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

by Paul Chadwick

  He opened the door of Greenford’s room, closed it after him, groping for a light switch. He clicked it on, and the overhead bulbs bathed the chamber in radiance. Then suddenly the Agent held himself taut, holding his breath and with muscles contracted. A woman’s voice, sinister as the purring of a sleepy tigress, spoke close to his ear.

  “Armand—are you not glad to see me?”

  Chapter VII

  The Tigress!

  AGENT “X” turned his head slowly, stiffly. For once he had been caught off guard. For once the utterly unexpected had happened.

  A woman, blonde and dazzlingly beautiful, stood beside the door. Crimson lips smiled at him. He caught in that first glimpse the feline, arrogant grace that characterized her bearing. She was leaning against the bureau, one hip thrown out, a hand resting on it, the other hand holding an unlighted cigarette. Her close-fitting dark dress revealed the superb outlines of her figure.

  Slowly she lighted her cigarette, took a deep puff, blew smoke through her delicate nostrils.

  “You are surprised! You did not expect to see me,” she said.

  Her lips smiled again; but her eyes did not. They regarded Agent “X” with cold, impersonal calculation. The silvery tones of her voice, her sleekness, her beauty, masked something else—something sinister. Here was a woman as dangerous as she was lovely. A tiger woman who lived by her wits and that stinging provocative appeal of her charms. Who was she? The Agent could only guess. He had pulled himself together. He began playing a game—a deadly, silent battle of wits.

  “I am surprised—yes,” he said. “But a beautiful lady is always a welcome surprise.”

  She laughed throatily, came nearer. He could smell the faint clinging perfume that seemed to envelop her.

  “You used to call me Nina,” she said.

  “Nina is a lovely name,” he replied.

  He lighted a cigarette himself, stared at her, waiting and watching, his eyes narrowed. A false move and she might grow suspicious. He must not slip out of his role—the role of Arthur Greenford—the man she called Armand.

  “It was clever, changing your name,” she said. “But why did you choose the same initials? Arthur Greenford—Armand Grenfort?”

  He bowed ironically.

  “I did not expect that my initials would undergo analysis by such an astute brain as yours.”

  She laughed again, but her eyes that were dark and bright as polished agate took on the hardness of agate.

  “You are fencing with me, Armand. Do you think I do not know why you are here?”

  Her accent and phrasing were foreign. He had catalogued her already. The theft of Mark Roemer’s mysterious formula had brought another evil vulture circling about. For in spite of her beauty, the woman before him had in her eyes the look of some predatory bird or beast.

  “You are just as subtle as you used to be,” he said softly.

  She came and laid her hand on his arm, brushing her lithe body against him for a moment. Her lips, smiling up at him, were challengingly close.

  “Perhaps,” she said, “we can work together—as we did once before.”

  He tried a shot in the dark then. He made his voice harsh.

  “It’s too late, my dear Nina. What I seek is gone. It has been stolen. It is in the hands of another.”

  The woman pushed him away from her roughly. She stepped back toward the bureau again. A transformation came over her. Hate and greed convulsed her face, making her look suddenly older, bringing out wicked lines in her features.

  “You lie!” she said, and the two words came from her lips like drops of distilled venom. The beauty of her body was like the sinuous beauty of a cobra swaying, ready to strike.

  “You lie!” she repeated.

  He stood looking at her, shrugging.

  “Listen,” she said fiercely. “You will let me work with you—share with you, or—”

  Her slim hand suddenly reached behind her. She snatched something from the bureau top which she had concealed under a lacy handkerchief. It was an automatic, flat, polished, small as a child’s toy—but capable of dealing death. She pointed the gun at the Agent’s heart, held it tensely as though it would give her pleasure to shoot. He did not doubt that she had killed men before.

  Again he shrugged.

  “What about the kidnapping of Mark Roemer and the murder of his assistant?” he asked.

  Her lips slid back from her teeth in an evil smile. They formed a crimson, mocking gash across the front of her white face. She nodded craftily.

