowed it and watched with bated breath as the man knelt beside the girl and seized her wrist in his long fingers.

“A good job, Tolman,” he commended. “No pulse. Sometime I would like to make an analysis of the poison you use. It would be an interesting study.”

Number Three then took from his pocket something that appeared to be a fountain pen. When he had unscrewed the cap and “X” had a chance to observe the special non-metallic nib, the Secret Agent quickly guessed that this was the instrument used for branding the gang’s victims with acid.

“Hey, wait a second,” the Agent interrupted. “This is my job, and I’ll put all the finishin’ on it. Let me do that.”

Number Three turned. At the back of the eye cavities of his mask there was a suspicious gleam. “Do what?” he asked softly.

“Why, mark the dame with the good old Seven trade-mark. Ain’t that what you’re goin’ to do?”

Number Three stood up. “You have been in prison for quite a time now. Just how did you know about that?”

“X” knew that in his eagerness to prevent Betty Dale’s lovely face from being forever marred by an acid burn in case Number Three’s pen should slip beyond the boundaries of the plastic material which “X” hoped would protect her, he had made a false step. “Why,” he explained glibly, “didn’t I read the papers tonight while waitin’ for you fellows to give me the high-sign? There’s nothin’ much in them except about the Seven Silent Men.”

Number Three shrugged. “If you want to do it, I can see no objection. It is of the greatest importance in this case. Secret Agent ‘X’ must not have the slightest doubt but what this is our work. Only then can we be certain that he has turned his attention to the Seven. Number One hopes that his rage at the assassination of this girl will lead him to fight in the open. Go ahead.” He handed the acid pen over to “X” and withdrew towards the door.

“X” knelt beside the still, silent form of Betty Dale. The powerful sedative had simulated death so effectively that the sight unnerved him. “Just what kind of a figure seven do you want?” he asked to hide his hesitancy.

No answer. “X” glanced over his shoulder. Then he stood up slowly, turning towards the door. His two companions had disappeared. He stepped quickly to the door, pulled it open, and looked out into the hall. They were nowhere in sight. This was an unlooked for opportunity. He would have a chance to revive Betty, perhaps. Still, he was extremely puzzled at the actions of the two gang members. Had they discovered that he was an impostor? Surely in such a case they would not have deserted him. It would have been to their advantage to kill him on the spot, silencing him forever.

Still baffled by their untimely retreat, he was about to return to Betty, when his sensitive nostrils caught a vague, pleasant odor — the faintest hint of feminine perfume. He stepped farther along the hall only to learn that the strength of the perfume increased. Perhaps some one who occupied a neighboring apartment had passed along the hall. But surely that would not have occasioned the hasty retreat of the two masked men.

“X” returned to where Betty lay. He drew from his pocket the small case in which he carried his narcotics. He selected the vial containing an antidote for the drug which he had injected. He was in the act of loading the needle when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He paused, held his breath. If the two gang members returned at this critical moment—

HE ran silently across the room, shoved back the blind that covered the front window, and looked out upon the street. Two black cars were drawn up in front of the building. In the light that emanated from the door of the building, he could see that they were cars belonging to the police. Shadowy figures could be seen moving along the sidewalk. The place was rapidly being surrounded.

“X” sprang to the door and twisted the key in the lock. Then back to the unconscious Betty. With haste that did not sacrifice care, he made the injection of the antidote in Betty’s arm. Then, to hasten her revival, he followed it with a small dose of adrenalin, which he was in the habit of carrying at all times.

Almost at once, the bloom of life returned to Betty’s face. Her eyes met his face and stared bewilderedly. “X” uttered his characteristic whistle very softly. Her lips curved in a tired smile.

“X” lifted Betty to her feet. “We’ve got to hide,” he said. “Something’s wrong. This place will be alive with police in a few seconds. Is there anyone in the building whom you can trust implicitly?”

“Trust?” she murmured. Evidently the effects of the drug had not completely worn off. “X” seized her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. “You’ve got to help me,” he said earnestly. “Surely you’ve some neighbor who will permit you to remain in hiding until this thing’s over. Don’t you see? Some one has informed upon the Seven gang — told the police that they had come here to do murder. If it gets out that you are alive, the gang will know that I am an impostor.”

Betty nodded understandingly. “On the next floor, there’s a young woman who works as a buyer for one of the stores. She’s away nearly all the time. I have the key to her apartment so that I can keep an eye on things. She wouldn’t mind—”

“Quickly, then. Get the key!”

Betty turned into her bedroom, and “X” stepped to the door. He pressed his ear to the panel and detected a movement in the hall outside. He drew his gas gun from a hidden inner pocket. With extreme care, he turned the key and eased the door open a crack. By the light of the hall lamp, he saw a slender, smartly dressed blonde woman pacing nervously up and down and muttering something about: “Why don’t they hurry! Oh, why don’t they hurry!”

“X” pushed the door wide and stepped into the hall. He took a step nearer the blond woman and thrust his gun forward. Then he coughed slightly. The woman turned quickly, the long skirt of her evening gown swirling. At the sight of the immobile, grinning mask that “X” wore, her mouth opened to scream. Instantly the gas gun in Secret Agent “X’s” hand hissed like a snake. The woman’s scream was suddenly choked by the powerful gas. Her body stiffened and she fell full length on the floor.

But the sound of her fall was enough to hasten the police. Feet were pounding on the stair. The cold, piercing scream of a police whistle sounded. “X” turned. Betty Dale had just come through the door. The key to her friend’s apartment was in her hand. The sight of the blond woman stretched out on the floor stopped her.

She would have asked some question had not “X” pressed a warning finger to her lips. Seizing her by the arm, he hurried her across the hall to the elevator. Fortunately, the car was still at the third floor. “X” pushed Betty inside, followed her, and pressed the button.

The elevator mounted, stopping smoothly at the next floor. Together, Agent “X” and Betty hurried across the hall. “X” took the key from Betty’s nerveless fingers and unlocked the door. Inside, he turned on the light, closed the door, and made a hasty inspection of the apartment. Satisfied that it was empty, he returned to the girl.

“Keep in hiding until you hear from me,” he cautioned her.

“But you — you haven’t a chance of getting out of here! The place must be surrounded—”

“Don’t worry,” he interrupted her cheerfully. He stepped back into the hall and closed the door behind him. On the floor below he could hear the police. They had probably entered Betty’s apartment.

Below stairs came a sharp command. “Search the next floor. We’ve got them cold. They’d have to have wings to get out of here.”

“X” sprang into the elevator, slammed the door, and pressed the button for ascending. The car did not move. He pressed again and again. He tried the other buttons on the control panel. The police, he knew, foreseeing that the elevator might be used as a means of escape, had cut the power probably not more than a few seconds after he and Betty had entered the apartment of the department store buyer.

Through the frosted glass window of the elevator door, “X” could see the shadowy forms of men walking around in the hall. He was caught as nicely as a rat in a trap.

Chapter XII

TO stand there helpless in the elevator waiting for the police to find him was an absurdity. “X” knew those efficient, painstaking men from headquarters. He knew they would leave no stone unturned in their search. Furthermore, “X” feared that their search would lead them to the apartment where Betty Dale was hiding. Because the Seven gang must think that Betty had been killed, he knew that it would never do for the police to find her unharmed. There was but one way to prevent the police from looking farther. He must show himself, using the waxen mask he wore as a means of decoying the police from Betty’s hiding place. “X” slid the door of the elevator open a crack. Five plainclothes men were standing in the hall questioning a pajama-clad man.

“There’s a woman downstairs who’s been knocked out cold,” a detective sergeant by the name of Mallon was saying. “X” knew that Mallon referred to the blonde woman who had taken a lung-full of the charge from his gas gun. “Did you hear anything?” the sergeant went on, addressing the man in pajamas.

The man shook his head. “I was asleep.”

“Riley,” Mallon rapped, “you and Jennings block off the fire-escape. Jones, Henniger, and I will finish up on this floor.”

From the crack in the elevator door, “X” saw two of the detectives turn down the hall towards the fire-escape. Mallon and his two men crossed the hall to the door of the apartment where Betty was hiding. Agent “X” sent the elevator door slamming open. He sprang into the hall, gun in hand. At the sound of the opening of the elevator door, the police turned. But “X” fired first. His gas gun was effective at even a distance of twenty feet and there could be no doubt but what at least one of the detectives would succumb to the anesthetizing vapor.

Mallon received the very center of the gas discharge. The automatic in his hand blasted a hurried, ineffectual shot as he spilled forward on his face. One of the other detectives, staggering forward, hampered his companion. “X” gained the stairway. As he sprang up the steps, a detective got in two quick shots. One struck the iron banister of the stairway and buzzed off harmlessly. The other burned across the calf of the Secret Agent’s leg.

Gaining the top of the steps, “X” ran straight towards the fire-escape at the back of the hall. He felt certain that any police following him, would think that he had continued to the next floor.

Stepping out on the iron stairway, “X” looked down in the alley below. He could see the two detectives that had been sent to watch the fire-escape. They both looked up as “X” stepped out onto the escape. Imitating the voice of Sergeant Mallon, “X” shouted: “Hold your fire, Jennings. It’s Mallon. I’m coming down.”

“X” knew that the gloom of the alley would hide him for the time being and he depended upon his skill as a mimic to maintain the illusion that he was Detective Mallon. He ran down the steps, but as he came to the last flight, one of the police turned a flashlight full upon “X’s” face, or rather the waxen mask that covered it.

“That’s not Mallon!” shouted one of the men. “It’s one of the Seven gang!”

But as soon as the light struck his eyes, “X” vaulted over the iron railing of the escape. It was a twelve foot drop. “X” landed squarely on the back of the surprised detective. Together, they rolled over, the dick clawing at his gun with one hand and trying to ward off the blows that “X” was driving into his mid-section.

The other detective, afraid of hitting his companion, dared not fire a shot. He blasted his whistle and jumped into the fight. One man was on top of “X”. The Secret Agent got an arm free for a short, savage punch to the detective’s jaw. It was a terrific jolt, actually lifting the detective. “X” rolled to one side, picked himself up and at the same time drew his gas gun. He swung around to meet the second detective who was ready with his gun drawn. The crash of the cop’s pistol drowned out the spurt of “X’s” gas gun. But while the slug whined inches from the Secret Agent’s head, the charge of the gas found its mark.

“X” BROKE into a run, zig-zagging in and out of the shadows. Gun hail followed him. Lead flattened against the walls of buildings, ricocheted, snagged wooden telephone posts. Nothing stopped him. Nothing could stop him unless at the end of the alley he found the police waiting for him.

As he reached the corner, a moving car pulled up sharply. A powerful searchlight cleaved the darkness of the alley like a scimitar. It blinded “X”; it made him a perfect target for his pursuers. With the car blocking his exit from the alley and the police closing in on him from behind, escape was impossible. Suddenly, the searchlight was turned off. A harsh voice called:

“Get in here, Tolman! Do you want to get chopped down!”

Unmistakable, that voice. It belonged to the leader of the Seven gang. It was Number One himself.

Secret Agent “X” leaped for the open rear door of the car and had hardly landed before the motor picked up speed and the car leaped into the street. Bullets whanged against the steel sides of the car. But the car was as perfectly armored as the trucks which the gang used in delivering its counterfeit money.

Looking through the rear window of the car, “X” saw that an opaque cloud of smoke fumed from the exhaust pipe. The car was spreading a chemical smoke screen that would make pursuit impossible. Then “X”’ noted that another of the Silent Men shared the back seat with him. There were two more in the front — one of them was certainly the big boss himself.

Number One was driving, for he called over his shoulder, “Did you think we had deserted you, Tolman?”

“Right!” the Agent rapped in the nasal snarl of Pete Tolman. “And a lousy trick it was. Seems as if you’d take more care of a man who’s of so much value as I am!”

“Softly, now, Pete,” Number One soothed. “I was so anxious for your welfare that I myself chauffeured the car that brought you and the two other brothers to the apartment. Numbers Three and Four tell me you did a good job. It is unfortunate that a woman came so near to ruining your good work. Numbers Three and Four saw a very lovely blonde woman in the hall and nothing would do but what they must follow her!”

Number One was all scorn. “You see, that woman was the wife of Number Four, here. What is more, Number Four has the bad habit of drinking too much and babbling in his sleep. His wife overheard him talking about the plans for tonight’s little job. Because she is a mercenary woman, instead of going to the police with her information, she tried to blackmail her husband.

“Imagine! So she tipped off the police in an effort to frighten Number Four into giving her the money. What is more, she will hold on to her information, that her husband is a member of the Seven group, until she does squeeze the money out of him. Now, what would you do in a case like that, Tolman?”

“Me?” “X” laughed. “Why, I’d finish that! I’d give Number Four the works!”

