Secret Agent X – The Complete Series Volume 1 (Annotated)

by Paul Chadwick

  His four captors didn’t notice the motion of his foot, or if they did they mistook it for a shrinking back in fear. He lifted his toe, swayed his body sideways, bringing his full weight down on the right heel, pressing the rubber and flattening it so that the metal stud inside that was the trigger of the tiny air gun was pushed home.

  They did not hear the faint hiss that came from the end of the minute tube concealed in the thick sole of his shoe.

  The man in the door of the torture chamber, the man with the gun, gave a throaty, inarticulate cry. His face registered intense surprise. He turned, slowly, stood swaying on his feet, and, just as slowly, his face changed. The masklike look came again. The face muscles sagged, knotted, and sagged again. The man’s gun fell from his inert fingers and clattered to the stone floor. The man’s knees buckled under him and he collapsed.

  The four mutes holding Agent “X” stiffened with amazement. Their lusterless eyes showed utter incomprehension. Their grip on his arms relaxed for the fraction of a second. And, in that fraction of time, he put all the strength of his muscles into one mighty heave. He wrenched himself loose and leaped backwards.

  He heard the pounding of feet behind him, saw lights flash again as a secret signal system was put into operation. The gray-clad men were swift runners, too. They sensed now that the collapse of the man with the gun had been a trick of the Agent’s. Their fury was animal-like. He could hear their babbling, incoherent cries—the cries of mutes trying to give expression to inhuman rage.

  He passed an open passageway and saw two more figures running toward him. He flashed past; but something streaked out, burning his leg so that for a moment the pain almost paralyzed him and forced him to slow down. A splash of acid hurled by one of the men in the corridor had struck his ankle. He ran on, his face contorted.

  He had the feeling now that flitting gray shapes were everywhere, that another spray of acid might come out of any dark corner. But he could not see his way. He turned on the pencil-thin beam of his flash for an instant. Directly ahead was the corridor leading through the jumble of buildings in the warehouse’s rear. Beyond it was the street.

  He reached the street with flying figures close behind him. He burst out the door into the cold night air. But Betty had taken his car as he had told her to. Death was close at his heels.

  WINCING with pain, limping, he plunged along the street. Looking back he saw gray shapes moving behind him like wolves in the night. The “Torture Trust’s” horrible horde was close behind. The street seemed to harbor death.

  He put on a burst of speed that pumped blood into the burned spot on his ankle, increasing the pain until it was as though a hot rivet had been driven into his flesh.

  He turned a corner, ran on with the pursuers gaining. It was late, the streets were deserted. Even if there were a cop in sight he would be of no aid. He would only meet a hideous death, too.

  Two more blocks and the Agent saw something that made him increase his efforts. There was an all-night lunch room at the next corner. A taxi stood before it, its engine idling to keep warm. The driver was inside.

  Even as he leaped into the cab’s front seat, he heard the sound of another auto starting up behind, backing out of a garage. He remembered the car that had taken Betty Dale away from the Herald office, the car in which he had ridden to MacDonough Street.

  He raced the taxi’s engine, drew the shift lever back, released the clutch, and plunged forward. He heard the hoarse shout of a man behind him—the taxi driver running from the lunch room. But he had to take the cab. If anything happened to it, he’d see that the taxi company was reimbursed.

  The taxi was an old one. Its valves needed grinding. The motor had poor pickup. The car was already shooting down the street, gaining. He shifted frantically, and pressed the accelerator down till the engine coughed. The taxi began to gain speed. It rumbled and jounced over the rough pavement. He spun the wheel, made a skidding turn around a corner, and roared on.

  At the end of the block he heard the pursuing car duplicate his maneuver. The sound of the taxi’s engine was rising in pitch now. The big cab was rolling ahead at ever mounting speed. The needle on the speedometer showed forty, fifty, fifty-five. He took another corner, heading toward the river to get out of the rough cross-town streets. Then he found himself on a long, wide avenue running parallel with the water. It too, was deserted, until a cop’s whistle blew frantically. But the taxi lurched and roared past.