  “I know,” she said. “Mark Roemer was kidnapped. His assistant was murdered—not prettily either. I read all about it. That is why I came to see you. You did it, Armand. You are bolder than you used to be. Men learn by their experience. You murdered that woman—and those others. You have Roemer somewhere and you are guarding his secret. If you are not generous with me, Armand, I will turn you over to the police—right now.”

  “And if I am—generous?” he asked.

  “I will forget what I know about you. What is a murder—between friends?”

  THE depth of her wickedness was appalling. It was like finding a deadly, coiled serpent concealed in the soft petals of a flower. She was blackmailing him, ready to wink at murder—if he would satisfy her greed.

  He shrugged again, resignedly this time.

  “You always had strength of character, Nina. You had a way of getting what you wanted. But I’m tired and there are many things to be gone into. Let us go out and discuss this over a bottle of wine. If we are to work together—we must renew our acquaintance—for old time’s sake.”

  She stood glaring at him, doubt in her eyes.

  “Any tricks, Armand—and I will anticipate the law. I will kill you!”

  “Are you not a little frightened,” he said, “trying to browbeat a murderer?”

  For a moment the paleness of her face increased.

  “I left a note with certain friends,” she replied. “It is to be opened—if I do not return. In it are facts about you—details to aid the police.”

  “In that case,” he said, “we are assured of a quiet evening. I am certain we will get on amicably.”

  She nodded and put her automatic into a hand bag.

  “We understand each other, Armand,” she said.

  The Agent smiled to himself. He understood her, knew that she was an unprincipled spy in the pay of some government, and that she had once worked with Greenford, or Grenfort. But it was ironic to think how utterly in the dark she was concerning the affairs of the real Grenfort. He had spoken the truth and she had not believed him.

  She came then and lifted her lips to his, slipping soft arms around his neck.

  “We used to be such good friends, Armand!” Her words were a caress and an invitation.

  “Let us not mix business with pleasure,” he said coldly.

  He saw hatred flash in her eyes again. But she began dabbing powder on her face from a silvered compact. Then she slipped into a clinging fur coat that was thrown over a chair. It made her seem more feline than ever.

  They descended in silence to the lobby below and turned their faces toward the street. There was a cab waiting at the curb. Agent “X” ushered her into it and gave the address of a small restaurant.

  The woman settled herself beside him.

  “Remember,” she said, “there is a note waiting to tell the police—everything—if I should disappear.”

  “Let me repeat that I hold your life as precious as my own,” he said mockingly.

  She looked at him keenly for a moment.

  “You have changed, Armand,” she said. “You have more steel in your character than you used to have. That is what murder does for a man.”

  Suddenly he saw her eyes widen, and a hiss came from her lips that was like the hiss of a startled snake. She was looking back, looking out the cab’s rear window. Her fingers tightened over the Agent’s arm like clutching talons.

  “Armand,” she said, “we are bei
ng followed. Look—there are men in that car—and they are watching us.”

  Chapter VIII

  Leaden Threat

  AGENT “X” stared back tensely. He was not afraid for his own life. He was afraid only that something might impede his progress in tracking down the Black Master—the invisible strangler. In his first glimpse of the men behind, he catalogued them. There were four, grim-faced, clean-cut. One at the wheel of the car, another beside him, two in the back seat.

  One was leaning out, signaling for the cab to stop.

  Agent “X” bent forward, jerked the glass panel behind the driver’s seat open and hissed in the driver’s ear.

  “Gangsters behind,” he said. “Speed up—for your life!”

  With a startled twitch of his head, the driver stared back, saw the pursuing car, stepped on the gas. The taxi leaped ahead like a horse under the lash of a whip.

  Agent “X” leaned back smiling grimly. The men behind were not gangsters. They were Department of Justice operatives. Of that he was certain. He knew the type well. But it had been necessary to lie to the cabman to save the situation. Nina, the woman beside him, caught the fleeting smile on his face.