Number One said softly, “No-no. He is far too valuable a man for that. It is the woman who is to get ‘the works’ as you put it. And his punishment for not catching her tonight and bringing her to me, is that he must kill her with his own hands. What do you say, Number Four?”

A groan escaped the man at “X’s” side. “I–I won’t do it,” he muttered fiercely.

“Oh, but you will!” Number One insisted. “See what you will gain. The object of your affection is quite another person than your wife. You will be glad to get rid of her, really.”

Number Four moodily murmured his assent. “True enough. But after all, to kill my own wife—”

“The alternative,” said Number One, “would be exquisite torture at the hands of the bishop. By tomorrow night, you will be perfectly willing to do as I bid you!”

Secret Agent “X” felt the man at his side shudder. He knew that already Number Four had resolved to kill his own wife rather than be a subject to the mysterious tortures of which Number One spoke.

“And,” Number One continued, “tonight by special messenger, your wife will receive the amount of money she demands for silence. Tomorrow, she will receive silence itself — eternal silence.”

The gang leader had stopped the smoke which had plumed from the car. The motor was idling now, the car barely moving. “X” saw that they were in a run-down section of the city.

“By the way, Tolman,” Number One asked, as the car pulled over to the curb, “did you manage to brand the forehead of the girl whom you just killed before the police intervened?”

“Sure, boss,” the Agent lied. “It was a good job. But say, are we gettin’ out of here?”

Number One laughed. “Wouldn’t you like to know!”

“X” suddenly felt a sharp stab of pain in his arm. He turned towards Number Four. The man was about to apply his hypodermic needle to yet another portion of the Secret Agent’s body. He knew that they were preparing him to go to the gang headquarters. Or had they discovered his deception? How did he know whether the needle had contained drug or deadly poison?

His senses were already dulling. He had presence of mind to look at his watch this time. It was nearly two A. M. Somewhere, seemingly far distant. Number One was speaking:

“And tomorrow, when Secret Agent ‘X’ reads in the papers that Betty Dale has been found murdered by the Seven—”

The sound faded. “X’s” sight dimmed. But his mind was drumming out the alarming thought, “You are trapped…. You are trapped.” For “X” knew that when the morning papers did not speak of the murder of Betty Dale, Number One would know that he had been tricked by Secret Agent “X”.

Chapter XIII

WHEN “X” regained full possession of his senses, he found himself in a small room, bare as a prison cell, and without doors or windows. It was lighted by a frosted electric fixture in the center of the ceiling. He stood up, patted himself all over to make sure that none of his special devices had been taken from him. Evidently, he was trusted by the leader of the gang and had not been searched.

He was about to inspect the room, hoping to ascertain the method of entrance, when a sliding panel opened to admit one of the Seven Silent Men. This man, dressed in the usual dark suit, and wearing the doll-like mask, was marked by a diamond badge fashioned in the form of a figure two.

“Howdy, Number Two,” said “X” genially. “I was just wonderin’ when somebody was goin’ to show up. This box would get on your nerves after a few hours.”

“Yeah. Well, there’s plenty in this house to drive you nuts,” replied Number Two, slurring his syllables in a manner that “X” associated with underworld characters.

“Say, you speak my language,” said Agent “X”. “You’re a top guy.”

“Well, in this outfit, Number One’s the top guy, and get that in your noggin. He sent me here to get you. You’ve got to put it down in writing.”

“You mean sign a confession in the chief’s record book?”

“You get ideas quick,” replied Number Two. “And from then on, Tolman, you’re in it up to your neck.”

“Wait a minute,” said “X” peevishly, “How come everybody in this joint knows me and I don’t know anybody except by their number? How come they haven’t even opened up as to where this shack is?”

“Don’t be so curious,” growled Number Two as he led “X” through the door. “You’ll get a number soon enough. As far as knowin’ where this dump is, you know as much about that as I do. Nobody but One, Three, Four, and Seven knows just where it is. Oh, The Bishop, he knows, but he’s screwy. Five guys out of a gang that’s got more members than you can count, ain’t many. I get drugged the same as you when I’m brought into headquarters. But we better get hikin’. Number One don’t care about being kept waiting.”

They were walking down a narrow corridor, arched and beamed after the ancient Gothic pattern. With the exception of the cell in which “X” had been held, the entire house seemed to be of incredible age. And it was as silent as a tomb. Not a murmur penetrated from the outside world.

“Who’s this Bishop?” asked the Agent. “This dump gets more like a church every time I get a squint at it. Now you tell me you’ve even got a Bishop!”

“Church!” an ugly laugh roared from Number Two. “Church of hell, maybe!” Then he added, as though he feared that he might have been overheard by some one who was easily offended: “Oh, they treat you right enough. Pay your money down in good hard cash. It’s pretty sweet. Better pay and no more risk than if you was on your own, runnin’—” Number Two checked himself. “The Bishop, now, you’ll know him when you meet him. He’d get kicked out of any church just on account of his looks!”

THEY had come to the end of the passage and a door swung open at a touch from Number Two. The room they entered was similar in appointments to the rest of the house. At an antique desk, sat Number One. Standing directly behind his chair was another of the Silent Men — Number Seven. Number Two also remained in the room.

The inscrutable eyes of Number One looked “X” up and down for a moment without speaking. Then he said: “Well, Tolman, how do you like it?”

“Not so hot,” the Agent replied promptly. “A lot of dope jabbed in you. You go croak some dame, and where does it get you?”

A low chuckle from Number One. His hand glided across the desk and opened a large drawer. The eyes of Secret Agent “X” followed that hand and saw that the drawer was packed with bills — new, crisp greenbacks of large and small denominations. “This is where it gets you, Tolman,” replied Number One. “Come here and help yourself.”

“X” hesitated. Either Number One and the Silent Seven were wealthy beyond even the dreams of Midas, or there was some sort of catch connected with it.

“What are you waiting for?” demanded Number One.

A scratchy laugh from the Agent. “Ah, you’re puttin’ somethin’ over on me! Ain’t those bills phony?”

“You should know, Tolman,” replied Number One. He dug both hands in the drawer and dipped out as much money as he could hold. He tossed bills carelessly across the desk. “X” advanced cautiously and picked up several bills. He looked at them carefully. Without doubt they were genuine. “Gosh, boss, t’anks!” And Agent “X” began cramming money into his pockets.

“Money, you see,” Number One exclaimed, “means nothing to me.” His powerful fingers closed crushingly on a wad of century notes. “Money in itself is worthless. It is what it will buy that is important — men, souls, power!” He stood up quickly. “Tolman,” he said, “you’ve proved yourself a man worthy of my organization. You have only to sign the confession that has been drawn up for you, and you are one of us. Follow me.”

Number One crossed the room and threw back scarlet portieres, revealing a small closet. In the closet was a writing desk of ancient design and upon it a large record book with an iron cover. The gang leader opened the book. As “X” approached, he noted that all of the page was blank with the exception of a small space at the bottom where the confession to the murder of Betty Dale had been drawn up. Agent “X” guessed that the other confessions had been written in invisible ink to prevent “X” from learning the identity of the other members of the gang. He supposed that his own confession would vanish in the same manner that the others had done.

With seemingly great deliberation, “X” read the confession to the murder of Betty Dale. Actually, his eyes were taking in the closet and its contents. He noted that set in the two walls at either end were two rows of bullseye lenses. Certainly Number One would have provided a means of guarding his book in case some member attempted to destroy it. The lenses along the walls led “X” to believe that some arrangement of the electric eye, the photo-electric cell, watched over the book day and night.

He delayed no longer, but picked up the pen on the desk, and signed the name “Pete Tolman” with a flourish.

NUMBER ONE nodded his approval. Then he reached into his pocket and brought out what appeared to be an ordinary penny. He handed it to “X” who examined it carefully.

“It is a convenient way that we leaders of the organization have of recognizing each other when outside the headquarters,” explained Number One. “You will observe that a number is punch-stamped on the face of the coin — the number six, in your case. This badge may be carried in the pocket without arousing suspicion. Naturally, we cannot wear these diamond-studded badges, such as I have on my lapel, out in the street.”

“I getcha,” said “X.”

“As I have no further use for you at present, you will be conducted from the headquarters. Your time is your own until tonight at eleven o’clock when you will appear in dinner clothes at the home of Mr. Lynn Falmouth.”

“Cheez, boss, do I have to put on a monkey suit?” asked “X” in apparent dismay.

“That is imperative. You would not be admitted otherwise. You will be there for the protection of another member of our group who has a job to perform. In case you’re needed, you will be called upon. There will be many people present — quite a number of our own organization as well as several of our hirelings. And I warn you to be on the lookout for Secret Agent “X.” If he has any suspicions as to the identity of any member of our group, this party may attract him.”

“Will you be at this blow-out, boss?” asked “X.”

Number One drew himself up proudly. “If I were to go to that party, not even Agent “X” himself would recognize me. You must not attempt to learn my true identity. Only two persons in the world know who I am!”

Number One returned to his desk and pressed a button. Evidently, the room was perfectly sound-proof, for “X” heard neither bell nor buzzer.

“Later,” Number One went on, “you may be called upon to obtain the plates for the printing of five and ten dollar bills which were hidden by Joseph Fronberg. At present, we have all the counterfeit money necessary for immediate needs. Rest assured that a few hours from now, this city will be mine — police and all officials will be under my thumb. Those who serve me well will be rewarded. For those who fail me, there is justice and execution as the law demands — or the Bishop!”

“X” noted that at the mention of the Bishop, Number Seven, who had been all the time standing behind the leader’s chair, shuddered slightly. Who was the Bishop that men trembled at the name?

But “X” was given no time to reflect on the identity of this mysterious being. The man who was designated as Number Four entered the office, and “X” knew that he would be doped with the strange drug that deadened his body while his brain remained alive. He had only time enough to look at his watch before the dreaded needle was thrust into his arm. It was seven o’clock, and he supposed it was morning.

Chapter XIV

WHEN Agent “X” again regained the use of his eyes, he found himself wandering aimlessly outside his own apartment. He looked dazedly up and down the street. There was no sign of the lame begger who had followed him on the previous occasion.

He entered the building and took an elevator to his own apartment. He wanted to think. His problem, instead of slowly unraveling, was becoming more tangled every hour. So far, he had been completely successful in only one thing — Number One had been entirely fooled by “X’s” impersonation of Pete Tolman. But that triumph, he knew, would not be long lasting.

He spent the rest of the day in ascertaining the extent of the deadly virus of discontent that the Seven gang had spread throughout the city. There had been numberless riot calls. Business had been tied up. Panic was impending in Wall Street. Nothing could be done to dam the flow of spurious currency, save close the doors of every bank and business house which distributed large quantities of money. The city was teeming with federal men, all busy in sorting real money from counterfeit. The populace was enraged. Nearly half the money in the working man’s pocket was found to be spurious.

Turning on his radio for a few minutes, “X” was surprised to hear a familiar voice coming from a local radio station. It was the voice of gray-haired Abel Corin:

“Calling Secret Agent ‘X,’ the People of New York calling Secret Agent ‘X.’”

With a puzzled frown on his face, Secret Agent “X” listened to every word that Corin uttered.

“Secret Agent ‘X’ if you are within the sound of my voice, know that my fiancée, Alice Neves, has been kidnaped by the Seven Silent Men. If you have a spark of human feeling about you, move heaven and earth to return her to me. This is much more than a personal appeal. I am speaking for thousands who are suffering at the hands of these ruthless criminals. Sven Gerlak, the noted detective, has advised me to call on you. He adds his appeal to mine. You can help us if you will!”

And there Corin’s message ended.

IT was eleven-forty when Secret Agent “X,” still in the guise of Pete Tolman, drove his car beneath the porte-cochère and crossed the veranda of the stately old Falmouth mansion. He had been careful to add the red wig and mustache that had been given him at the Seven headquarters.

For all he knew, the Seven headquarters might be located in the dark and lofty turrets of Falmouth House itself. In the lower stories of the house there was certainly nothing sinister. All was gayety, scintillating lights, rhythmic music. The dignity of the old walls was occasionally mocked by shrieks of drunken laughter. Even before Agent “X” entered the door he knew that glasses had clinked far too often.

A butler whose stiff attitude would have put a clothes-prop to shame, took the Secret Agent’s hat and coat.

“Good evening, Mr. Six,” the butler whispered.

“Cheez, you, too!” the Agent exclaimed. The butler put a warning finger to his lips. Lynn Falmouth was approaching, crossing the reception hall on somewhat unsteady legs. His too yellow hair was faultlessly brushed, his tie a knot of perfection. Nevertheless, “X” believed that unless his host slowed down on his liquor schedule, he would be unable to wish his guests good night.

An ugly scowl spread across Falmouth’s brow as he approached. He turned toward the butler.

