Secret Agent X : The Complete Series Volume 3

by Emile C. Tepperman

  Barton’s youthful face twisted into a leer of malice and hatred. “You’ve ruined the greatest scheme the world has ever known! In a short time I would have had more power than any king or emperor!” He took an impulsive step forward. “Whoever you are, you must be clever, ingenious, to have fought me this way. Why not join me? There will be little reward for you in turning me over to the police compared to what I can offer you. With the secret of that gas, two such men as you and I could achieve world empire. What do you say!”

  “X” paid no attention to the mad offer of partnership in crime. He gazed speculatively at Barton, reflecting that there were strange motives in the world which impelled men to do mad things. This young man, possessed of wealth, education, culture, had turned to crime because of those very endowments which the world envied; surfeit of good fortune had made life empty—boring for him; and his brilliant mind had sought in crime the thrills that his jaded appetite craved.

  “X” said aloud, “You had no regard even for your own father. You permitted him to think you were kidnaped—so that you would be free to appear as the monster!”

  Barton waved the comment away impatiently. “What of it!” His voice became wheedling; eager. “Will you join me? You and I—nobody could stop us. We could climb the heights of power together!”

  “X” shook his head. “And meet the same fate that your other partners met?”

  Barton jerked his head up, eyes startled.

  The Agent went on inexorably. “Of course you had partners. You didn’t operate on those convicts’ faces yourself—it was Jack Larrabie here that did that. And Harry Pringle, too. He planned the jail break because of his intimate knowledge of the layout of the State Prison—his father is the deputy police commissioner.”

  Barton stared at the Agent, fascinated, as he went on. “And Ranny Coulter—another of your jaded young thrill-seekers. This is his father’s house. The whole row belongs to his father. He furnished your headquarters. You were all going to take turns at acting as the monster. But you killed them all, one after the other, when you found you didn’t need them any longer.”

  The Agent spoke bitterly now. He pointed an accusing finger. “Barton, you are the worst of the lot—for you betrayed even your own associates.

  “I have no sympathy for you—only for your father, for the fathers of Larrabie, and Coulter, and Pringle. I am thinking of the disgrace, the shame that you four thrill-seeking egomaniacs have brought upon their heads!”

  Barton asked fiercely, “Who are you, anyway?”

  “You may call me—Secret Agent ‘X’!”

  Barton’s body tautened. He raised his manacled hands in the air, leaped at “X” in a furious, desperate, fanatical onslaught. He brought his joined hands down in a chopping blow at the Agent’s skull.

  But “X” had jumped inside his guard, so that the steel cuffs glanced off his shoulder. The Agent at the same time swung a hard right fist to Barton’s middle, doubling him up. Barton sagged weakly to the floor. There were tears of defeat in his eyes. His breath, taken away by that blow, came in short gasps. His hands fumbled in his vest pocket, came out with a small pellet. They flashed upward, and the pellet disappeared in his mouth. He gulped, and swallowed.

  Now he smiled grotesquely. “I’ve saved you the trouble of calling the police!” he said. “You win, Sec—”

  His whole body stiffened, his face became crimson, and he collapsed.

  The Agent stooped beside him. He was dead.

  Chapter XXII

  “De Mortuis, Nihil Nisi Bonum”

  NOW Secret Agent “X” worked swiftly, but with purpose. He stepped to the desk, rummaged through drawers, until he found a sealed envelope. He ripped this open, inspected the sheet of paper within. It was headed, “Formula for nitrocetylene.” Below it were chemical symbols which the Agent took care not to look at. He did not want the responsibility of possessing the knowledge of that hideous, death-dealing gas.

  Slowly, somberly, he ripped the paper to shreds, touched a match to them.

  Then he stepped out of that room of horror, into another passage. At the end of this passage was a curtained doorway. “X” parted the curtains, peered through. He saw that the doorway opened upon a platform in a large room. Before the platform, rows of chairs were arranged in a semicircle. And the chairs were occupied—all but two of them, by the figures of the robot-like ex-convicts.

  They were evidently awaiting the arrival of their master upon the platform; they must have been summoned for a meeting which would never take place now.