  “You—you tipped them off!” she hissed. Her hand flashed toward her hang bag again. He caught her wrist.

  “Don’t be a fool. You accuse me of murder. Would a murderer tip off the law? They must have trailed me.”

  The woman blanched and began to mutter fiercely. She was no longer beautiful. She was a harsh-faced tigress.

  “They must not get us,” she cried. “We will shoot—shoot to kill.” Again she dived for her weapon. Again he stopped her.

  “You will do as I say,” he grated. “You came to my hotel. Perhaps it is you they followed!”

  “No,” she said fiercely. “I came by plane from Mexico. It was night when I landed. They could not have seen me. It is you, Armand, that they are after.”

  “You are a notorious woman,” he answered, again making a stab in the dark. “The American Secret Service has a hundred eyes. Spies are always under suspicion—but they must not catch us.”

  “No—no,” she echoed. “I cannot be found with you. I will be deported—perhaps jailed. They will suspect me of being implicated in the murders you have committed.”

  “And,” he said mockingly, “you will lose the money that I am supposed to divide with you.”

  He leaned forward, spoke to the driver again.

  “Faster—they are catching up.”

  The man leaning out of the car behind had stopped signaling now. His face under the glow of a street light that flashed past had the grimness of granite. Something gleamed in his hand.

  “They are going to shoot!” screamed Nina.

  Her sentence was punctuated by the slap of a bullet against the rear of the taxi and a crashing report in the street behind. The cab leaped ahead again as the driver sought frantically for more speed. A second bullet struck the glass in the cab’s rear, splintered it, sent it tinkling between the Agent’s and the woman’s laps. Cold air rushed in. Nina screamed again shrilly. For a moment he thought she was hurt. Then he saw that it was fear. A tiny sliver of glass was sticking in the back of his hand. He pulled it out deftly.

  “You don’t care,” she said. “You don’t mind that I may be killed!”

  “My dear Nina—” he expostulated. The intense glow in his eyes showed the excitement that steely nerves were keeping under control.

  The cab flashed across a street against traffic lights. Brakes squealed madly as another car stopped just in time. A policeman’s whistle shrilled. The cab plunged on.

  THE driver’s neck and cheek—all that Agent “X” could see—were white as a sheet. His hands were wrapped stiffly around the wheel. A third bullet whizzed between the two in back, slapped against the glass partition close to the driver’s head. He cried out and the cab lurched and bucked as his arms jerked in fear. It threatened for a moment to go over. Then the driver straightened it out. He pressed the gas button down, put on a final burst of speed. They drew ahead a little. A fourth bullet went wide.

  “To the park!” barked the Secret Agent. “Turn left—the first gate.”

  Somewhere behind them now a police siren was wailing. But even the green police cruiser could not catch up. The heavy engine of the taxi was pounding under its metal hood. The rubber tires were whining over the pavement. Traffic was at a standstill. White-faced pedestrians scuttled out of their way, or stood staring fearfully on the sidewalk. The papers had been filled with stories of gang warfare. This looked like an example of it.

  The cab’s engine began to pound then. It wasn’t built for such high speeds. Somewhere a gasket had blown. The cab was slowing down.

  Agent “X” looking back saw that the car behind was gradually drawing nearer. Its headlights were goggling like the eyes of a monster. Two men were leaning out now, their faces purposeful, waiting till they were within small-arm range. They were aiming low, getting ready to shoot for the tires. Blown rubber at such speed might be as disastrous as a bullet. The menace of death rode with them in the night.

  The woman, Nina, was white-faced now. Her blonde hair was spilling from beneath her hat. She looked suddenly haggish, witchlike, evil as a mad vulture. Her voice had a harpy shrillness.

  “They’ll get us! We can’t escape!”

  The Agent made no reply. He saw the park ahead of them. The stone pillars of the gate swept toward them. The taxi hurtled at the gates like a speeding ball headed for two goal posts. It was late. The park was dark and empty. The concrete road ahead was a smooth speedway. But the engine was hissing and pounding at every stroke.