“Nothing wrong, sir, I hope?” the butler asked with the deepest concern in his voice.

“This person—” Falmouth gestured indefinitely towards “X”—“I’ve never seen him before!”

“No, sir? But you invited him, Mr. Falmouth. This is Mr. Church, the author.”

Falmouth’s pale hand partially suppressed a drunken guffaw. He staggered over to “X” and pawed the latter’s shirt front. “Sho shorry, old man. Should have guessed by the fit of your clothes. Author’s privilege — wearing mussy clothes. Shtill can’t remember of meeting a Mr. Church, but whatever Lewish says tonight goes. Come on, old fellow.” And taking “X” by the arm, he led him into the next room where dance music swayed thirty couples across a polished floor.

Falmouth beckoned to a servant who was bearing a tray of tall, chill drinks. Falmouth offered Agent “X” a glass. “Have one with me,” he invited cordially.

Agent “X” accepted a glass. He had avoided speaking to his host because he had not been able to decide whether he should attempt to sustain the character of Church, the author, which had so suddenly been thrust upon him, or whether to retain the role of Pete Tolman. If Falmouth or anyone at the party happened to be a member of the Seven gang, then “X” dared not speak in any other manner than that of Pete Tolman.

He decided that Falmouth, at least, was too drunk to notice much difference. As he clinked glasses with Falmouth, he said, “Sure, t’anks,” in the nasal twang that was an exact imitation of Tolman’s voice. He thought for a moment that he detected a flash of suspicion in Falmouth’s cool blue eyes. Was Falmouth’s drunkenness merely clever acting? At any rate, he was very much relieved when Falmouth said, “I’ve got to leave now, old man. Musht see that everybody has a nishe time. But I’m putting you in good hands.” Falmouth’s liquor-cracked voice raised in a boisterous halloo: “Oh, Genevieve!”

A tall, strikingly beautiful blonde woman broke away from a circle of admirers and came smiling towards Falmouth.

“Genevieve—” Falmouth stumbled over the name—“want you to take care of Mr. What’s-his-name, here. Mister — mister, this is Genevieve — Genevieve—”

“Genevieve Leads,” prompted the blonde woman.

Secret Agent “X” muttered some sort of an acknowledgment. Actually, he had trouble speaking at all. For the tall blonde woman was the same whom he had seen in the hall outside Betty Dale’s apartment. It was she who had tipped off the police. It was she who had tried to blackmail her husband on information that he had inadvertently dropped concerning the Seven Silent Men.

“X” UNDERSTOOD now how the Seven gang obtained its powerful drugs. Milo Leads, this woman’s husband, was one of the greatest toxicologists in the country. It was Milo Leads who drugged the gang members before they were taken from the Seven headquarters. It was Leads who had engineered the escape of “X” from the deathhouse. Milo Leads was Number Four in the gang.

For a longer time than he realized, Agent “X” had stared at this amazingly beautiful Genevieve Leads. With a provocative smile on her lips, she suggested that they dance.

“Sure, er, Miss, er Genevieve,” the Agent stammered. He took the lovely creature in his arms, and dancing with the clumsy, familiar embrace that he thought best fitted his identity as Pete Tolman, he steered her towards the center of the floor.

Genevieve Leads was enduring him, nothing more, so well did Secret Agent “X” play his part. The farce continued for another chorus before “X” danced his partner towards French doors opening on a softly lighted conservatory.

“How’d ja like to sit the rest of this out with me, baby — I mean, lady?” he asked.

Determinedly, she disengaged herself from his arms. “I think not. I think Mr. Falmouth is looking for me—” Her voice tapered off evenly as her eyes compassed the dance floor in search of Lynn Falmouth.

Secret Agent “X” permitted his hand to slip down the length of her bare, white arm. His fingers locked tightly over her wrist. Mrs. Leads fixed him with a frigid look. “Please, Mr.—”

“Church is the name, but most everybody calls me Bill.”

“I don’t think I care,” replied Genevieve Leads. But her austere glance seemed to have no effect upon “X.” He drew her closer to him, holding her with his strange, magnetic eyes. “Chee, kid, you can’t give me the air like that!” He thrust his head forward in a pugnacious attitude so that his lips were only a few inches from her ear. His lips scarcely moved, but his whisper was clearly audible to the woman.

“Mrs. Leads, I must talk to you. You are in deadly danger!”

The abrupt change of his voice, the power of persuasion in his tone, seemed so utterly out of place with the underworld character whom he impersonated, that Genevieve was astonished. For a moment, she could not speak. Then:

“Did you say something, Mr. Church?”

A dancing couple swung near to where they were standing. “X” was surprised to see that the man was short, red-haired Sven Gerlak, the Milwaukee detective. Gerlak’s small eyes darted from “X” to Mrs. Leads. “X” raised his voice to imitate Tolman’s.

“Sure I said somethin’. You and me is goin’ out in this greenhouse.” And “X” jerked his head towards the conservatory. He fairly dragged Mrs. Leads through the door.

With his arm tightly locked through hers, Agent “X” swaggered through the room. Here flowers and ferns of varieties found in tropic countries blossomed and grew for the delight of Lynn Falmouth and his guests. “X” lighted a thick, black cigar and puffed out a huge mouthful of smoke. “Some dump, I’d say,” he commented.

“You like it?” Obviously, she understood that he was but making conversation for the benefit of a couple who occupied a small divan that had been placed in a shadowy corner.

“X” led Mrs. Leads to a similar divan at one end of the room. They sat down. His powerful fingers closed gently, impersonally upon the woman’s hand. His right arm went about her shoulders. It was his purpose to deceive anyone at the opposite end of the conservatory into thinking that he had engaged Genevieve Leads in amorous conversation.

“Mrs. Leads,” the Agent whispered in a deadly seriousness that his presuming smile did not betray, “you must leave this house at once. Take my advice and go at once to the nearest police station. Get in touch with Inspector Burks and tell him everything you know about your husband and the Seven Silent Men.”

A frown of perplexity crossed the woman’s forehead. “Who are you? A detective?”

“That is beside the point. If you remain here you will most certainly be killed — and by your husband’s own hands. He has his orders to kill you. He dare not disobey.”

MRS. LEADS uttered a laugh that was harsh and altogether out of tune with one so attractive. “My husband? Do you think he would dare lay hands on me in this house?”

“How do you know that you are not in the headquarters of the Seven gang right now? Do you know who the leader of the gang is?”

She was very serious, and “X” knew that she was speaking the truth when she said: “I do not. Certainly, the leader isn’t Milo Leads! He couldn’t be the head of anything except some rotten laboratory!” There was venom in her words, and Agent “X” guessed that her marriage to Milo Leads had been anything but a happy one. Leads was noted for his ability to get into scandalous difficulties with other women.

“You will heed my warning if I tell you that there is more than one member of the Seven gang here tonight?” Agent “X” urged. “Why even the butler is in their employ.” His voice suddenly mounted. His alert eyes had caught sight of a man moving behind the wall of ferns at the side of them. “Chee, baby, you’re a swell looker!” he said in the voice of Pete Tolman.

The man suddenly stepped out from behind the ferns. He was tall and undeniably handsome. Yet there was craft in his eyes that glittered darkly against his olive skin.

The dark man flashed a smile, bowed low, and addressed Mrs. Leads. “Ah, the charming Senora Leads!”

Mrs. Leads stood up quickly. As “X” glimpsed her smile, he knew that she was already captivated by the continental manner of the man.

“Count Camocho!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been all evening? You have not been hiding from me?”

“Si, senora. I have been hiding lest your beauty turn this poor brain of mine. Ah, but I could resist no longer.” The man who had been addressed as Count Camocho turned politely to the Agent. “I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting you.”

Mechanically, “X” took the hand of the Spaniard. The feel of those soft fingers sent a sensation of revulsion over “X.” For Camocho was a crook of international reputation.

“I am sorry to intrude, senor,” said the count, “but I believe Senora Leads has already promised this next dance to me.”

Dance? Would it be a dance of death? Was Camocho merely making an excuse to get Mrs. Leads away to some dark corner where Milo Leads, Silent Man Number Four, waited to kill her?

“X” placed himself directly between the woman and the count. He thrust out his jaw and seized Camocho roughly by the coat sleeve. “She don’t want to dance with you!” Agent “X’s” hand started towards the pocket where he kept his gas gun. If he could get Camocho out of the way, he would take Mrs. Leads from the house if he had to carry her.

“Don’t go for that gun, Pete Tolman, or I’ll drill you!”

THE command in a voice that was as soft and cold as snow came from directly behind “X.” He turned slowly to face Lynn Falmouth — Falmouth, whose every symptom of drunkenness had disappeared, whose chilly eyes narrowed over the bead of a revolver.

“X” took a step towards Falmouth. The latter’s gun jabbed threateningly forward. “I’m rather a good shot, Tolman,” said Falmouth. “And even if I miss you, Inspector Burks who has just entered the room will not.”

“Right, Mr. Falmouth!” came unmistakably in Burks’ voice.

“X’s” eyes compassed the room. As soundlessly as if they had been conjured from the shadows, plainclothes men entered the room. Each carried a gun. “X” was rimmed by deadly, steel eyes that were focused directly upon him. The inspector and his men could not know that they were actually assisting the Seven gang in their plot to kill Mrs. Leads. He could not tell them. For to the police, he was Pete Tolman, a killer many times over, who had escaped from the death-cell of the Louisiana penitentiary.

Inspector Burks stepped forward. He was carrying a pair of handcuffs. “Put out your hands, Tolman,” he ordered. “We’ll have to hold you in New York until the Louisiana authorities are notified. That red wig of yours and that mustache might have fooled a lot of people, but not Mr. Falmouth. He recognized you from your picture in the paper the minute he set eyes on you.”

Secret Agent “X” had no choice in the matter. He thrust out his hands to receive the cuffs. As they nipped Agent “X” and Inspector Burks together, Lynn Falmouth seemed to relax. He smiled his unpleasant, one-sided smile.

“You really couldn’t think I’d have let a person of your stamp enter this house unless I had recognized you and planned to trap you.” He turned to Genevieve Leads. “Sorry I had to impose this fellow’s company on you, Genevieve, but I thought if anyone could distract his attention while the police were getting here, you could. Count Camocho, Mrs. Leads looks a little tired. No doubt this has been something of a shock to her. If you will take her into the next room—”

“Si, Senor Falmouth. I shall be delighted.” And offering Mrs. Leads his arm in a courtly manner, Count Camocho led her from the room. “X” knew that she was walking to certain death, yet he was powerless to stop her. Had he told the police what he expected to happen, they would have laughed. For he was Pete Tolman, a clever killer who would try any trick to gain his freedom.

Chapter XV

SECRET AGENT “X” had been carefully searched by Burks’ men. He was firmly linked to the wrist of the inspector by means of the handcuffs. Yet as he was led from the Falmouth home, he felt that he was not entirely helpless in spite of the police guns that were leveled at him. In his free left hand, he had palmed a small, round object that was hard as a marble. He had slipped the little ball out of his pocket at the very moment that Inspector Burks was putting the bracelet on his right wrist.

That hard little marble was made of compressed paper pulp, hollow inside, and heavily loaded with compressed magnesium powder. Protruding from its surface was a stubby little fuse. As he approached the police car, Agent “X” was still puffing on the cigar he had lighted in the conservatory. In spite of the fact that he had been frisked, Agent “X” was prepared to surprise the police. The only thing that prevented his trying for an escape at that moment was Inspector Burks.

As far as Burks knew, this man whom he supposed to be Pete Tolman was firmly welded to his wrist. Nevertheless, the cautious inspector kept his eyes constantly upon his prisoner. But “X” knew that his time would come. It would be extremely awkward for Burks when it came time to enter the police car. It would be impossible for him to watch his prisoner then.

They stopped at the side of the police car. The driver was already at the wheel. A second car behind the first was already being loaded with men. One of the detectives entered the rear seat of the car in which “X” was to be taken down to headquarters. There remained room enough for Burks and “X” in the back seat. Behind Agent “X” was another detective, but the Secret Agent knew that the gun in this man’s hand would be as useless as if it had never been loaded. This detective who brought up the rear would not dare to fire into the car for fear of hitting one of his companions.

As Burks stepped into the car, dragging “X” after him, the Secret Agent moved like lightning. His left hand came up towards his cigar. At the same time, the joints of his right hand compressed to such an extent that he jerked free from the bracelet.

Before the inspector could realize that his man was free, there came a deafening, stunning explosion. The car was swallowed in blinding, silver light. And when Burks recovered from the shock, both doors of the car were open and his prisoner had disappeared.

