Legion of the Living Dead

by Brant House

  Agent “X” turned to the back of the store, glanced into Krausman’ s office, and hurried on to another room where were the vaults in which Krausman kept certain valuable jewels. The door was locked.

  Taking from his pocket a bunch of master keys, with­out which he never ventured forth, he selected one that would fit the lock. In another moment, he was inside the room. It, too, was empty. But “X” immediately noticed the absence of the telephone which usually sat upon the desk. The phone wire itself passed beneath the slightly raised window and out into the alley.

  “X” picked up a straight office chair and quietly tiptoed to the window. Raising the chair level with his chest, his arms shot out like two pistons. The chair crashed through the glass. “X” followed the chair, leaping over the sill to drop ten feet into the alley outside. Recovering his balance immediately, he glimpsed the phone swing­ing against the outer wall. A small window-washer’s ladder leaned against the wall. But these were minor details and the matter of only a moment’s observation. Near the window was a sleek, cream-colored roadster. The door was open and a woman was just stepping in. She sent one glance over her shoulder before dropping into the deep cushions.

  For a moment, “X” saw her face, though partially concealed by the soft fur that trimmed the collar of her extravagantly beautiful dress. Her face was small, nearly round, and dark complexioned. Her lips slightly voluptuous, were rouged a striking shade of red that was almost like Chinese lacquer. Her nose was slightly uptilted and her eyes were actually arresting; true emerald green, they were beneath long, penciled brows that curved upwards at the outer extremities.

  But what struck Agent “X” as being extremely important was the flash of green in the bracelet about her left wrist. He was certain that the woman wore the jade bracelet that he had watched Dr. Jules Planchard purchase.

  The woman’s lips parted, emitting a husky, purring sort of laugh.

  “X” saw that the motor of the car was running. He sprang toward it in an effort to catch hold of the spare-tire carrier, but even as he leaped, the clutch grabbed and the car scudded off down the alley.

  “X” pivoted. A trim black sedan, one of the Agent’s own cars, was parked directly behind the jewelry store. He made for it, sprang into the front compartment, and plugged at the starter. The motor kicked over, thrummed smoothly. He shifted gears soundlessly and gave the great supercharged motor all the gas it would take. Like a black projectile, his car shot down the alley.

  Ahead of him, the woman’s roadster nosed through a traffic lane, and turned to the right. “X” rounded the corner, his car whining in second gear. He cleared the broad bumper of a moving truck by a hair’s breadth, purposely threw the car into a skid that shied it across the track of a speeding sedan. Ahead, the cream-colored roadster wove through traffic, putting two more cars between its tail-lamp and the nose of the Agent’s car.

  He accelerated, sounded his horn, and crowded the car in front of him to the curb. A comparatively clear lane ahead, the cream-colored car, with its exotic driver, pulled away. The tweet of a traffic officer’s whistle was wasted on unheeding ears. The green-eyed woman could drive, and her car was capable of taking all she gave it.

  “X” had seen the green-eyed woman before. Felice Vincart was her real name, but it had given place to the alias she had made famous. Snatched from the variety stage by an ardent young millionaire who had fallen in love with her, Felice Vincart had found herself a widow after a few months. In spite of her wealth, she had not gained a position in the social register. She remained known not by her husband’s name but by the alias she had made famous. When the tabloids exploited her voluptuous beauty she was invariably called “The Leopard Lady.”

  It was an appropriate appellation; for Felice Vincart had a grace and manner that was actually feline. Her act in the theater had consisted of a wild, barbaric dance, revolving about two great leopards which she herself had trained.

  How had the Leopard Lady, with all the pleasures that money could buy at her disposal, become associated with the criminal who directed the activities of the sinister corpse legion? Perhaps a life of indolence had held no thrills for the woman who had tamed jungle beasts.

  Agent “X” had little time to dwell on how the Leopard Lady had allied herself with the terrible group. He was fully occupied in keeping on her weaving trail that defied every traffic ordinance. Suddenly, quite as if by accident, the cream-colored car swerved to avoid a car coming from the opposite direction. Its front wheel clipped the corner of the curb and the car bounded into an alley.