  One of the robots noticed the crack in the curtains, started up in his chair. “X” gave him no time to warn the others. He held in his hand three glass capsules, larger than the one he had used in his escape from the police car on Brooklyn Bridge. They were colored red; they contained, not ammonia, but the anesthetizing gas which the Agent used in his gun. He stepped through the curtains, onto the platform, and hurled the three capsules among the convicts.

  He did not wait to see the effects; he knew that within a matter of seconds they would be rendered unconscious by that swiftly vaporizing gas, would remain that way for hours.

  He stepped back into the corridor, hurried back to the laboratory. There was a phone here, and he picked it up, dialed the number of Jim Hobart’s office. When Jim got on the wire, the Agent gave him the address of the house of death, issued swift instructions.

  “This is Fearson,” he said. “Come to this address at once. Bring with you a large black bag which Mr. Martin keeps in your office. Ring the outside bell, and I will take the bag from you.”

  That done, the Agent inspected the room carefully. He was seeking the hiding place of the safe which Barton had said contained the descriptions of all those convicts who were lying unconscious in the meeting hall....

  IT was almost midnight when sirens sounded before that house of mystery and death. Headquarters cars, squad cars, radio cars filled the quiet street. Police swarmed in from every direction. They were headed by Deputy Commissioner Pringle in person, and they were there in answer to a mysterious telephone call. The caller had instructed them to go to this address in connection with the robot murders.

  Commissioner Pringle was the first up the steps, tried the door and found it open. Burly Inspector Burks, in charge of homicide, shouldered past him. “This is my job, Commissioner,” he grumbled. He strode into the dark hallway with drawn gun, flanked by two plain-clothes men with Thompsons.

  But they met no opposition. Not until they reached the cellar did they know that they had not been hoaxed.

  For there they found the laboratory, and on the floor the empty, monstrous armored shell of the being that had struck terror to the city: And close by lay Fred Barton, youthful and innocent looking in death, beside the scorched body of Jack Larrabie.

  Pringle said with a catch in his voice, “Poor boys. They died trying to fight the monster. I hate to be the one to break the news to their families!”

  From the laboratory they passed down the hall, found the meeting room. Inspector Burks stepped onto the platform, looked down, and exclaimed, “What the hell is this!”

  The chairs had been cleared away from the center of the room. Where they had stood, there were now ranged in a long row twenty-five unconscious bodies. And the faces were not the faces of robots, but those of the very men who were being sought all over the country—the twenty-five convicts who had escaped from State Prison!

  Inspector Burks leaped from the platform, stooped and examined those heavy-breathing forms. To the chest of each was pinned a typewritten sheet bearing the identifying marks to be found on their bodies—marks which were part of the prison record of each man, and could not be denied.

  Burks exclaimed, “These are the robots! Feel their bodies—they’re wearing the bullet-proof clothing yet!”

  He placed a hand on their faces, cried, “Good God—this is make-up! Somebody’s fixed their faces to resemble their old selves. They’ve been delivered to us on a sil
ver platter!”

  He arose, issued orders excitedly. Men hastened in, placed handcuffs on the unconscious convicts. A call was put in for the wagon.

  Pringle was trembling with emotion. “I wonder which of these convicts was the ringleader—which of them used the armor of the monster.”

  “We’ll never know,” Burks said morosely. “Whoever it was that laid them out here, must have taken out the one in the monster’s shell and set him here next to the rest. It makes no difference, though—they’ll all burn for murder!”

  Pringle sighed. “Well, there’ll be no more robot killings. At least Professor Larrabie, and Giles Barton will have the satisfaction of knowing that their sons’ deaths were not in vain. They can always be proud that their boys were brave enough to risk their lives against these killers!”

  And from somewhere in the distance there sounded the faint notes of an eerie whistle that jerked every man in the room to attention. That whistle was the inimitable signal of the man who was known as Secret Agent “X”—and it seemed to carry through the air the stamp of approval of Commissioner Pringle’s words.

  The secret of those four young men who had built a tower of terror upon a dream of power would forever be locked in the breast of a single man—Secret Agent “X.”