The Secret Agent’s movements were simpler than they seemed. He had touched the short fuse of the magnesium bomb to the glowing tip of his cigar. He had dropped the little bomb on the floor of the car at the same time that he pulled free from the handcuff. Before the explosion came, he had marked the exact location of the latch of the opposite door, and in that moment when the police were stunned and blinded, he had opened the door and dived out the other side of the car. The magnesium bomb was comparatively harmless, though as was afterwards apparent, the explosion had singed the inspector’s eyebrows.

As Agent “X” zigzagged across the lawn, darting in and out of the shadows cast by the numerous clumps of shrubbery, a tracer of slugs followed him from the second police car. But he was far out of range and running like a rabbit.

He doubled back towards the house with a twofold purpose in view. The house where Falmouth had betrayed him to the police was probably the last place where the police would expect to find him. Then, he hoped that he was still in time to save Mrs. Leads.

Crawling along behind the foundation planting of the old house, “X” came upon a wooden trellis upon which a stout, well-rooted ivy vine climbed up the wall of the house. Far across the lawn, he could hear the police beating through shrubbery. He must act quickly before they closed in on the house. Without further hesitation, he dug his fingers into strong, bare tendrils of the ivy vine and crawled up.

He knew that his ascent was dangerous. The vines in winter were dry and treacherously brittle. However, he gained the second story window without mishap. The casement was unlocked, and though the room beyond was lighted, it was also empty. He swung back the window and climbed over the sill. Passing the lighted window, he knew that he was in comparative safety.

HE crossed to the door, opened it cautiously, and peered out into the hall. Below stairs, dance music had been uninterrupted. Noisy laughter echoed throughout the house. Evidently, the gayety of the party was picking up. “X” stepped into the hall and started down its winding length. He had not proceeded more than half a dozen steps before he heard the sound of a door opening directly ahead of him.

Two men came stealthily down the hall. “X” sprang back into a darkened doorway. Looking around the corner of his hiding place, “X” immediately recognized one of the men as Milo Leads. The famed toxicologist was wearing evening clothes. His face was extremely pale and gaunt. And walking beside Leads was a broad-faced Japanese, also in evening clothes. The Japanese, however, did not continue towards Agent “X” as did Leads. Without a word to the toxicologist, he turned off into a small dressing room.

“X” watched Leads. Did he look like a man going to commit murder or like a man who had recently committed murder? If he had not yet killed his wife, then “X” knew that he probably would never have the opportunity.

Quickly knotting a handkerchief over the lower portion of his face, “X” sprang into the hall directly in the path of Milo Leads. And as he leaped, his right fist drove out. The blow landed with full force just behind the toxicologist’s ear. Leads hadn’t a chance even to groan. His long legs sagged under him and he collapsed on the floor.

Agent “X” sprang up the hall in the direction from which Leads had come. He glimpsed the Japanese in the small dressing room putting on his coat. Evidently, the wide-faced yellow man was going to leave the party. Ahead of him, “X” saw a pin-point of light coming through a keyhole in the door at the end of the hall. “X” ran for the door, knelt, and looked through the keyhole. He could see some one moving about the room — a man whose rotund body was strangely familiar to “X.”

As though some sixth sense had warned him, the man in the room glanced apprehensively over his shoulder straight at the door where Secret Agent “X” watched. Then the man walked across the room to a door in the opposite wall, opened it quickly, and disappeared beyond.

Agent “X” stood upright. A puzzled frown knotted his brow. For the round little man that he had seen within the room was none other than Sven Gerlak, Milwaukee’s ace private detective.

“X” seized the doorknob, gave it a twist, opened the door and stepped into the room! Involuntarily, a gasp of horror escaped his lips. For lying in the center of the room, her evening gown torn as though she had engaged in a desperate struggle, was the body of Genevieve Leads. Her face was swollen and blue-black. Her mouth gaped hideously. The marks of fingers that had killed were on her white throat, and the brand of Seven was on her forehead.

On the other side of the body, “X” saw something that he pounced upon and examined closely. It appeared to be nothing more than a penny. But punch-stamped upon its surface was the number three. It was the badge of one of the Seven. “X” pocketed the penny. His own penny insignia had gone with the wallet the police had taken from him when he had been searched. Probably this penny had been dropped by one of the gang when the murder had been committed.

“X” was about to leave when he heard the sound of voices in the room adjoining. He crossed to the door and pressed his ear to the panel. He recognized the voice of Count Camocho talking in whispers to some one. He could not distinguish the words. But when the second man spoke, “X” immediately recognized the voice as that of the underworld character he had met in the Seven headquarters — the man who had worn the diamond insignia of Number Two.

“It’s a hell of a note, count,” Number Two was saying. “I’ve seen the dame alive. Number One thought it was funny that there was no report of her death in the papers. Then I seen her at the window just above the apartment where she’s supposed to live. The chief is plenty sore! He’s detailed me and the doc, and you, too, to light out after Tolman. He think’s Tolman’s crossed him. He’s goin’ to take up the dame himself. Then the doc went and lost his penny so he’s got no chance of gettin’ back into headquarters. I tell you, if some of us don’t get a taste of the Bishop before ten hours go by, it’ll be a surprise to me!”

The two members of the gang were directly outside the door now, and “X” heard the count’s reply: “The doctor might have dropped his badge in this room when they were struggling with Senora Leads. Let us search, my frien’.”

“X” waited for no more. The count’s hand was already on the doorknob. “X” sprang across the room, hurdled the body of the murdered woman, and got through the door into the hall. The Agent’s heart was pounding like a triphammer, for he knew that the “dame” to whom Number Two had referred could be none other than Betty Dale. Then his deception had been discovered. He was being hunted by the Seven Silent Men.

Chapter XVI

“X” WENT into the room at the opposite end of the hall through which he had entered the house. He closed the door behind him and stepped over to a mirror. He took the handkerchief from his face and examined his make-up critically. Removing the red wig and mustache, he looked exactly like Pete Tolman. Lack of time permitted only slight alterations — the reshaping of his nose and smoothing out lines in his cheeks.

Then he turned once again to the window and climbed out on the ivy trellis. The breaking of a dried ivy tendril hastened his descent. He picked himself up from the bushes, waited a moment to see if the noise of his fall had warned anyone inside the house. But the noise within would have drowned out any disturbance that “X” had created.

He ran across the lawn to the circular drive where his car had been parked. He leaped in, started it, and turned directly across the lawn in order to avoid the slow procedure of backing and wheel twisting in order to get out of the line of parked cars.

As he sped through the gate into the street, several policemen tried to stop him. Shots from their pistols struck his tires, but had no effect upon his speed. For beneath the fabric of his special tires was a ply of woven chain armor. “X” knew well that the police would give chase, but he had a long lead on them even before they were started, and the terrific power of his car widened the breach between them every time he opened the throttle on a straightaway.

Soon he was lost in the traffic of theatre-goers returning to their homes. He made further provision against being halted by touching a concealed lever beneath the dashboard. This lever operated strands of piano wire which flipped his license plates over. On the reverse side of these plates, a new set of numbers was deceptively painted.

A short time later he pulled up in front of the apartment building where Betty Dale lived — where he hoped she still lived. He leaped from the car and bounded into the entrance. He sprang to the elevator and pressed the fourth-floor button. Out into the hall, he hurried to the door of the apartment that Betty Dale had appropriated. He did not wait to knock; but using one of his chromium master keys, which he had taken from his car, he opened the door.

The searching eye of his flashlight swept the room. It was completely empty. He opened the bedroom. The bedclothes had been disturbed. Dainty lingerie was scattered about the room. He turned to the kitchenette. It, too, was empty. Betty Dale was gone.

But with all the keen disappointment that knifed the Secret Agent, there was one ray of hope: had the Seven gang killed Betty in the apartment, they would have left her body there. Perhaps she was still alive. Perhaps they were holding her, hoping to draw Agent “X” into a trap.

“X” turned into the hall and whisked down to the street floor in the elevator. Across the entry way and out into the street he went. He was walking towards his car when someone hailed him with:

“Oh, Mr. Robbins!”

“X” PIVOTED and saw a familiar figure coming towards him — old Thaddeus Penny, a blind man who peddled packages of chewing gum in the streets. Though it was nearly two A. M. old Thaddeus still carried his tray with a few packages still remaining. He was walking as fast as he could towards the Secret Agent.

“Sorry, I haven’t time to talk with you, Thaddeus,” said “X” kindly, as he put his hand on the handle of the car door.

But the blind man’s hand fastened tenaciously on “X’s” coat sleeve. “I know you’re a detective now, Mr. Robbins,” the man piped in a thin, quavering voice. “What were you doing comin’ out the Falmouth Building after two o’clock yesterday morning? Nobody but detectives, criminals, and these good for nothin’ playboys are out at such indecent hours.”

“I wasn’t coming out of the Falmouth Building at that time, Thaddeus,” replied “X.” “What makes you think I was?” He was extremely interested in the old blind man’s deductions.

“Oh, don’t try to fool me, Mr. Robbins. I’d know your step anywhere. I was out tryin’ to get a few pennies from the theatre folk and I heard you come out of the Falmouth Building just as I was passing. I’d have hailed you except that there was two other men with you and I thought—”

Agent “X” gripped the old man’s hand. “You’re sure of that, Thaddeus? Positive?”

“Sure and positive. Say, your voice sounds tight, like maybe you was in some sort of trouble.”

“Right, Thaddeus!” the Agent rapped. He pressed a crumpled five-dollar bill into the old man’s hand. “You’ve helped more than you’ll ever know!” And Secret Agent “X” leaped into his car. The blind man’s super-sensitive ears never failed to identify “X” by his walk. If, then, as Thaddeus Penny had said, he had come out of the Falmouth Building, he had done so when he was under the influence of the Seven gang’s powerful drug. It was possible that the headquarters of the gang was somewhere in the mighty Falmouth Tower, in the very heart of the city.

Secret Agent “X” headed for his apartment hideout. Motor open, he drove skillfully and at the same time planned a schedule of preparation that he hoped would cover every possible emergency. At his apartment, he changed his make-up and assumed one of his stock disguises, that of Roger Cole, a middle-aged business man. He thought that this disguise would be less apt to attract suspicion than any other when he was prowling around the Falmouth Building.

Many important business enterprises were controlled from the Falmouth Tower. Business men came and went at all hours of the night. The coat of the suit he put on had many secret pockets, and these he loaded down with special devices that he thought would prove helpful. Among them were a small galvanometer for detecting the presence of electrical current, a cubical black box with a dimension of about two inches, a small make-up kit, gas gun, and a case of special drugs. Beneath his coat he carried the waxen mask which had been given him at the headquarters of the Seven Silent Men.

Thus prepared, he left at once for the Falmouth Tower.

Five minutes later he was standing within the shadow of the mighty structure, that was like a steel gimlet boring through the sky. Lights burned in many of its thousand windows. Flood lamps, advantageously placed, gilded its gleaming metal trim, and touched what seemed to be from the sidewalk a tiny cupola at its top. Actually, this cupola was a magnificent penthouse.

Sales corporations, life-insurance companies, brokerage offices, offices of almost endless variety could be found in the building. Where, though, in this modern structure of steel, stone, and chromium would he find an ancient, oak-paneled room such as he had seen at Seven headquarters?

Far above the last gleaming light, was a belt of darkened windows that encircled the building. “X” smiled grimly.

Entering the building, “X” stepped to one of the elevators. The elevator boy stared at him sleepily and enquired, “What floor, please?”

“Straight to the top,” replied Agent “X.” And the car speeded on its seemingly endless climb.

WHEN the car came to a stop and the door was opened, “X” looked out upon a row of frosted glass windows of offices — some without any lettering on them, indicating that they had never been rented.

“Is this as far up as you go? Isn’t there anything higher?” “X” enquired.

The boy scowled. “Sure, Mister, but you don’t want an elevator. You want an airplane or one of those stratosphere things. Are you gettin’ out or do you plan to move in here permanent?”

“X” fixed the boy with his peculiarly magnetic eyes. “Think,” he said softly; “is this the top of the building?”

The youth flushed. “There’s another floor and a penthouse yet, but it’s never been finished. It won’t be either. Take it from me, this building will never pay,” he said importantly. “Not a lot of these offices are rented and there’s not enough to pay them to finish the top of the thing. But I can’t stay here all night, mister.”

“Any way of getting up to the unfinished part?” “X” persisted in spite of the youth’s impatience to be gone.

“Nope. You can’t leave the unfinished part of a building open. It would be dangerous. Curious guys—” with a marked look at the Secret Agent—“would try to get up there and fall through most likely. If I was you, I’d go to the Alps!”

“X” stepped out into the hall. Few of the offices showed signs of occupancy. He couldn’t search them all without arousing suspicion. He was inclined to believe that the floor above was a longer way towards being finished than the elevator boy had said. However, he did find a narrow hall at the end that because of its labyrinthian turns warranted special investigation. Guided by his flashlight, he came upon a door lettered with the one word “Private.”

