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

by Paul Chadwick

  The side street in which it stood led up toward the summit of a small hill overlooking the harbor. Summer bungalows on wooden foundations lined each side of the street. They appeared to be empty.

  Flicking his cane, smoking a cigarette, and strolling like a stranger looking over the town, Agent “X” walked up this hill. When he reached its top he ducked out of sight between two deserted cottages. Peering through a screen of leafless bushes he stared in both directions. The harbor lay peaceful at his feet, dotted with yachts at anchor. A path led along the shore to another cottage colony on a neighboring hill.

  Agent “X” waited, watched, then raised his small, powerful glasses to his eyes. He might have been a rich sightseer looking over the yachts in the harbor. But he turned his glasses away from the harbor toward the many bungalows. For minutes he searched, then suddenly tensed.

  On the side porch of a bungalow a quarter of a mile distant were two figures—a man and a woman. He caught sight of the woman’s head first. It was heavily veiled. No features were visible, but the set of the head, the carriage, were familiar to Agent “X” who noticed such things.

  The man’s face came sharply into focus. It was Detective Banton. And the girl with him, “X” was certain, was Rosa Carpita. He became more certain as the girl touched her companion’s arm and said something. The lithe swing of her body, the studied poise of her which had become unconscious and instinctive, gave her away in spite of the heavy veil.

  They, too, were looking out over the harbor. But “X” saw that the porch on which they stood was screened by a low bluff with bushes on the top. Only their heads would be visible from the water. They didn’t want to be seen.

  Excitement tingled through Agent “X’s” blood. Step by step he was creeping closer to his goal. Two of his chief suspects were here before him. Somewhere out on the blue harbor was one of the bases of operations of the torch-murdering band. His face set grimly. He must move cautiously now. Everything depended on stealth and strategy until he was sure of his ground.

  When he saw the two on the bungalow porch leave at last and start back toward the hill on which he stood, he preceded them down the narrow street. He went back to his own car, got in, and told the chauffeur to drive slowly ahead and stop. Not until he saw Banton’s flivver back out of the side street and head toward the city, did he give further instructions.

  “Keep that car in sight,” he said, “but don’t get too close.”

  The shadows of afternoon were lengthening into evening. Banton’s little flivver was making good time, lurching and bobbing over the road. Agent “X” felt secure in the belief that his own presence in the limousine with the chauffeur would not arouse suspicion.

  WHEN they reached the city, Agent “X” considered whether to follow Rosa Carpita or Banton. He was certain they would separate, and he decided on the latter. Betty Dale would keep watch of Rosa Carpita’s movements for him. Banton seemed the more sinister.

  He was right about their separating. Rosa Carpita got out in a dark block and hurried off. Banton continued on to his office in the bank building. Agent “X” drove by in his limousine, then dismissed it, telling the chauffeur he would not be needed until the next morning. At a brisk stride Agent “X” went to the nearest of his hideouts.

  He changed quickly to the disguise of Andrew Balfour and hurried to his office. In his pockets this time he secreted many strange objects—not knowing what emergencies he might have to meet in the next few hours.

  The girls were just leaving his office, their day’s work done. He nodded to them curtly and went to his own sanctum with the air of a man preoccupied with weighty business matters. But when the last of his help had gone, he tiptoed quickly to the door and peered out into the corridor. As he stood watching he saw two of Banton’s assistants go into the private detective’s office. In ten minutes, two more arrived. There seemed to be a gathering of the clan.

  Banton had evidently summoned them. What for?

  Agent “X” was glad he hadn’t been able to locate Banton the night previous, directly after seeing the flaming torch murderers kill another cop. At that time he had been all for bluntly approaching Banton and making him talk. Now, calmed down after his strange experience of the night, he was ready to use caution and strategy again—ready to look first and leap afterward.

  When another of Banton’s sinister-looking aides had come, Agent “X” saw the detective’s shadow on the frosted glass of the door, heard the click of the lock. Banton had assembled his men for a secret conference.

  Agent “X” worked quickly. People were passing by in the corridor every few minutes, leaving their offices. They would be doing so for the next half-hour. To stay outside Banton’s door listening with the portable amplifier that he had used effectively before, would be courting detection and disaster now. But there was another way.

  Agent “X” took a spool of insulated wire from his pocket, wire as black and thin as thread. There were small copper terminals at each end. It was a slender electric cord which he carried for just such emergencies as this—to extend the range of his amplifier.

  With the small disc-shaped microphone in his hand he stepped quickly across the corridor to Banton’s door. No one was in sight. He reached up, dropped the microphone through the transom, took a turn of the threadlike wire around one of the transom rods, and then backed toward his own office.

  He threw the other end of the almost invisible wire over his own transom and pulled it taut. It now stretched across the corridor, but far above the height of people’s heads. In the semigloom it wouldn’t be seen.

  With tense fingers he connected the terminal at his end to the portable amplifier in its cameralike case.

  A TURN on the rheostat control and he was listening in on the secret conference in Banton’s office.