  “X” followed, wheeling his car across the street and into the alley. Ahead of him, the cream-colored car had slowed down. “X” spurted, and in another moment was forced to cram on his brakes with all the strength of his right leg. From a covered driveway, a huge truck had backed across the alley. The Agent was as effectually separated from his quarry as if a stone wall had suddenly been conjured up in front of him. In spite of his quick action and the superior power of his brakes he did not stop until the nose of his car had mashed against the panel of the truck.

  Was this opportune intervention a coincidence? The Secret Agent thought not. Everything had fallen in too perfectly with the Leopard Lady’s plan of escape. He could almost hear her husky, purring laugh of triumph.

  “X” knocked open the door of his car and leaped to the pavement. In a moment his question was definitely answered. It was no coincidence; it was a perfectly laid trap set to catch one man—Secret Agent “X.”

  From the doorway of flanking buildings poured a small army of men—corpse-faced criminals from out of the past. With the confidence their numbers gave them, they rushed upon “X,” blunt-nose automatics firmly gripped in their fists. The Agent drew his gun with his right hand, at the same time sending a short, jolting left to the side of the foremost criminal’s head. The man dropped without a groan. “X’s” gas gun, that marvelous weapon of his own development, hissed like a snake. A cloud of the powerful anesthetizing vapor blasted a second criminal into oblivion.

  Completely surrounded, “X” fought like one possessed of the devil. He hacked at heads with the barrel of his gun, wary of using the gas with which it was loaded lest in the mad, battling maelstrom of humanity some of the anesthetizing fumes reach his own lungs. The gang, he knew, would avoid using their automatics lest the sound of shots draw in police interference.

  “X” got a grip around the waist of one of his opponents, lifted the man bodily, and would have hurled him to the pavement had he not at that moment been struck a powerful blow from behind. Off balance, he sprawled to the pavement. Like starved wolves, the mob was upon him, holding him down by sheer weight of numbers. A gun barrel crashed into his head—once—twice. Agent “X” dipped into oblivion.

  1 AUTHOR’S NOTE: Followers of the “X” chronicles have probably recognized the redheaded clerk as Jim Hobart, the young man who directs the Hobart Detective agency, one of the units in the Secret Agent’s vast crime fighting organization. Though the Hobart group resembles any other private detective bureau in that it is at the service of the public, Jim Hobart’s first duty is toward Agent “X”, who befriended him in a time of need. In as much as Hobart knew “X” only in the character of A. J. Martin, a newspaper correspondent, it is little wonder that he failed to recognize his friend when “X” adopted the identity of Peter Krausman.

  2 AUTHOR’S NOTE: Daughter of a former member of the police force, it seemed a natural course of events that Betty Dale should turn to police reporting when she became old enough to select a career. Though left alone in the world, she was not without friends — many of them detectives who knew her father. But her staunchest friend, and the man she admires most, is Secret Agent “X”. Together, they have encountered many perilous adventures, previously recorded. Her admiration for the Agent has grown to a beautiful, unselfish love.

  3 AUTHOR’S NOTE: It should be explained for the benefit of those who meet the Agent for the first time herein, that thoug
h Betty Dale has met him often enough to know him probably more than any other person, she has never seen his true face. Her love for him is not based upon romantic dreams revolving about this man of mystery; it is the underlying, thoroughly human qualities of the man that attract her. For always, Agent “X” is kindly to those who merit kindness; never has he willingly harmed the defenseless. Even his enemies attest the quality of his mercy.

  CHAPTER III

  TORTURE

  * * * *

  Secret Agent “X’s” first sensation was that of motion. The cold air of speed was biting into his cheeks. He opened his eyes, and stared straight ahead of him where automobile headlamps were beaming down a dark and narrow street. He tried to move. He could only turn his head; his feet were lashed to the brake and clutch pedals of the speeding car, and his hands were firmly fastened to the steering wheel.