The Secret Agent took one of his master keys from his pocket, inserted it in the lock, and opened the door. Immediately his heart leaped with renewed hope. For directly behind the innocent-looking office door was a second panel of solid steel. It presented an unbroken surface apparently without keyhole or lock. However, a moment’s search revealed a small, circular indentation at the lower part of the steel panel at one end. “X” knelt and examined it closely. It looked as though a penny had been pressed into the steel while the panel was yet in the molten stage.

Every outline of the one cent piece was clearly visible with the exception of the fact that a peculiar design was embossed in the exact center of the surface. Providing himself with his pocket magnifying glass, “X” saw that the design was composed of the Arabic numerals one, three, four, and seven — each laid directly on top of the other.

Instantly “X” remembered what he had overheard in Falmouth’s house. He had heard the underworld character known as Number Two say to Count Camocho: “The doc has lost his penny and can’t get back into Seven headquarters.”

The purpose of the indentation was then clear to “X.” It was some sort of an electrical lock that opened when a penny was pressed into it. However, only a penny with the numbers one, three, four, or seven could have been placed in the opening because of the design in the center.

Agent “X” quickly removed the waxen mask from beneath his coat and fastened it over his face. Then he took the penny-badge bearing the number three from his pocket and fitted it into the little circular indentation. His heart was thumping with excitement as he pushed it home. Without a doubt he had passed through that door before, but then in a drugged state and in the company of one or more of Number One’s trusties.

As soon as he had pushed the penny into the lock, a spring snapped. The coin jumped back into his hand, but the steel panel was slowly sliding back into the wall. Beyond, a pale blue light illuminated a room about eight by ten feet in size. Without hesitation, “X” stepped in.

Chapter XVII

SO smoothly, so silently that no one but a man of “X’s” unusually accute senses could have noticed it, the little room began to rise. It was then, as “X” had guessed, an electric elevator. On stopping, the door slid open with the same silence. “X” stepped into a barren room and a steel panel, similar to the one which he had just succeeded in opening, closed upon the elevator.

Sliding doors directly in front of Agent “X” opened, revealing a short hall. Around the bend of the hall, moving with a shuffling, diagonal step that Agent “X” immediately recognized, came a hideous figure. It was the crippled begger who had spied on “X’s” apartment. Bleary eyes glared from beneath the overhanging tangle of his dirty gray hair. If the cause of his limping had come from paralysis, then the same disease had left its mark on his face.

His mouth was twisted to one side in a permanent, bestial snarl. His red tongue gaped between exposed teeth. His cheeks and chin were pitted with loathsome, open sores. The peculiar posture that his crippled limbs imposed upon him caused his powerful arms to dangle in front of him, lending something simian to his appearance. “X” saw that his gait, which could only be described as diagonal, was produced by extending the right leg at an angle and pulling its mate up to meet it.

The hideous monster of a man sidled up to “X.” He seized the Agent’s arm with a grip which actually brought a wince of pain to “X.” “The sign,” he mumbled from his crooked mouth.

“X” hesitated. He felt that the cripple’s strange eyes were stripping off his mask, discovering him as the spy that he was. He had never been told any sign in particular used by the Seven gang. Anyway, he had to take a chance. He took from his pocket the numbered penny and handed it to the cripple. As he did so, he noticed the monster’s hands.

The fingers were knotted, big knuckled. Flesh had been eaten away from the fingertips until they were raw-looking and sponge-pitted. No vicious, flesh-corrupting disease had done that to the man’s fingers. The fingertips had been eaten by acid — perhaps to prevent any chance of his fingerprints being recognized.

He fumbled the coin back into Secret Agent “X’s” hands. “Come, Number Three,” he grumbled. He dragged himself around the corner and down the hall. “X” followed closely and noted that the cripple unlocked a second door at the end of the passage by means of a penny exactly the same way as “X” had opened the door of the elevator. However, “X” saw that the face of the cripple’s penny was centered with the strange design that combined the numbers one, three, four, and seven.

The room beyond seemed like the lounge of some exclusive club. Perhaps twenty men sprawled in chairs or leaned over card tables. And they were all criminals — men with police records, denizens of the underworld easily recognized by Secret Agent “X” who knew nearly every face in the rogues’ gallery. They paid not the slightest attention to “X,” but he noted that their glances followed the cripple with surreptitious, timid glances.

Through another door of immense thickness, the noise of the criminals in the lounge was muffled completely. Up a short hall, they turned into the Oak Room with its antique paneling and crackling, open fire.

IN a small office just beyond, “X” saw Number One sitting behind his desk. He neither moved nor spoke. Dim light did not pierce the sunken eye-holes in his mask, and “X” could not discern the slightest sign of life in the man.

“Number Three,” announced the cripple in a surly voice.

“I suppose, Number Three,” came coldly from Number One, “that you have not brought Tolman with you?”

“No, sir,” replied “X” imitating as closely as possible the soft, velvety voice that he remembered as belonging to Number Three.

“If I were a just man,” Number One went on quietly, “I should hand you over to the Bishop, here, for a taste of the knout.”

“X” looked at the hideous cripple. This creature, then, was the Bishop. The cripple’s bleared eyes burned as if he anticipated, with pleasure, beating Number Three with the knout.

“However, present circumstances make it necessary for me to have every available man ready for instant service in case the populace does not respond to our present methods of persuasion. The revolt I have so carefully nurtured—” Number One stopped, uttered a sharp command: “Bishop, are you still here? Go! I must talk to Dr. Kousha in private!”

Dr. Kousha! Then Number One took Agent “X” for Dr. Kousha. Well did “X” remember the name. Kousha, a Japanese professor of psychology whose plottings in his own country against the military party had caused him to flee from the island empire. So Kousha had found his way to America. Probably, he was the broadfaced Japanese whom “X” had seen with Milo Leads not more than an hour ago.

How eagerly Number One must have snapped up Kousha for membership in his criminal council. For Kousha was a man entirely without scruples, a brilliant scholar, and a skilled hypnotist. It was easy for “X” to see how weak characters might have been enmeshed in the sinister web of the Seven gang by means of Milo Leads’ drugs and Kousha’s diabolical hypnotism.

When the door had closed behind the Bishop, Number One asked: “Just what would you propose be done in order to ferret out this Secret Agent ‘X’ and prevent him from hindering our progress?”

“X” answered promptly: “I would broadcast by radio, communicate with Agent ‘X’ and tell him that you have Betty Dale here at headquarters. That would most certainly draw him from his hiding place.”

After a moment’s silence, Number One replied: “I heard Corin’s appeal to ‘X’ over the radio. I wonder if he succeeded in putting ‘X’ on the job? But even Secret Agent ‘X’ could not find our headquarters. We dare not tell him that Betty Dale is here and further inform him where our headquarters is.”

“Then, I should arrange to have Secret Agent ‘X’ meet several of our men,” the Agent suggested. “He should give himself up as a prisoner in exchange for the freedom of Betty Dale.”

“I shall think it over,” replied Number One. “Having the girl in our power is the first step towards the removal of ‘X.’ We might use our own transmitter—” His voice tapered off in a mumbled soliloquy.

Certain now that Betty Dale had been taken by the Seven gang and was yet alive, Agent “X” inched towards Number One’s chair. He was well armed and he felt certain that he could overcome Number One. Under the threat of death, he might be able to make the gang chief tell where Betty Dale was held prisoner.

BUT the very simplicity of what he was about to attempt put “X” on his guard. Surely Number One had some insidious, hidden weapon, some powerful defense to hold his lieutenants in check. For Number One must live in daily fear of his life. His payment for servitude was lavish, but he was a cruel master. He must have made enemies among his own men.

Four feet only separated “X” from the criminal chief. Still, Number One had not moved. Somewhere, a gong rang out. “X” wondered if Number One had sensed danger and was signaling for help. A crackling noise sounded somewhere as though an electrical circuit was being switched on or off. “X’s” right hand sought the pocket where he carried his gas gun. He knew that he was taking desperate chances, but it was now or never. He leaped towards the silent, motionless figure. His left hand shot out, seizing Number One by the throat. His right brought the gun up to the gang leader’s head.

“X” was about to speak, to demand the instant release of Betty Dale. Suddenly, he realized that the throat of Number One was as cold as death and that it was hard and unyielding. Nor had the gang chief made a single move to defend himself against “X.” The man-thing in the chair with whom “X” had been talking was nothing more than a dummy, weighing all told not more than fifty pounds.

“X” sprang back. No wonder he had been permitted to speak to Number One alone. Somewhere in the building or perhaps miles away, Number One had spoken to “X” by means of a telephone and loudspeaker system. Probably the equipment was concealed in the dummy itself.

“Number One,” said “X” softly, “do you hear me, Number One?”

There was no reply. Evidently the circuit had been switched off. Perhaps the gong that “X” had heard had been a signal to call Number One’s attentions to some matter that required immediate attention. “X” was alone in Number One’s office, and in the little closet at one side of the room was the iron-bound book of records that could spell doom for the Seven Silent Men.

“X” approached the little closet cautiously and pushed back the curtains. The book lay exactly as it had been when “X” had signed the name of Pete Tolman to the confession of the murder of Betty Dale. It seemed but a simple task to reach out and touch the book. But “X” knew that certain death lurked in that closet. It was a man-trap constructed so as to protect the record book of the gang. “X” guessed that invisible infra-red light rays passed between the bulls-eye lenses at either end of the closet.

He knew that the slightest interruption of those rays, by even passing his finger across their path, would break an electrical circuit. He could only guess at the result. Probably some deadly weapon was hidden behind the walls of the closet.

But Secret Agent “X” was prepared for the occasion. He took from his pocket the small galvanometer for detecting electrical circuits. He moved it slowly around the inner frame of the doorway, watching the needle of the instrument. Suddenly, the needle dipped, telling him that beneath the wooden door frame ran a wire carrying current.

Moving the galvanometer slowly in the vicinity of the spot where the needle had first dipped, “X” determined that a wire led from the closet under the polished wood flooring and straight toward the gang leader’s desk. In this way, he discovered that the wire led up the inside of the leg on Number One’s desk, struck a small, brass ash tray and doubled back the way it had come.

Upon examining the ash tray, he learned that the glass lining rested on a delicate spring. The slightest weight, such as the butt of a cigarette, laid on the ash tray would operate the switch that broke the electrical circuit. “X” set his galvanometer down on the ash tray, thus breaking the circuit that operated the electric eyes which guarded the iron book.

Then he hurried back to the closet and opened the record book. He leafed through pages cluttered with figures that represented the huge financial strength of the gang. Then he came upon the page of confessions. Except for the heading “Confessions” written in black ink, and the lines that allotted seven divisions of the page where the gang members had signed, the page was blank. “X” knew that invisible ink had been used as a further protection. The confessions could easily be brought out by treating the page with heat or chemicals.

“X” was not interested in reading those confessions. They were for the police and the law courts. For “X” had learned the identity of most of the gang leaders and had even gone so far as to deduce the name of Number One himself. He simply ripped the sheet from the book, rolled it into a neat cylinder, and enclosed it tightly in a small, black cubical box which he had brought for that special purpose.

Putting the box in his pocket, “X” returned to the desk and closed the circuit that guarded the closet. He had no more than returned the small galvanometer to his pocket, when a man entered the room. He wore the waxen mask of the Seven gang leaders and until he spoke was indistinguishable from any of the others. Then “X” recognized the voice of Count Camocho.

“Good news, my frien’!” cried the count. “We have been successful in the capture of Secret Agent ‘X’!”

Chapter XVIII

“X” IMMEDIATELY adopted the soft voice of Dr. Kousha. “No! How was it possible?”

“He was found by Number Two and myself,” declared Camocho proudly. “We were about to give up in despair and return here, when we saw the man who looks like Pete Tolman standing in the window of a downtown office — the office, curiously enough, of the Hobart Agency. We went up to the office to find that this Agent ‘X’ who tricked us into believing he was Tolman, was with another man. Number Two strong-armed the other man. I drugged Tolman and brought him to where Number Four was waiting for us, since Number Four knows where this headquarters is.”

“I see,” said “X” thoughtfully. He knew that the man who had been in the office with Tolman was Jim Hobart. “And I suppose,” he said to the count, “that Number Four drugged you and Number Two in order to bring you here.”

“Of course — of course,” said the count impatiently.

“But what makes you think Tolman is Secret Agent ‘X’?”

The count shrugged. “Number One says that he is. If he were not, why would he have taken the trouble to merely pretend to kill Betty Dale? My one mistake in getting this Tolman was that I didn’t get a chance to kill the man who was with him in the office. You see, the noise of our struggle had attracted so much attention already that we had all we could do to bring Tolman here without being caught.