  The car behind leaped through the gateway of the park like an avenging nemesis. It roared down upon them out of the night. There was no danger of hitting innocent bystanders now. Three automatics in the black, speeding car spoke in unison. A fusillade of bullets lashed through the night.

  One of them ripped across the top of the cab, tearing the fabric into a ribbonlike streak. Another plucked at the cloth of the Agent’s coat. In a moment now that centering fire would bring death and destruction. Men in the Secret Service were taught how to shoot.

  The Agent’s eyes were darting bleakly about. There was a patch of dense leafless shrubbery ahead. The road made a long curve by it. Suddenly the Agent reached forward, gripping the driver’s arms. The driver cursed in fear, tried to struggle free. The Agent held on like iron, kept the cab headed for the shrubbery.

  The cab lurched off the concrete, taking the low embankment in a careening, rocking bound. Its wheels struck frosted turf, squealed, and bounced. One tire struck a sharp lump of ice and blew with a report like an exploding bomb. The cab slithered around, went sidewise toward the bushes. It would have turned turtle if the tough stems of the shrubbery hadn’t cradled it. It ploughed in amongst them while the driver cried out in fear, flinging his hands before his face.

  For ten feet it crunched on, breaking branches right and left, ploughing like a tractor through wheat. Then the tough shrubs won out. A cylinder head in the racing engine gave way. The engine came to a clanking, groaning stop, and the cab slid to a standstill.

  Blonde Nina was on her knees on the floor, her dress around her silk-stockinged legs. Agent “X” jerked the cab door open, drew her out. The driver was scrambling out also, howling in fear.

  A sudden jet of gasoline escaping from a severed feed line bathed the hot cylinders and leaped into a sheet of flame. Agent “X” pulled the woman away just in time. Flame enveloped the cab, crackled and snapped in the bushes, making a blinding intensity of light.

  He heard the squeal of madly-applied brakes on the concrete roadway behind. The momentum of the pursuing car had carried it three hundred feet beyond the spot where the cab had lurched off the road.

  The Agent clutched at the woman’s arm, pulled her through the bushes. They ploughed ahead with the shrubbery tearing at their clothes. Then they came to an open space and ran on till they reached a path
. Far behind them the flames of the burning cab made a glow like a torch. Miniature figures, silhouetted against the leaping flames, ran up and stood about. Others beat among the bushes.

  The Agent would see later that the cab company was repaid and that the driver was exonerated. He didn’t like to drag innocent persons into his dangerous exploits. This time it had been unavoidable.

  THEY ran on across the park till they had reached a safe distance. The woman began tucking in strands of loose hair and straightening her disarranged dress. The expression of fear left her face. She was resuming her former tigerish poise.

  “Very good, Armand,” she said. “I must congratulate you even if you are a murderer and a thief.”

  Then suddenly, she cried out and looked at her arm. Crimson was dripping from a superficial wound above her wrist.

  “I will take you to your home,” he said, “or wherever you are staying.”

  He signaled another cab at the avenue across the park. Nina gave him the address. They were silent now as the cab rolled along, Nina nursing the wound in her arm and darting analytical glances at him.

  She had leased a small apartment in the mid-town section and, when the cab stopped, she spoke to Agent “X.”

  “You may come up,” she said. “We will make our arrangements now. There is still the matter of how much you intend to pay me.”

  He ignored her words, but followed her into the building. They ascended to a suite on the third floor, entered it, and closed the door.

  “Let me fix your wound,” he said.

  He got water, helped her bathe it, tied it up, then rose.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “Away, my dear Nina. We have had an exciting and pleasant evening. Now it is time to part.”

  With a tigerish leap she sprang forward, clutched her hand bag, and drew the gun out.

  Viciously she jabbed its muzzle toward him. He stood smiling, lighting a cigarette.

  “I repeat—it is time for us to part.”

  “You can’t go,” she screamed. “I’ll kill you and hunt for Roemer myself.”