  It was disappointing in some respects, importantly significant in others. Banton was issuing orders, not giving away secrets. His voice was rumbling, aggressive.

  “Don’t ask me why,” he was saying, arguing down an over-cautious aide. “Do as I tell you. That’s your job. That’s what I pay you for—an’ you can’t afford to be choosy. There ain’t one of you I ain’t got something on. I could send you all back to the gutters where you came from—or worse.”

  Banton’s sneering laugh sounded.

  “You know where the toughest guys hang out. Round ’em up—get a gang together. I need a dozen anyway, and when I say tough, I mean tough. See that every man jack of ’em is heeled—an’ see that he knows how to shoot.”

  “You ain’t never done this sort of thing before, boss,” said the voice of an assistant complainingly. “You’ll get mixed up with the law.”

  Banton’s answer was a fierce snarl. “Maybe I ain’t never had good reason to. The law won’t know anything about it.”

  Instructions followed, instructions to which Agent “X” listened closely. Banton was ordering his own men to round up a dozen of the fiercest gunmen and killers they could find. He was stepping out of his role of licensed private detective. He was ready to hurl defiance into the law’s face.

  But Banton wasn’t telling his men what his secret purpose was. He was leaving them in the dark. He spoke again arrogantly.

  “There’s a guy named Becker and another named Garino who’d be good. The cops want them for kidnapping the commissioner a coupla days ago. They’re hiding out and I know where. The other guys with them that pulled that crazy stunt skipped town. Get Becker and Garino.”

  There was the whisper of money changing hands. Agent “X’s” eyes were bright, eager. “Slats” Becker and Tony Garino! Two of the very men he himself had hired. He, too, knew where they were hiding out. He had underworld contacts, systems of grapevine telegraphs. Now Banton was hiring them for some sinister purpose of his own. It opened another line of investigation for the Agent. Things were coming nearer and nearer a climax. The voice of Banton came through the amplifier again.

  “Give ’em a hundred bucks apiece. Tell ’
em there’s twenty times as much if they stick with me and use their rods right. And tell ’em to wait close. When things are ready I’ll give ’em the high sign.”

  “When will that be, boss?”

  “Tonight, maybe. Two of you guys come along with me. We’re going on a little trip. There’s more things I want to tell you.”

  Agent “X” opened his door, stepped across the corridor, and retrieved his microphone. Tensely he coiled it up, then left the building.

  He strode swiftly up the block, turned. He had left one of his cars parked beside the curb in front of an empty house.

  Before entering it he retreated into the shadows, and his skillful fingers made quick changes in his face. He drew out the cheek plates that had given his features the sagging contours of middle age. He changed the hue of his complexion. He was no longer Andrew Balfour. He was younger, more dapper again. Banton would never recognize him as his fellow tenant in the bank building, and it was Banton Agent “X” was thinking of.

  He got into his car, turned around, and waited close to the end of the block with the engine running, until he saw Banton and two of his aides emerge. They got into Banton’s flivver. The little car lurched off.

  Agent “X” followed, and at the end of fifteen minutes he felt certain that he knew where Banton was going—so certain that he dared drop far behind. Banton was turning into a boulevard that led toward the suburbs, heading toward the distant yacht harbor that was a three-quarter-hour run from the city.

  IN fifteen minutes more there was no doubt about it. Agent “X” loafed along behind. Single-handed, he was by degrees getting closer to the strange, sinister action that impended.

  When they reached the town where the yacht harbor was located, Banton parked his flivver in the same side street. He led his two colleagues up on the hill.

  Agent “X” instantly stopped his own car, climbed out, and cut through the darkness. The process of shadowing was easy for him now. He was crouched near the street that ascended the hill as Banton and his assistants passed. He followed them up the hill, and was near enough to see them standing on the bluff and hear Banton give low-voiced instructions. But what these instructions were Agent “X” missed. He saw Banton stride away, leaving his two men there. The agency detective walked into the little town, turned down an alley, and prowled along the shore.

  Agent “X,” like a grim nemesis, followed. But Banton seemed to be on an aimless scouting expedition. On a clear patch of beach, where any moving figure was visible, Agent “X” had to let him get ahead.

  Then suddenly Agent “X” stopped. Something black was heaving in the small turf that the harbor swells kicked up. It showed like a blotch, against the sand. It might be a box or a hat, but it stirred his interest.

  He walked down the slope of the beach quickly, stopped. The thing was a box, but a leather-covered box—a camera.

  It was no ordinary camera, either. The Agent saw that. He was a man experienced himself in all types of photographic equipment.

  His fingers tightened over the water-logged, leather-covered box that had apparently been flung carelessly into the harbor. He snapped open the front, saw the fine, elaborate shutter mechanism, the special, many-glassed lens.

  He felt along the surface of the camera with hands that trembled slightly—felt until he came to a screw pivot, the head of which seemed to be missing. From an inner rear pocket he took out a tiny screw that he had picked up two nights before on the roof of the bank building. He tried it on the pivot post of the camera, found that it fitted. His eyes were pools of light.