“But you need not say anything about this to—” Camocho stopped. He was looking beyond “X” at the dummy that was seated behind the desk. “Sometimes,” the count said shakily, “that dummy deceives me. It would not do to let Number One know that we could not kill the man who was with Tolman!” Camocho waved towards the door. “Come, we must not keep Number One waiting. He is making one of his few personal appearances in the Oak Room. There, we will pass judgment on this Tolman or Senor ‘X’ or whatever his name may be.”

“X” followed Count Camocho into the Oak Room. There, all of the seven chairs were occupied with the exception of the two that awaited Camocho and himself. Tolman had been strapped into the sixth chair where he sat trembling and darting furtive glances about the room. Tolman’s thin ratlike face was as pallid as paper.

Number One nodded at the Agent. “I am sorry our conference was so abruptly terminated, Number Three. I had to hurry here in order to be present when the prisoner was brought in. This man, who to all appearances is Pete Tolman, is none other than Secret Agent ‘X.’”

“That’s baloney!” screamed Tolman. “It’s a frame, that’s what!”

“Very clever acting, Agent ‘X,’” said Number One to Tolman. “But you are already too well acquainted with our methods to suppose that it will save you. You have learned too much.”

“I don’t know a damn thing!” shouted Tolman. “All I know is that you fellows got me out of stir and shut me up in a stuffy office that wasn’t much better.”

NUMBER ONE looked at Agent “X.” The latter had taken the chair that awaited him. “What do you say, Number Three?” Number One enquired.

“X” replied, “The man may be telling the truth.” For killer though Tolman was, “X” had no desire that he should suffer the tortures which Number One might inflict upon him.

“We shall very soon find out,” declared Number One. He turned to Number Seven who occupied the chair at his left. “You may retire,” he said. “Tell the Bishop to bring Betty Dale into this room.”

Number Seven left the room. For nearly two minutes, the council chamber was as silent as the grave. Then a door opened. All eyes turned towards the door, but none stared as eagerly as Secret Agent “X.”

The Bishop entered, his scarred and misshapen hands locked over a rope. Tied by the wrists to the rope, was Betty Dale. A sensation of rage that he could scarcely restrain passed over “X.” Her face was the picture of beauty and terror.

Number One spoke, again addressing Tolman: “Do you know this woman?”

Tolman’s beady eyes darted towards Betty. “Naw, never seen her before!”

Number One turned to Betty. “Miss Dale, not only did you escape the death which I decided should be yours, but you also escaped the brand of Seven which should have been implanted on your forehead. As a means of persuading Secret Agent ‘X’ to speak, we are about to remedy the omission of the brand. Acid would have been used formerly, because we find it inconvenient to carry a branding iron with us wherever we go. But seeing that you are alive, I believe that the pain of your flesh burning with a hot iron will have more effect on Secret Agent ‘X’ than the acid would.” He nodded towards the Bishop. “Bring the branding iron!”

Agent “X” sprang to his feet. “Number One,” he called sharply, “if this woman must suffer, I beg to be permitted to inflict the torture myself.”

Number One regarded “X” suspiciously for a time. “Just what personal enmity do you have against this woman?”

“None whatever,” replied the Agent. “But I hope to redeem myself for the gross negligence on my part which permitted Agent ‘X’ to fool me into believing that Betty Dale was dead. Permit me to be the instrument of her torture.”

Number One considered for a moment. “This is somewhat out of keeping with your character, doctor,” he said. “But I shall not pry into your affairs. Perhaps you have a personal grievance against Secret Agent ‘X.’ That is of no concern of mine, in as much as it does not have anything to do with this organization. You have my permission. But remember, the branding iron shall not touch the girl if Agent ‘X’ should decide to talk.”

“Go ahead and fry her, if you want to!” screamed Tolman. “I don’t know anything about Agent ‘X’ or the Seven gang. But—” he added craftily—“I do know somethin’ that I’ll trade you to get out of this mess. You’re not so damned clever as you think.”

Ignoring Tolman, Number One turned to the Bishop who had just entered with a red hot iron held in a pair of tongs. “Give the brand to Number Three,” he directed.

AGENT “X” stepped over to the Bishop. The monster, who had apparently looked forward to the torture with sadistic delight, yielded the iron to him only after another sharp command from Number One. “X” turned and walked slowly towards Betty, the hot iron outthrust before him. Betty opened her lips as if to scream, but suddenly choked back the cry. For the Secret Agent had drawn in the air an almost imperceptible letter “X.”

Agent “X” bent over the girl, holding the iron as close as he dared.

“Wait, Number Three,” commanded Number One. He got up from his chair and walked across to Pete Tolman. That moment, when all eyes were fastened upon Number One and Tolman, gave “X” his opportunity. He had noted as soon as the girl had been brought into the room that the plastic material, with which he had insulated Betty’s forehead, was still intact. He knew that the material had sufficiently poor conductive qualities to prevent the heat of the iron from reaching her skin.

“Don’t be frightened, Betty,” he whispered softly as he bent over her. “Keep your eyes closed. Scream at the proper time; then pretend to faint.”

Betty nodded her head slightly. “X” saw her fists clenched. She was bravely preparing herself for the ordeal to come.

“Secret Agent ‘X,’” said Number One to Tolman, “consider carefully the torture you are about to inflict upon Miss Dale. A word from you will prevent that. I must know how much you have learned about our group, and how much of that information you have turned over to the police. Then, I am extremely curious to know just who you really are.”

Tolman laughed madly. “You think I’m nuts enough to go to the police with anything? Every cop’s on the lookout for me. You’re nuts!”

Number One signaled the Agent. “Proceed with the torture.”

Very slowly, “X” brought the glowing iron towards Betty’s forehead. She screamed, closed her eyes, and at the instant the hot iron sizzled against the plastic material that covered her forehead, she became limp. “X” could not tell whether her unconsciousness was pretense or not. As he jerked the iron away, the scar of the brand in the plastic material was so realistic that he could not suppress a shudder.

Pete Tolman was unmoved. “Give her the limit, chief,” he muttered, “and just see if I give a damn!”

Number One shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “Number Five, take the girl to Number Seven. When she has revived, we will see if the Bishop can get any information out of her. As for this man—” indicating Tolman—“either he has the nerves of iron and the heart of stone, or he is not Agent ‘X.’ Bishop, you will remove him to the execution chamber. Number Two, Number Three, and Number Four will accompany me. Perhaps on the scaffold, this man will talk!”

The Bishop backed up to the chair in which Tolman was tied. He hoisted chair and man upon his powerful back. Number One led the way through a sliding panel, down a short hall, and into a square, barren room. In the very center of the room, a scaffold had been constructed. The Bishop and Number Four, whom “X” knew to be Milo Leads, untied Tolman’s legs and dragged him up the scaffold steps.

Tolman shouted vile epithets and struggled desperately. But he was like a child in the mighty arms of the Bishop. Tolman’s legs were rigidly tied. Then he was centered on the trap door. The Bishop busied himself with the rope, while Number One went over to the lever that operated the trap door.

Suddenly, the Bishop seized an instrument not unlike a pair of pointed tongs. He leaped upon the helpless Tolman and thrust the point of the tongs between Tolman’s teeth. Held helplessly in the arms of Number Four and Number Two, Tolman could not jerk his head away. “X” understood the purpose of the tongs now. They were pivoted so that the Bishop could slowly force his victim’s jaws apart. Tolman’s screams echoed and re-echoed about the chamber. The Bishop seemed to relish the torture and would have prolonged it had Number One permitted him to do so.

THEN the Bishop picked up the rope and “X” saw that in place of the noose was a sort of clamp. For a moment, “X” was so astonished by the brutality of the scene that he was unable to speak. He saw the crippled madman thrust the clamp into Tolman’s mouth. Tolman’s screams were gagged. Slowly, the Bishop tightened the clamp on Tolman’s tongue.

“X” knew the fiendish murder method employed by the Seven gang. He knew that in another moment, Number One would open the trap. The force of Tolman’s fall would actually tear his tongue from his throat. The result could well be imagined. Even if Tolman withstood the shock, he would slowly bleed to death, would be strangled by his own blood lodging in his throat. Then Tolman’s body would be dropped in the street as an appalling example of the fiendish cruelty of the Seven Men; as a graphic symbol of the silence they imposed.

The Secret Agent’s sense of humanity overrode his better judgment. Tolman was a killer. The law would have hanged him. But Secret Agent, “X” could not stand idly by, watching a man hang by his tongue!

“X’s” hand crept towards the pocket where his gas gun was kept. He would use it if he had to. But first, one desperate effort to talk Tolman out of such a fate. As the Bishop backed away from Tolman in order to stand clear of the trap, Agent “X” shouted:

“Stop!”

All eyes turned towards him. “X” resumed the soft-spoken manner of Dr. Kousha. “Number One, have you considered how valuable this man may be to us? Do you remember what he said a moment ago about knowing something he would be willing to trade for his life?”

“Sheer bluff,” rapped Number One. “He knows nothing. By what authority do you retard the punishment to which I have sentenced this man?”

“X” looked up at the platform of the scaffold. Tolman’s agonized eyes stared beseechingly. His tongue was slowly turning black, so tightly had the torturous clamp been screwed.

“I have no authority,” said “X” quietly. “But if this man is Pete Tolman then he may know where those five and ten dollar engraving plates, which Fronberg hid, are kept.”

“True,” said Number One thoughtfully. “But I doubt if it will be necessary to issue more counterfeit money. I have very nearly accomplished my ends. Still—”

The door of the execution chamber was flung open by one of the gang. “X” knew by the diamond studded number on his lapel that he was Count Camocho.

“Senor!” cried Camocho, “Senor Number One! You have succeed! You have accomplish!” he shouted, in his excitement forgetting to take his usual care in his grammar.

Number One strode across the room and seized Camocho by the shoulders. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that New York is yours! I receive a radiogram stating that a great body of people of all classes are gathering in a parade! They will march the streets. They will shout! They will fight! It is revolution!”

Number One turned, looked enquiringly about the room. Then he fixed the excited Camocho with his eyes. “Who sent that message?” he asked with cold emphasis.

“Why — why, Number Three,” Camocho stuttered. “Number Three — who is Dr. Kousha!”

Chapter XIX

SECRET AGENT “X’s” heart leaped into his throat. Dr. Kousha had been unable to get into the Seven headquarters because he had lost his penny-badge which would have admitted him. But he could still communicate with Number One by radio.

Number One asked: “But where is Number Three at this time?”

“At the counterfeiting headquarters in Jersey. He radioed from there since he was unable to come in person.”

Number One turned slowly towards “X.” “Take off your mask,” he demanded icily.

“Impossible!” shouted the Agent. “Surely the secret of my identity must be kept from some of these men here. Number Five must be mistaken. Perhaps it is some trick.” But while he talked, “X” was gauging the distance to the door. His fingers closed upon the gas gun in his pocket. He knew that his life was not worth a penny. But the black box in his pocket was dearer to him than his life. If he could only find a way to get that to the police. It contained evidence that would put an end to the Seven Silent Men for all times to come. Then, there was Betty Dale. What would happen to her?

“Take off that mask!” Number One insisted.

“X” saw that Number Two had come down from the scaffold and was edging towards the door. If that door was closed, he would be hopelessly trapped. From complete immobility, every muscle and sinew in the Agent’s well knit body sprang into life.

He hurled himself towards Camocho who barred his way. So fast did he move that the Spaniard had not time to duck the powerful upward swing of “X’s” right arm. The blow met Camocho’s chin and flattened him to the floor. “X” gained the door just as Number Two snatched an automatic from his pocket. The Agent’s gas gun spurted. The powerful anesthetizing gas struck Number Two squarely in the face. He staggered back on his heels. Even before Number Two had struck the floor, “X” was racing down the passage beyond.

But on the instant he gained the Oak Room, a panel slid back. Pouring through the opening, as eager as hounds unleashed, came a score of gangmen — the hard-faced hoods “X” had seen in the lounge on entering the headquarters. Number One had evidently signaled to them and opened the door of the oak room by remote control.

Down the passage came Number One’s crisp order: “Take him alive. He is Secret Agent ‘X’!”

The criminal mob was upon him. “X” met the first man, seized his out-thrust arm in a jujutsu hold and threw him over his shoulder. Then he plunged into the midst of the mobsters, his arms working like twin windmills. His fists slammed into the noxious faces, cracked jaws, pounded fleshy bodies. Men went down before his pitiless onslaught; yet where one man fell, there were two to take his place.

“X” fought nearer and nearer the fireplace, dragging half the weight of the mob with him. He snaked one arm free from a hood’s grip, brought it up to his pocket, and seized the black, cubical box. He had only a split second of freedom, but he used it well. His aim was perfect. He threw the box containing the Seven gang’s confessional record straight into the blazing fireplace.