  Agent “X” glanced over his shoulder through the rear window. The goggling lights of the car behind were increasing steadily in size. He pressed the accelerator down as far as it would go—and got up to fifty-five again. But the needle of the speedometer hung there, sliding forward a degree when the street slanted down, going back when there was a slight incline. The pursuing car was only a half block behind.

  Then the warehouses and pier sheds to right and left echoed to the sudden staccato clatter of a sub-machine gun. Something whined by in the night. An explosive tinkle of breaking glass came from the rear window. He looked back and saw that it had disappeared. It was an old model car. Even the windshield was not shatterproof. The glass partition between the driver’s seat and the passenger’s compartment was the next to go. Then the windshield flew into crystal slivers before his face. Pieces of it whizzed by his head, pricked his skin.

  The night wind beat against his eyes with a force that made them blink and burn. The cab was being torn to pieces, raked by bullets as the devilish chatter of the machine gun continued with a measured, precise regularity that had the finality of doom. In a matter of seconds only the law of averages would take effect, a steel-jacketed bullet would pierce him, and he would slump forward in his seat. The speeding cab would crash into a building, be demolished, burst into flame. The car behind had demonstrated its supremacy in speed.

  He shot a glance to the left toward the river, his eyes bright as hot coals. Death by bullets was quick, painless. The old wound in his side had brought him near death often. He was on familiar terms with the Grim Reaper. But there was the cause for which he worked. There was the “Torture Trust” to be smashed, and there was Betty Dale! Unless he fought for her, saved her, she would be tracked down and hideously mutilated, perhaps killed.

  He spun the wheel of the plunging cab viciously. It rocked to the left across the broad street. For an instant the raking stream of bullets left it. Then they found it again. The car behind had swerved, too. But Agent “X” pulled the wheel still farther. The fat tires squealed in protest. The cab groaned in every bolt. It skidded dangerously, then roared ahead. The yawning entrance to an open dock was directly before it; farther still the oily, chill waters of the river moved sluggishly. The cab lunged out across the clattering boards of the dock.

  The machine gun ceased its chattering, but the car behind still followed. The Agent did not decrease his speed. He sat hunched low over the wheel, staring ahead through the shattered windshield.

  A low protecting bulkhead rose at the end of the dock. There were capstans spaced at intervals for tugs and excursion boats to tie to. He aimed the blunt nose of the cab between them and put on a last burst of speed, holding the wheel steady.

  The front tires of the cab struck the bulkhead and leaped up. The cab plunged on like a madly bucking horse, rearing its yellow shape over the end of the dock. An instant it seemed to hang in the air, then it plunged to the black river below and struck with a terrific splash. Steam hissed from the hot pipes of the engine. Yellow foam seethed and slithered sidewise. A second passed—two—and the cab filled and sank from sight.

  Chapter XIV

  The Mark of the Agent

  THE heads of the “Torture Trust” were assembled again in their secret council chamber. All were there, including the sinister Professor Morvay. There was tonight a question of singular importance to be discussed. First, however, one of the gray-clad deaf-mutes entered, stood before the black-robed trio, and began making motions in the air—the motions of his strange finger
language.

  He told for the benefit of Professor Morvay, who had not been present the night before, just what had taken place. He told of the escape of Betty Dale, of how they had pursued the Secret Agent, riddled his car with bullets, and seen him plunge to his death in the black waters of the river.

  The fast-moving hand and fingers of the deaf-mute gave a graphic account of that wild chase through the night-darkened streets.

  Morvay leaned forward, his eyes glowing behind the black hood. His long fingers answered in the same language, then asked a question.

  “Are you certain he is dead? Did you wait to see whether he rose to the surface?”

  “Yes,” came the answer. “We waited, watched—there was no chance of his survival.”

  Morvay registered grim satisfaction. The deaf-mute was dismissed. One of the hooded trio spoke.