  He could not speak. A hard, conical-shaped gag, similar to the old French poire d’angoise had forced his jaws apart. He looked about him. Dirty brick dwellings rushed by on either side of the street. The speedometer hovered around fifty, but aside from the helpless Secret Agent, the roadster was empty.

  “X” tried to depress the brake pedal. It was fixed in place. It was impossible for him to turn the steering wheel or cut the gas. The motor rolled smoothly, guided by some gigantic, invisible force. Secret Agent “X,” champion of justice, was riding, apparently driving, the mystery car which the corpse-criminals had made the terror of the city.

  That the car was robot-driven seemed to be the only explanation. Looking back over his shoulder, “X” could see another car a block or more behind. It was possible, he knew, to steer a car by robot radio control from another car. Still, with a block or more distance between the two cars, it seemed impossible that the car in which “X” was riding could be so unerringly managed.

  His first thought was that the mystery car in which he rode would be driven into some accident that would be fatal for “X.” But surely a gang which killed as the corpse-criminal mob did, would not go to the trouble of trying to make one murder out of scores appear as an accident.

  The mystery car suddenly slowed down as though unseen giants were hauling on the wheels. It turned the corner, rolled on to a choppy pavement, turned into a drive, and slid through dark garage doors. Instantly, the doors closed, and “X” was in a darkness like black velvet.

  A moment of silence was followed by a strange, clanking sound. “X” was conscious of some one close at hand moving through the darkness. Something rattled on the door of the car. A cold claw of iron clutched about his left wrist and locked there. “X” struggled with all his Herculean strength to break his bonds. But they resisted his every effort. The clanging sound continued. Some one was rounding the nose of the car. Again a claw of steel met his flesh. A second bracelet of metal encircled his right wrist.

  Then the beam of a flashlight struck down through the darkness, illuminating the under-cowl of the car. He heard the sound of heavy breathing. And in the reflected rays of light, Agent “X” saw the distorted features of Scar Fassler. A long knife was in the big mobster’s hand. Its keen blade sliced through the cords that bound “X” to the pedals and steering wheel.

  The Agent saw that his wrists were linked by a heavy log chain. A leader of steel cable ran from the chain to a loop set in the garage wall. Fassler grinned up into the Agent’s face.

  “Whyn’t you try a sock at me now, Mr. ‘X’,” he goaded. “Which freshest up my memory to the fact that I owe you a poke, don’t I?” Fassler’s great fist fanned the air in a haymaker which “X” attempted to duck. But the blow landed on his jaw, sending flames of pain through his head, and setting his ears to ringing. The Agent gritted his teeth. Great muscles in his arms rippled and drew taut beneath his flesh. His steely eyes burned with cold fire.

  Fassler grinned. “You goin’ to get out, or do I knock you out?” He raised his right hand, balled around an automatic.

  “X” shrugged, kicked open the door of the car, and stepped out. In spite of the weight of the chains, he carried himself perfectly erect. He moved easily across the garage toward the loop which confined him. Fassler followed.

  When within a yard of the wall, Agent “X” turned around. With a speed that took Fassler completely unawares, “X” swung the heavy chain above his head, and brought it down in a blow that landed on Fassler’s right forearm. A harsh cry of pain ripped from Fassler’s throat. The automatic in his hand fell to the floor. “X” dropped to his knees and, manacled though he was, recovered the weapon.

  The blow which he had given Fassler might easily have broken his arm. The gunman had dropped to the floor.

  Suddenly, “X” heard a faint rustle behind him. He pivoted. A shadowy thing of uncertain shape swirled down upon him. His head was blanketed in a soft black rope that reeked with the sweetish odor of chloroform. To battle in such intoxicating darkness was hopeless. “X” felt himself seized in powerful arms. Then he became a floating thing without substance.

  When Agent “X” came out of his drugged sleep, he found himself alone in a small room. A single door with a small barred window was the only break in the monotony of the four walls. He was dizzy and nauseated from the effects of the chloroform. For a few moments, he lay perfectly still upon the floor, eyes wandering about the room. Not far from him was a complex apparatus partially hidden by a black screen centered with an opaque window of some white material. This he recognized as the most up-to-date television receiver on the market.