And not a moment too soon. The full weight of the gang was upon him. Blows were telling, exhausting even his superb strength.

He was thinking of Betty Dale now. He must save her. The vision of the Bishop’s foul hands pawing over her loveliness while he planned some sadistic torture for her, drove “X” to desperation. He fought like one gone mad. His fearful blows wrecked one man after another. Again, he got his hand into his pocket, this time to clutch the penny which would open the doors of the headquarters. Now, if he could slip one of those tear gas bombs from his pocket, he might gain a moment in which to rush from the room, a single minute in which to find Betty.

Something came hurtling through the air. Before he had time to duck, the missile struck Agent “X” on the forehead. The waxen mask he wore was shattered to fragments. His brain swirled, his eyes swam in red mist. But on the instant that he fell, he had presence of mind enough to put that all-important penny in his mouth. His tongue clamped down on it hard, holding it flat against his teeth. Oblivion caught up with him.

A PLEASANT sensation brought Agent “X” to his senses. Soft, cool fingers were gently stroking his hands. At first, he was under the impression that he had been thrown into the same room with Betty Dale. He opened his eyes. His head felt swollen, his mind feverish. He looked around a room barren of furnishings and without doors or windows. And he was alone. The hands that had caressed his brow were then but figments of his imagination.

He lay on the floor and for the moment relaxed. Then he drew a deep breath and slowly hauled to his feet. There was a strange, metallic taste in his mouth. He remembered the penny which he had put in his mouth just before he had been knocked out. He returned it to his pocket.

Then Agent “X” made a slow and careful inspection of his little prison. But though his rapping knuckles could detect the position of the sliding door panel, there was no electric lock into which he could fit the penny.

He had been carefully searched. All his weapons had been taken from him. None of the secret compartments in his clothing had remained unexplored — with one exception. “X” dropped to the floor. Unless Number One was more clever than he appeared to be he would not have thought of examining “X’s” shoes.

The Secret Agent gripped the heel of his right shoe and quickly unscrewed it. Inside the heel was a compartment where he concealed small objects that had at times been extremely useful to him. His heart gave a bound. The contents of his heel had not been tampered with. The small opening contained a miniature tube of his make-up material, a little vial of his special narcotic and two small, hollow needles.

He took out the vial together with one of the needles. With extreme care, he loaded the needle with enough of the drug to knock a man out and keep him unconscious for some time. Removing a small, leather plug from the toe of his shoe, he inserted the needle in the socket revealed.

If he were to kick some one, plunging the needle into that person’s flesh, enough of the drug would be driven into the blood stream to knock a man out in a few seconds. It was a ridiculously small weapon, impotent beside the mighty organization he was up against. Still, it was the only weapon remaining to him. He resolved that it should give a good account of itself.

He had hardly time to replace the heel of his shoe before the door of the cell opened and Number Four, who was Milo Leads, entered. Behind him were four armed gangsters.

“Okey, you!” said one of the men gruffly. “Up on your feet. Do you walk or do we drag you?”

Secret Agent “X” did not utter a word. He stood up, and two of the men seized him by either arm. He might easily have pricked one of them with his doped needle, but now was not the time for his counter attack. Agent “X” knew that if his plan was to succeed he must wait until his efforts would create the greatest surprise.

GUARDED by the four men and followed by Leads, “X” was taken from the cell, down a short hall and into the execution chamber. In the room were Number One and his hideous aide, the Bishop. The crippled man mounted the scaffold steps, his ugly mouth twisting in a grin.

“X” saw that the floor below the scaffold was stained with blood. He knew why his execution had been delayed. Had Pete Tolman been the last victim, or had it been—

“X” dared not think lest his mind suggest that Betty Dale had been the last to mount those scaffold steps.

“Secret Agent ‘X’,” said Number One, “I had hoped that you would be a more worthy opponent. I regret that our little encounter has to terminate so abruptly and, for you, ignominiously. Your removal is imperative. Therefore, I sentence you to hang — by the tongue!”

Two guards dragged “X” up the scaffold steps. The Bishop centered him on the trapdoor. “X” saw that Number One had walked to the end of the platform supports to where the lever that operated the trap was located. Two gunmen, with automatics drawn, stood at the bottom of the steps. One guard covered “X” with his gun while his companion picked up a piece of rope, preparatory to tying “X’s” arms and legs.

At the moment that the man with the rope stooped to tie the Secret Agent’s ankles, “X” kicked out with his right foot. The doped needle caught the guard in the calf of the leg. The gunman tumbled back against the legs of the man with the gun.

“X” leaped clear of the trapdoor, evading the clumsy fingers of the Bishop. The two guards at the foot of the stairs fired instantaneously and started up the steps. But Agent “X” swung around, leaped over the railing of the platform for a ten-foot drop that landed him directly upon the shoulders of Number One. Both “X” and the gang chief went sprawling. “X” recovered his feet in a moment, ducked behind a supporting member of the scaffold, seized the lever that operated the trap, and gave it a yank.

The trap sprung. Two men dropped through the opening, arms and legs sprawling as they struck the floor. An automatic, dropped by one of the criminals, slid within six feet of “X.” He sprang for it, swept it up not a split second before a shot gouged wood from the piece of scaffolding only inches from his head.

“X” swung out from under the scaffold. A gunman, who had dropped from the steps, raised his automatic. Though he disliked lethal weapons, Agent “X” did not hesitate a moment. He fired two quick shots. The first shot took the gangster in the thigh. The second crashed the lighting fixture in the ceiling. The room was plunged into darkness.

“X” knew well the location of the door. Yet he supposed that all shots would be aimed in that direction. He ran silently on his rubber soled shoes across the room until he encountered the wall. Darkness was splintered with gun flame. Shots crashed, and reverberated throughout the room. “X” waited his chance. The gunmen were shooting at random now, hoping that a chance shot would find its mark.

“X” sprang for the door and swung it open. The sound of the opening door drew fire instantly. As “X” leaped through the opening, slugs screamed about his head. He slammed the door into place, ran the length of the hall, and into the Oak Room.

There he stopped. It would take many valuable seconds to locate the door that led into the lounge. Even so, the lounge would not be where Betty Dale was held prisoner — providing that she was still alive. Two doors beside the one through which he had just passed were open. One, he knew, led to the gang chief’s office — a cul de sac, he knew. The other opened on a narrow flight of steps.

Though he did not know what was at the top, “X” chose the stairs. Behind him, he could hear Number One roaring out commands to his men.

AT the top of the steps, “X” ran squarely into one of the Seven who was just coming out of a small room. Unhesitatingly, “X” swung. His gun connected with the man’s head directly behind the ear. The man dropped quietly at Agent “X’s” feet.

“X” seized the man by the collar and dragged him into the room from whence he had just come. The room was empty, and “X” saw at a moment the purpose for which it was intended. A large bench held the layout of a powerful radio transmitter.

“X” kicked the door shut behind him, knelt beside the man he had just knocked out, and removed the wax mask. Beneath was a face unfamiliar to him. Because of the man’s pugnacious aspect and scarred cheek, “X” knew that here was a man who had risen from the underworld to the criminal empire of the Seven Silent Men. Probably he was the raucous-voiced individual who was known as Number Two. Evidently the medical skill of Milo Leads had succeeded in reviving Number Two after “X” had blown the charge from his gas pistol into his face.

“X” dragged the unconscious gang-man to a closet and locked him in it. Then he put on the waxen mask which he had removed from Number Two and sat down at the radio transmitter.

The door of the radio room opened and a waxen face was thrust through the aperture. “Did the Senor ‘X’ or what is he called come up here, Number Two?” asked the man — evidently Count Camocho.

“Nix,” growled “X.” “Has he given you the slip again?”

Camocho cursed and slammed the door without answering. “X” turned to the controls of the radio. His practiced eyes swept the layout. The transmitter was a flexible outfit capable of covering the police bands as well as the true short waves. Used with a continuous spark gap arrangement, it might well have been the cause of the electrical disturbance which had tied up police radio communication. “X” plugged in a microphone, adjusted dials, and turned switches. He watched the various meters on the panel climb. The transmitter was now adjusted for the particular frequency used by the police radio prowl cars.

Placing the microphone directly in front of him, “X” spoke distinctly and softly: “Calling all cars. Secret Agent ‘X’ calling all cars. Listen! The headquarters of the Seven Silent Men is on the top floor of the Falmouth Tower Building. A secret entrance is provided, leading from the last floor occupied by business offices. This entrance is a door marked ‘Private’ at the end of a short hall. Move at once!”

Because he was not sure that this particular radio channel was clear, “X” carefully repeated the message three times. Since the radio room, like the rest of the Seven headquarters, was perfectly sound-proof, he had no way of knowing whether or not police squad cars were racing towards the Falmouth Tower. Why should they obey him at all? Agent “X” was thought to be a criminal. He was simply hoping that in their desperation the police would heed.

Chapter XX

“X” OPENED the door cautiously and tiptoed down the stairs. At the bottom of the steps, he paused. The headquarters, which had been the scene of such furious activity only a few moments before, was now filled with a sinister, foreboding hush. “X” was about to step from the stairway into the Oak Room, when the sound of the voice of Number One checked him:

“Leads, we’ve played a desperate game, you and I. We’ve played it well. The streets are filled with people, begging for me to take over the city and steer it — straight to hell!” Number One chuckled. “Even the mayor has agreed to resign if I will become city manager and rid the country of the Seven Silent Men. I’m ready to leave this place forever!”

“Are you sure you haven’t forgotten something?” asked Leads anxiously.

“Not a thing. Most of the professional gunmen whom we hired have been locked in the execution chamber. It is upon their heads that the blame for all these crimes will rest.”

“But when the police swarm over this building, they will—”

“Find death,” interrupted Number One. “The building is mined. An electric time fuse is waiting to be started at any moment. Nothing will remain that can possibly give a clue as to who the Silent Men were. Silence has been our golden rule. Now that our work is done, it will guard us so that we may enjoy the fruits of our labors.”

“And the girl, Betty Dale?” asked Leads. “What have you done with her?”

Number One laughed. “I have left her here, as I shall leave you.”

“What do you—”

A single shot crashed out. Agent “X” leaped from the stairway into the Oak Room. A door had opened and shut behind Number One. A wisp of gun smoke crawled through the dead air over the body of Milo Leads. Leads’s face twitched in agonized death writhings.

Had he desired to do so, “X” might have pursued Number One. But his chief concern was for Betty Dale. For all he knew, she might be in the maniacal hands of the Bishop. He sprinted across the Oak Room to the door that led into the passage approaching the execution chamber. A piteous scream lent wings to his feet. He skidded around an abrupt corner and came suddenly upon an open door. Beyond was a small cell and inside was Betty Dale.

The girl was struggling in the arms of the Bishop. The mobster’s right hand was clenched over the hilt of a long knife. His left hand held the girl in its merciless grip. He had raised the knife for a killing thrust just as “X” sprang into the room.

The Bishop turned with a snarl, lowered his head, and like a maddened bull rushed upon “X.” The Secret Agent side-stepped, avoiding the criminal’s knife thrust. He led with his left fist to the Bishop’s jaw. The maniac recoiled, shook his head, and rushed again. “X” brought the barrel of his automatic down with terrific force to the Bishop’s head. The man’s crooked legs melted beneath him. He sank to the floor.

“X” sprang to the support of Betty Dale. She stared for one searching moment up at the wax mask. A little joyful sob burst from her throat. “It’s you! I know it’s you!”

“X” gathered her in his arms. “Pull yourself together, Betty,” said “X” gently. “We’ve got to get out of here. You’ve got to save the police!”

She raised her head. “I don’t understand,” she said, blinking back tears of relief. “But whatever you say—”

A strange murmur filled the cell. “X” turned and saw that the crippled man was stirring slightly and muttering. The Bishop’s voice grew stronger. “Vait,” he whispered. “Don’t beat me, Carl. I am your brudder, Joseph; yet you beat me!”

“X” CROSSED quickly to the cripple’s side. He saw that the man’s eyes were staring vacantly, insanely at the ceiling. “I cannot help it if my mind is no goot,” the Bishop whispered. “I do not know vhere I hid der odder plates. I could make more if you had not pour acid on my fingers. My fingers—” the Bishop held his scarred hands above his head and stared at them—“My fingers are no goot now because of acid. You vant to destroy them so the police cannot catch me. Who vould know me now that I am sick and crippled? Better you should have saved for me my hands!”

Betty looked inquiringly at “X.” “What does he mean?”

“X” shook his head silently. The Bishop was speaking again. “Carl, my brudder, vhy do you hurt me because I can’t remember. All der plates I give you but the vons I forget—”

“X” took Betty’s arm. “We haven’t any time to waste. Number One is waiting to get this place filled with police. Then he is going to try and blow this building up — if he gets the chance!”