  “You have heard what our slave reports. Secret Agent ‘X’ is dead. The girl escaped, but she knows nothing. The agent has no close confidante.”

  Morvay nodded.

  “But to make sure,” he said, “you are having the girl trailed? You will have her punished as soon as she is found.”

  The man he had questioned nodded.

  “The Herald office and her apartment are being shadowed,” he said. “She will turn up at one place or the other. We will make an example of her.”

  Again Morvay nodded. He hadn’t seen Betty Dale, but he had been told that she was beautiful, piquant. She had chosen to interfere with the activities of the “Torture Trust.” She was an ally of the Secret Agent. Because of that her beauty would be hideously destroyed. She would spend the remainder of her life looking forward to death. The secret strain of sadism that made Morvay the vicious criminal he was took delight in this prospect. He ran his tongue over thin, cruel lips.

  “Let us forget the girl and the Agent now,” he said. “One is dead—the other will shortly be disposed of. What of the business in hand?”

  The other two men leaned forward. There was the glitter in their eyes of men whose greed for money and power amounts to fanaticism. Money—power! For these they had slaughtered, maimed, and spread terror. They had extorted thousands from fear-crazed millionaires. They began to picture themselves as czars of crime, masters of death, invincible rulers of the underworld. And, scorning the citizens of the underworld, they planned to organize its riffraff into a vast disciplined legion. That would come later, however, when they had more power. Tonight there was something concrete to go over—details of the most daring crime they had ever conceived.

  “Fear of our organization is spreading,” said the man on Morvay’s right. “We are becoming famous. They call us the “ ‘Torture Trust.’ ” A low laugh followed. “It will make our next move easier. We are known across the water.”

  THEY then began to discuss the plot they had in mind. It was stupendously daring, yet absurdly simple; but they never acted without long preliminary arguments, weighing each move with cold logic. They had the training, the discipline, of men in high positions. Each could have made a decent living in the world of honest men. But there was in each a hidden strain of criminality coupled with a ruthless thirst for power.

  The plan under discussion tonight dealt with Sir Anthony Dunsmark, British financier; one of the heads of the great Bank of England; a man of international repute; a man whose opinions were taken as gospel truth and whose statements had to be issued guardedly because they had power to influence stock quotations in many countries. Dunsmark had shouldered his share of the financial burdens of the World War. He was on his way to America now to take part in a meeting of bankers, to do his bit toward helping along world recovery. Traveling on the liner Victoria, accompanied by one secretary, he would arrive in three days.

  The hooded trio were like buzzards before a feast preparing for his arrival. So far their extortion racket had fallen on rich men in the city only. But here was an opportunity to extend operations.

  What if Anthony Dunsmark disappeared upon arrival in America? What if his government should receive a letter demanding a vast sum which, if not paid over, would bring about the death of Dunsmark by the lingering horrors of acid?

  No government would permit such a thing to happen to one of its best-known citizens. The sum asked would be paid, no matter how great it might be. To have Sir Anthony Dunsmark meet his death at the hands of American criminals would be a blot on the United States. America would contribute to his ransom if necessary. Thus the black-robed trio reasoned. But there were still details to be worked out. Dunsmark would be met at the dock by a police escort. There would be secret service operatives mingling in the crowd. To steal him away in spite of this was a big order. But the trio had confidence in their ability.

  “There are many methods,” said the man on Morvay’s right. “Dunsmark will be lionized for days after his arrival. He will be invited everywhere. We will watch him ceaselessly and wait for an opportunity.”

  Morvay laughed softly.

  “One of us,” he said, “might even invite him to our own home. We are not without social position ourselves.”

  The man on his left growled an objection.

  “There must be no hint of suspicion directed at us.”

  “We will meet again tomorrow night,” Morvay answered. “I have feelers out. I will know then the names of some of the people who plan to have Dunsmark as a guest.”

  The others nodded assent. Discussion ceased. One by one they arose and left the council chamber, each leaving by a different route, Morvay passed through the buildings in the rear of the warehouse. He breathed easier now that the Secret Agent was gone. “X” was the only man so far who had given them any worry. The police were still wandering in confused circles and floundering in a bog of doubt.