  For the sake of their families he had adopted the adage, “De mortuis, nihil nisi bonum!”

  The Sinister Scourge

  Unseen, horrible as the tightening coils of some spectral serpent, the dope ring worked! Those who betrayed its secrets died in the agonies of the green-hued poison death. Those who served it became sweating, shattered slaves. And Agent “X” dared both death and slavery to fight the sinister scourge!

  Chapter I

  HUNTERS OF DARKNESS

  NIGHT lay over Chinatown. Night with its stillness, its darkness, its strangely sinister shadows. A blanket of drifting fog, deadening sound and sight, made even familiar objects appear distorted and mysterious. Behind this dank vapor there was tenseness, uneasiness and unusual activity along the narrow, winding streets.

  As the fog rolled ponderously through them like the coils of some huge, ghostly serpent seeking human prey, men moved in the gloom and spoke in whispers. Few Orientals were abroad. The men who trod cautiously by dusty shops and dark doorways were white. Their faces were grim. Guns weighted the pockets of many. Automatics were strapped in holsters ready for instant use.

  A score of extra policemen had been detailed for duty in Chinatown tonight. Others of the group who so vigilantly patrolled were plainclothes detectives and special agents of the Federal Narcotic Squad. All were hunting the same insidious thing—dope.

  Certain habits of the men from the Land of the Poppy Seed were known to them. Suspicions therefore led to this section of the city where thousands of Orientals dwelt.

  The few Chinamen who ventured out crept furtively along the pavements, ducking out of sight quickly. Those who didn’t were stopped and questioned by alert detectives. They were asked to identify themselves, with business references or immigration papers. If they couldn’t they were driven away in patrol wagons to police headquarters for further questioning. Because of the sinister, unseen presence of the dread dope evil, East and West were close to the breaking point tonight.

  As the darkness deepened and the fog grew thicker a shadow moved at the end of a narrow, cluttered alley. It became taller, clearer, and suddenly took shape as a man. There was a fence behind the alley. Through this the man had come. So quietly and mysteriously had he appeared that he seemed hardly more than some apparition, a human embodiment of the darkness of the night.

  Yet he had the complexion and the sloe-black, slanted eyes of a Chinaman. A lofty, intellectual forehead, broad, high cheek bones, and a tall, muscular body proclaimed that he was one of the proud Northern Manchu race, conquerors and rulers of China for three hundred years.

  The tall Oriental moved with catlike quiet and swiftness. He was dressed in a simple black mohair suit. Black, rubber-soled shoes were on his feet. A black, soft hat covered his head. Except for the yellowish moon of his face he was invisible as long as he stayed in the shadows.

  He seemed to have a definite objective, a route that he was following. Twice this took him across Chinatown’s main streets. At such times he waited with infinite patience until the patrolling cops had turned their backs. Then, swift and silent as a streamer of fog blown by the night wind, he would slip across the thoroughfare and disappear into an alleyway beyond.

  In a few minutes he came close to a building that was famous in Chinatown’s history. This was a simple three-story, brownstone edifice with a peaked roof. Once it had been a white man’s residence. Now ornate bronze dragons graced its four corners. On its front, high above the street, was the insignia of the Ming Tong, powerful Chinese secret society whose influence stretched into every city in the land where Orientals gathered.

  In the past, bloody tong battles had raged close to this building. Tides of death had swept around its base when hatchetmen and slant-eyed sharpshooters fought for supremacy. Then peace had come to Chinatown. The tongmen had arrived at secret pacts and agreements. The Ming Tong was now ruled over by the benevolent and aged Lo Mong Yung, father of the Mingmen.

  IN the mouth of an alley across from this building the tall Manchu paused. He would have to cross one more street to reach the door of tong headquarters, and two federal men were on patrol there. They were ready to nab and question any members who might come. In the minds of the white men tonight the tong was linked up with sinister narcotic activities. In spite of the wisdom, strength and kindliness of old Lo Mong Yung, they felt that Ming headquarters might be the clearing house of the dreaded drug.