“Then you know who Number One is?” Betty asked as they hurried out into the oak room.

“X” nodded. “He is Carl, the Bishop’s brother. And of course the Bishop is the German engraver, Joseph Fronberg — the counterfeiter whom the police think is dead. But we haven’t time, Betty!”

“X” hurried her to the sliding door and unlocked it by means of the penny with the number three stamped on it. Soon they were in the secret elevator, speeding downward. When the car came to a stop, “X” pulled off the waxen mask he had been wearing and concealed it under his coat. He opened the door and led Betty out into the hall. Outside the building, a police siren was wailing.

“X” seized the girl by the arm. “Betty, there will be police here in any moment Tell them that the building is about to be blown up. Get them to get the people out of here. Have them send out warnings—”

Agent “X” stopped suddenly. An elevator had just bobbed to the floor level. It was loaded with police. He had no time to talk with them. He sprang towards the stairway and bounded down the steps. Flight after flight he passed until he came to the tenth floor — leased entirely by Abel Corin’s firm. He entered the general office where a telephone switchboard girl was just taking her place for the morning’s work.

Aside from this girl, the office seemed deserted. She stared, amazed, at the man who ran across the general office towards the sumptuous reception hall that fronted Mr. Corin’s office. She called on him to stop, but Secret Agent “X” seemed to have suddenly gone deaf. He charged the door of Corin’s private office, smashed it open with a heave with his shoulders, and closed it behind him.

Chapter XXI

ABEL CORIN jerked around from the cabinet before which he had been standing to see the man who had just broken into his office and was now striding across the chessboard patterned floor.

“What is the meaning of this, sir?” the business executive demanded. His eyes dropped to the automatic in the Agent’s hand.

“Good morning, Carl,” said Secret Agent “X” mockingly.

“What do you mean, sir?” demanded Corin. “You’ve made a mistake. My name is Abel Corin.”

“It is Carl Fronberg,” “X” insisted “Carl Fronberg, the man who would turn the city into an underworld empire for his own evil purposes.”

Corin laughed. “What fantastic tale is this?”

“The truth. The Bishop told me — the Bishop who is Joseph Fronberg, master of counterfeiting. Diseases warped your brother’s mind and body. You destroyed the only means the police had of identifying him — his fingerprints. As far as the police were concerned, Joseph Fronberg was dead. But you took the plates which he had made before his sickness. With your head for organization, you built up the greatest counterfeit gang that I have ever run across. I think it more than likely that you were the brains behind the original Fronberg gang instead of your brother, Joseph. No one seems to know where you got your start in business, you know. It might well have been from counterfeiting.”

Corin’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?” he asked, softly.

“I think you know,” replied the Agent. “You have been trying to get me to face you openly for some time now. Here I am. Curiously enough, with all your juggling of wax masks and numbers in an attempt to conceal your identity, it was the floor of this office which gave you away!”

Corin stared speechlessly at the floor.

“As soon as I heard the name by which you called your crippled brother, I knew who you were,” said the Agent. “For the peculiar, diagonal gait of that cripple resembled nothing so much as the movement of a certain playing piece on a chess board. The bishop piece in chess can move diagonally only! Chess suggested that name for your crippled brother. And the very floor of this office screams that you are a chess enthusiast! Carl Fronberg, alias Abel Corin, is also Number One of the Seven Silent Men!”

Corin’s eyes were scornful. “And now where are you, Mr. ‘X’? Are you any nearer your objective than you were at first? Who would believe your story? Turn me over to the police? Man, in one hour from now I shall be the police!” He strode across the room and flung open the front windows. “Do you hear them? Thousands of people keyed to revolt! They are pleading for me to save them!”

Agent “X” could hear well enough. Wind screamed down the canyon between the lofty buildings and sucked up the roar of a thousand throats. The name of Abel Corin was on every lip.

“Do you hear?” shouted Corin, and in his anger his voice slipped to a higher register so that it sounded exactly like the voice of Number One. “They are shouting: ‘Let Corin run the city and wipe out counterfeiting!’”

Corin sprang to his desk, seizing it as though he were about to tear it to pieces. His words came quick and sharp like a string of exploding firecrackers. “New York is mine! How New York once laughed at me, Carl Fronberg, an immigrant! It called me ‘Dumb-Dutch!’” Corin twisted the name into a venomous snarl. His face was purpling with rage. “I’ve made New York pay for that name it gave me — Dumb-Dutch! But I changed my name. I trampled on the mob without them knowing it. I’ve twisted and squeezed and pinched millions from them. And they will pay more and more! In these two fists of mine I’ll hold the power to crush the people or watch them grovel. I, Carl Fronberg, once a ridiculed immigrant, shall have the power of an emperor!”

Corin’s voice hushed to burlesque seriousness. “Go to the window, Mr. ‘X’ and shout that Abel Corin is a thief, a murderer. Do you think those morons out there will believe you — you who are hunted like a rat by the police?”

Only then did Secret Agent “X” speak. He nodded his head soberly. “You’re absolutely right — about them not believing me. But, there is one man they will believe.”

“Who?” shouted Corin.

“Abel Corin,” replied “X” calmly.

CORIN sneered. “You poor fool! Do you suppose that because they are going to trust me with the managership of this city that my conscience dictates that I should confess my crimes to them?”

Secret Agent “X’s” eyes narrowed. “You have told them, Abel Corin.” The deadly seriousness of his voice made Corin tremble.

“What do you mean?” he gasped.

“X” smiled slowly. “You are afraid, aren’t you, Corin? You always were a coward at heart. Your thirst for vengeance, your greed for power, gave you a sort of synthetic courage. Yet always, you were the coward, hiding behind a woman’s skirts. You made Alice Neves your dupe. You played upon the sincere affection with which she regarded you, criminal though she may be. Every message that you sent over the radio or wrote on paper was signed with her name — the inverted Seven. The very name of your gang was developed from her name — for Neves becomes Seven when inverted. You made her take risks you would not take. You—”

A sob cut through the Agent’s sentence. From the little closet off Corin’s office, came a pitiful figure. It was Alice Neves. She wore a man’s dark suit of clothes. The diamond insignia, the number seven, was on the lapel of her coat. Her blue black hair was streaming. She walked straight towards Corin, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Is that true, Abel? Is what this man says true?” she asked huskily.

Corin shook his head. “It’s absurd!”

“But it’s true! You’re lying to me. Abel. After I stole, lied and cheated, even killed for you.” Then Alice Neves moved so quickly that even “X” was not alert enough to stop her. He saw the flash of something that glittered like silver in her hand. He uttered a harsh cry, sprang towards her. But the girl’s hand had darted up. The long, thin knife was driven straight into her left breast. She tottered and fell full length behind Corin’s desk.

“X” forgot Corin for the moment in his anxiety over the woman. He dropped to his knees, hoping that her self-inflicted wound was only slight But he did not need a moment to determine that her wound would be fatal.

“It is better so!” came Corin’s harsh voice.

“X” looked up. A smile of self-satisfaction had spread across his face. “With Alice gone, and Leads gone, and my brother too mad to tell—”

“But you have told!” cried Agent “X.” “You and every other one of the Silent Seven committed murder and signed a confession in the record book. The witness who watched you sign your confession must have been Milo Leads, since he was the only man beside the Bishop who knew your true identity. Milo Leads was your right-hand man. If it had not been for Leads’ dope and duplicity, you would not have gone far towards your objective.

“From your conversation with Leads, I gathered that you held some threat over his head — something else beside the exposure of the murders he was responsible for. Leads was always in trouble with some woman. He was fundamentally a weak character. When Leads saw the possibility of huge monetary returns, he gladly fell in with your scheme rather than have you expose his true character.

“And remember that inside of an hour, the confessions of every one of your gang will be in the hands of the police.”

Corin laughed. “But I destroyed that record book. None could touch it but me because of a battery of machine guns hidden behind the panel of the closet in which it rested. Had anyone else touched the record book, he would have been instantly riddled by bullets!”

“X” NODDED. “I thought of that. I took the trouble to trace out the electrical circuit that operated your machine-gun trap and turn it off before I removed the confessions from the book—”

Corin’s face went suddenly from purple to ashy gray. He chewed his lower lip. Then, suddenly, a crafty gleam stole into his eyes. His hand dropped to the desk. One finger poised over a brass ash-tray. He pushed the tray to one side, revealing a black-handled electrical switch. “X” saw that tiny wires ran from it across the desk and to the large cabinet at the other side of the room. The Secret Agent’s heart pounded in his throat.

“Now, will you surrender, Mr. ‘X’?” asked Corin. “I started a time fuse going just a few minutes before you entered. In this office is enough T.N.T. to blow the entire top off this building. But I have only to touch this switch under my hand, and the time fuse will be cut out of the circuit and the building will be blown to pieces at once! Now, do you surrender?”

“X” knew that Corin was in deadly earnest. The man dared not risk standing trial as the leader of the Seven gang. He preferred sudden death. But “X” knew that if Corin touched that switch and the building was blown to bits, thousands of innocent people might be killed. Not the flicker of an eyelash betrayed the thought that was going through Agent “X’s” mind at that moment.

His eyes were steadily fixed on Corin’s face. But the automatic in his pocket was nosing straight towards Corin’s right arm. He knew that the pain of a bullet in the arm would cause Corin to jerk his hand back — a reflexive action that it would be impossible to resist. He squeezed the trigger of the automatic with extreme care. He could not miss at such a distance.

A sharp, metallic click — nothing more. The automatic was empty. But Corin had heard that click. It startled him. “X” saw the man’s finger drop towards the switch.

In those seconds when destruction seemed evident, Agent “X” moved faster than he had ever moved before. He leaped towards the desk. His left hand clawed at Corin’s hand. His right fist drove upwards towards Corin’s jaw. Corin fell backwards to the floor, dragging switch and wire with him. He was unconscious — but he was lying directly on top of the fatal switch.

For a moment, Agent “X” was too dazed to comprehend what had happened. He stared at Corin, wondering vaguely why the building had not blown up. Had Corin been bluffing? He sprang to the cabinet before which Corin had been standing on “X’s” entrance. He opened the door. His eyes lighted upon a perfectly wired bomb large enough to blow up half of the city.

He pivoted, staring at the still form of Alice Neves. Blood crawled from the knife wound in her breast, but there were also little strings of blood trickling down her lips. “X” crossed over to where she lay. Across her mouth, but not touching, were two ends of a wire. “X” followed the wire with his eyes. It led to the switch beneath Corin and over to the cabinet of explosives. He knelt beside the woman, took her hand in his. Her pulse could hardly be detected, but her eyelids flickered back. Her lips moved in a husky, death whisper: “Did — I redeem myself — Mr. — ‘X’?”

There was a faint smile on her lips even after she was dead. Then Agent “X” knew why the bomb had not exploded. Alice Neves had found the wire leading to the bomb not far from where she had fallen. She had bitten the insulation from the wire, then broken it with her hands.

“X” sighed softly, got to his feet, and went to work. Removing the vial of narcotic from the heel of his shoe, he gave Corin enough to keep him unconscious for several hours. Then he took the waxen mask he had carried beneath his coat, and put it over Corin’s face. The police could not fail to recognize Corin as Number One now!

And very quietly Secret Agent “X” left the office.

IT was two hours later. Thermite, that hottest of all substances, had enabled the police to melt through the steel door that guarded the Seven headquarters. Burks and his men had swept the place clean of criminal life, for, as Number One had said, many of the underworld hirelings had been locked in the execution chamber. The body of Milo Leads, together with the tongueless remains of Pete Tolman, were taken to the morgue.

Still marveling at the completeness of the gang’s hideout, its electrical devices, and its sound-proof construction, Inspector Burks was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of a young man wearing the uniform of a telegraph messenger.

“Special message for Inspector Burks!” shouted the young man as he crossed the floor of the Oak Room.

“Here!” snapped Burks. He snatched the envelope from the messenger and ripped it open. Enclosed was a neatly typed note. It read:

Thus, whimsically, the message ended. And though there was no signature, Burks knew that the note was from Secret Agent “X.” Grim and tight-lipped, Inspector Burks hurried from the Seven headquarters. He was bent on following the messenger who had brought the note. How had the young man known where to reach Burks? Why had he so discreetly withdrawn without waiting for the usual tip?

In the street outside the Falmouth Building, Inspector Burks found his answer. For as he elbowed through the crowd, eyes sharpened for the sight of the messenger’s uniform, a strange, eerie whistle, weird yet mingled with a note of mockery, pierced the excited murmur of the crowd.

With an imprecation on his lips, Burks returned to the building. For he knew that that whistle had come from the puckered lips of Secret Agent “X,” standing perhaps only a few feet from the inspector and looking for all the world like one of the thousands of people in the street.