  For a while, he watched it dully, wondering what its purpose could be. Then he sat up. The manacles had been removed. He ran his fingers over his face to make sure that his makeup was intact.

  At the instant that his fingers touched his face, his heart pounded in his throat. His groping fingers had not encountered plastic makeup material and faceplates, but his own face! He stared down at his fingers. Finger tips were stained with black ink. His disguise had been penetrated, and, for the first time in his dual career of crime fighting and law evasion, his fingerprints had been recorded. For the first time, the hideous phantom of failure danced mocking before his eyes. He had at last met his equal—the hidden leader of the corpse-legion whose butchery terrorized the city.

  The one light in the room faded out, and was supplanted by the glow of the television screen. A powerful radio sound circuit moved into operation. Across the television screen, a black shadow moved. It was a shapeless shadow that might well have concealed a man. “X” watched it closely.

  “We meet, Secret Agent ‘X’,” a voice boomed from the radio. “Rest assured that though my curiosity has led me to look upon your true face, no other eyes than mine have seen you as you really are. You would have been a worthy opponent hadn’t the green eyes of the Leopard Lady enticed you into my trap. I have no particular desire to reveal your identity to the world unless it becomes necessary to do so.

  “My plan, I think, will interest you. You may have guessed of the hate I bear all who support the law. And inasmuch as you are the paragon of law enforcement, my hatred has centered upon you. I have conceived a delightful means of tormenting you before you die—a means which is related to some extent to what those ancient monks of the Spanish Inquisition called ‘Torture by Hope.’ Observe the screen of the television unit carefully, Agent ‘X’, and you will understand perfectly.”

  The shadow was gone. Again a switch popped. Shadow objects on the television screen were brought into focus. Agent “X” saw an interior view of a house that was well known to him. It was the exotically furnished home of Felice Vincart, the Leopard Lady. Between two twisted pillars that might have been brought from Granada’s Alhambra was an iron-barred cage containing two tawny leopards of unusual size.

  The door of the cage was in the form of a circle of metal. It appeared that the door was made of many pieces of metal mounted and movable like the iris of a camera. A long pendulumed clock was mounted above it.

  Agent “X” remembered that some strange whim
of Felice Vincart had led her to install an amateur television transmitter in her home. Now he understood that it was to be put to a terrible purpose. On a gilt divan, directly in front of the leopard cage, was the form of a woman. In spite of the small proportions reproduced on the screen, “X” knew that woman. There was no mistaking the wealth of golden hair that rippled across the cushions of the divan. The woman was Betty Dale.

  The Agent’s heart throbbed in hopeless rebellion against what he feared he would be forced to witness. The helpless girl writhed against her bonds. Shudders convulsed her entire body as one of the leopards flung its tawny strength against the circular door. Then “X” knew the meaning of torture!

  The great clock above the cage had been set in motion. Its long pendulum ticked out an eternity of minutes; and as each minute ticked by, the steel, irislike door opened the merest fraction of an inch. Eventually, that door would widen to such an extent that the big cats would break through. Their lean flanks, their gaping, hungry jaws gave mute promise of what might be expected.

  Agent “X” sprang to his feet. The house was silent. There was no sign of any living thing within the room save the torturous, silent pantomime of the television screen. “X” leaped to the door. It was heavy oak three inches thick. “X” looked through the opening, looked anywhere save at the baleful picture on the screen.

  In the hall outside, a powerfully built man lolled in a chair. A Winchester rifle was slung across his knees. The Agent’s fingers trembled over the lock of the door. He might easily pick it if his tools had been left him.

  He made a hasty inventory of the equipment he carried. His gas pistol had been removed from his coat as well as the automatic he had taken from Fassler. But his pocket makeup kit and compact tool and medical kits had been left him. “Why?” his brain hammered. Surely the shadowy gang leader was more clever than that. Did the Unknown imagine that Agent “X” could be confined in such a cell by even a dozen guards when the person whom he regarded above everyone else was in danger? Some sixth sense told him that here was a trick of some sort.