  The tall Manchu understood this. His eyes glittered. He waited, watching, debating, as ten minutes passed. The Manchu’s patience seemed inexhaustible. He appeared able to make of himself a living statue.

  A half hour went by. Then, at the end of it, he was rewarded. For something down the block attracted the attention of the federal men. This was a truckload of rice, spices and bamboo shoots arriving at the side door of a harmless old merchant’s shop. The federal men suspected apparently the consignment might contain hidden dope.

  Seizing his opportunity, the tall Manchu crossed the street as quickly as he had the others. He slipped through the doorway of Ming headquarters so deftly that he seemed only a breath of the night fog entering.

  Yet a voice instantly sounded close to his ear. A flashlight clicked on, and the hard snout of an automatic was pressed against the Manchu’s side.

  He didn’t cry out or jump as a white man might have been expected to do. He stood straight and taut, staring into the lens of the flash, waiting, unawed it seemed by the presence of the gun.

  “Where are you headed, fellah? What’s your name and what’s your business?” The words came from the lips of Detective Bartholdy, veteran sleuth of the city narcotic squad; a man who had spent twenty years of his life hunting dope, and a man who trusted no Chinaman.

  The tall Manchu caught a glimpse of Bartholdy’s face. Suspicion gleamed in the detective’s narrowed eyes. Bartholdy was set for trouble. He had been lurking here to nab just such a visitor. He would never let this man enter the tong without exhaustive inquiries. Valuable minutes had already passed. The tall Manchu in the black suit, notwithstanding his outward calm, was in a hurry.

  He addressed the detective in excellent English, but in the slightly nasal, singsong accents of his race. “My name is Ho Ling,” he said. “I go about my private business, and that business is harmful to no one.”

  The detective only pressed the gun tighter. “Yeah? And how do I know that? I don’t remember seeing you around here before. I’ve got a pretty good memory for faces.”

  “It is not likely, white man, that you would remember the faces of all the five thousand members of my race who inhabit this quarter.”

  “Don’t try to high-hat me, fellah! Show me some identification.”

  The tall Ma
nchu nodded gravely. He held out a slender but powerful hand with pointed fingertips and nails that were carefully manicured, “This ring,” he said. “Perhaps you have seen one like it before. It is the symbol of my tong. I am not a Mingman. I am here in the stronghold of the Mingmen, however, on a peaceful mission.”

  On the Manchu’s third finger gleamed a ring of immense proportions and singular design. A dragon’s head of rose onyx was held in a wrought gold setting. Two tiny emeralds sparkled in the dragon’s eyes. Its nostrils flared open.

  BARTHOLDY grunted and leaned forward, moving his flash so that the rays fell on the strange ring. His intent face was not more than a foot above the ring which the Manchu held high.

  “I never remember seeing a ring like that before,” Bartholdy said. “I guess—”

  He didn’t finish the sentence. For the Manchu’s long and powerful hand moved imperceptibly. The third finger, as though it had a life all its own, twitched upward ever so slightly. As it did so the tiny, hideous jaws of the onyx dragon opened wide. From them shot a jet of strange, pungent vapor. Straight into Bartholdy’s open mouth and nostrils it went.

  The cry that rose to his lips was stilled. The Manchu’s other hand, working in lightninglike conjunction with the one that bore the ring, wrenched the gun from Bartholdy’s fingers before he could pull the trigger.

  Bartholdy, gasping and trying to retain his faculties, endeavored to keep a grip on the wall behind him. He could not. Slowly and still soundlessly his body sagged. His knees gave way under him. He sank to the floor and lay inertly; not dead, but knocked out for many minutes by the concentrated essence of a powerful anaesthetic vapor he had inhaled.

  The Manchu’s expression had not changed. His eyes still gleamed. His yellow face was impassive. Before moving from where he stood he caught hold of the head of the dragon ring, gave it a dexterous twist and snapped it open. The hollowed out onyx, which was merely a thin shell, disclosed a small metal cylinder. The Manchu took this out, dropped it in his pocket. It was empty now. It had done its work. He replaced it with a fresh one, snapped the onyx dragon’s head down again.