  It was raining as Morvay stepped into the dark street. He rolled his collar up and strode quickly along, his ulster flapping about his heels. He turned at the corner, heading toward the avenue four blocks away where it was his custom to pick up a taxi.

  Then, shortly before he reached it he was pleased to see a cruising cab coming his way. The rain had increased. This was a bit of luck, he thought.

  He held up a finger, signaled the cab, and climbed in. He gave the name of a hotel, one of the points where he sometimes changed taxis, in the routine that all of them followed to throw shadowers off the trail. He lit a cigarette and leaned back against the seat, going over in his mind the details of the daring crime planned.

  The driver, sitting slumped behind the wheel, drove the cab on through the chill winter rain. Drops of moisture splattered against the glass in the door. Morvay was glad the windows were closed. He did not see the hands of the driver creep down to a small hidden lever beside his seat. He could not, for there was a front partition cutting off his view.

  But he began to feel a slow dizziness creeping over him. The air in the cab seemed to be getting stale as though the exhaust had sprung a leak and carbon monoxide were seeping into the car’s interior.

  Morvay leaned forward, reaching toward a window. But the dizziness increased to such an extent that he swayed in his seat.

  He tried to raise his hand and it seemed to weigh many pounds. His cigarette dropped from shaking fingers. He tried to cry out to the driver, but his voice sounded faint and far away.

  He slumped sidewise in the seat, struggling frantically to preserve his faculties. For a moment his face turned toward the ceiling of the cab, and a sudden shudder of amazement passed through his body. He made a desperate effort to rise, but succeeded only in flopping to the floor where he lay, still staring toward the roof with glassy, horrified eyes.

  Over his head, in the center of the fabric covering the taxi’s roof, something glowed with an eerie, wavering light. It was a letter, an “X,” written in some kind of radiant paint. And, as Professor Morvay slipped into unconsciousness, it seemed to hover before his gaze like an accusing, all-seeing eye.

  Chapter XV

  The Inspector Arrives

 
THE taxi rolled on through the dreary, rain-swept night. In the rear compartment the inert body of Professor Morvay lurched grotesquely with every jounce the car gave. His still face and glassy eyes were like those of a corpse. But he was not dead.

  The driver of the cab pressed the small lever beside his seat a second time, cutting off the flow of odorless anesthetizing gas that had swept Morvay into the dreamless depths of unconsciousness. The driver’s face was expressionless, but under his visored cap his eyes glowed with piercing brightness.

  Several times fares stepped to the curb, signaling him to stop, supposing the cab empty. But the cabman drove by them briskly. He avoided the lighted streets, turned west, and whirled into a long avenue that led uptown. He bore steadily ahead through the rain with the purposefulness of a man who has a definite objective.

  Wheeling into the broad drive that skirted the river, he passed millionaires’ homes and block upon block of expensive apartment houses, magnificent with their liveried doormen and glittering foyers.

  Once he turned his head and glanced sidewise at a gloomy old house that rose on a corner. Its windows were boarded up. There was an air of decay and desolation about the place. It was the old Montgomery mansion which the litigation of heirs had kept empty for years.

  A faint, grim smile twisted the mouth of the cabman, alias Secret Agent “X.” In a chamber of that house he had achieved his present disguise. The past twenty-four hours had been exciting ones. A man rated as dead had come to life. The members of the hideous “Torture Trust” believed he had gone down with the speeding taxi that had plunged off the dock. Their sadistic slaves had watched for him to rise to the surface, and he had not risen. The crash of the cab had been something he had planned deliberately.

  They did not know that he could hold his breath a full two minutes under water and swim with the swift, powerful strokes of a diving otter. They hadn’t seen him when he reached the surface under the inky shadows of the dock. And they didn’t know that he had communicated with Betty Dale, told her to keep under cover in her room at the Hotel Graymont.