  This was Darlington’s sky camera, the one that had been hidden the night he had been thrown from the roof, murdered.

  And, in a flash of deductive reasoning, Agent “X” understood why it was here. Darlington’s murderer had hidden it in the quickest and most convenient spot—the canvas pickup sack that he had that night been getting ready. It had been brought to this harbor, tossed into the water by the killers. It confirmed the Agent’s belief that they were close at hand.

  He had forgotten Banton for the moment. The camera occupied his thoughts. But his reverie was interrupted by the soft crunch of sand. The Agent whirled, but not quickly enough.

  With the suddenness of swooping shadows, two figures leaped at him out of the semidarkness. One was brandishing a blackjack.

  Before he could duck, the blackjack struck him a blow on the side of the head, and it seemed that a thousand multi-colored stars and comets showered down upon him from the black depths of the sky.

  Chapter XVIII

  The Last Raid

  IN that first instant of agony he fought against the sense of dizziness and pain that possessed him. He let himself collapse, deliberately, then twisted sidewise with a swift, rolling motion. The second blow of the blackjack missed him.

  His hand flashed out with the speed of a striking snake, gripped the man’s wrist. The man let out a smothered, harsh cry. His companion fell on top of Agent “X.” Together they pressed him to the cold, wet sand, while the man with the blackjack tried to free his wrist and swing a death-dealing blow.

  Agent “X,” interpreter of men’s motives, read murder in the silent, tigerish attack of these two. They had come upon him looking at the camera, caught him prowling, snooping. He was to be destroyed as a menace to some criminal plot.

  Sensing his closeness to death, Agent “X” summoned his keenest faculties, mental and physical. The man’s blackjack might not be the only weapon.

  With his free hand, Agent “X” struck a crashing blow at the nearest man’s face. He couldn’t see any features. There was only a black head outlined against the faint grayness of the sky.

  The man grunted, relaxed his clutch. Agent “X” twisted again with a motion like a steel spring released. His fingers still gripped the wrist of the blackjack holder. The man cursed, relaxed his clutch on the weapon. Agent “X” broke free, leaped to his feet and kicked the blackjack toward the water.

  Both men rushed him, tried to force him toward the surf. The clenched fist of one caught him in the jaw, snapping his head back. He struck out again, and knocked one of the men in the sand; then he leaped away and ran in a zigzag course up the beach. As he did so there was the thudding report of a silenced gun and a bullet screamed close to his head. The next moment he was in the black shadows under the broken piles of an old pier.

  The two men ran up the beach and stood in the shadows of a shed. He couldn’t see their faces. Their voices were two low for him to hear. It was only his phenomenally keen eyesight that made it possible for him to see their outlines at all.

  At a fast stride they struck off along the beach, keeping close to the wharves and sheds, keeping away from the lighter sand. But the Agent followed as persistently as he had trailed Detective Banton. Perhaps, for all he could tell, one of them was Banton.

  He held his breath a moment later. The two men leaped up on a wharf that ran out into the harbor. He heard the creak of boards faintly under their feet. He followed, creeping along the wharf, stopping often to get the men’s silhouettes against the faint grayness of the horizon.

  A covered yacht, apparently out of commission and laid up for the season, was snugged fast to the side of this wharf. In an instant the two murderous figures blended with the darker shadow of this and disappeared.

  Agent “X’s” pulses hammered. He believed he was close to the secret of the murderer’s hideout. But, when he approached the yacht in the darkness, he could see nothing except boarded doors and carefully closed canvas coverings. To flash a light would be suicide. He had a feeling that eyes were straining there in the darkness.

  He thought of Banton. Was one of these men the agency detective, and if not, had Banton gone back to the city?

  He left the wharf and went back into the town. It was now pitch dark. But he located Detective Banton’s flivver, just backing out of the side street. Banton at the wheel.

  Agent “X’s” face furrowed. If the yacht he had seen was
the hiding-place of stolen loot there must be other accomplices in the city, and he didn’t want to strike till he could bring about the round-up of the whole murderous gang. If one or more escaped, the death-torch terrors might continue. The inner hunch which had so often directed him along the right track urged him to stick to Banton’s trail.

  He got into his own car and followed the detective back to town. But he was not even careful now to keep the red tail-light of Banton’s car in sight. A daring plan had suggested itself. Two men whose addresses he knew would be offered jobs as gunmen in the mysterious gang that Banton was about to assemble—“Slats” Becker and Tony Garino. Becker was almost a head shorter than the Agent, but Garino was approximately his size.

  Back in town he drove swiftly to the neighborhood where Garino was lurking, hiding from the police after the kidnapping of the commissioner. Knowing the greediness of the man, Agent “X” felt certain that he would not turn down Banton’s offer.

  The place where Garino stayed like a wolf in hiding was a shabby rooming house in a tough neighborhood, a rooming house kept by a woman who specialized in the harboring of criminals.

  The location of every room was familiar to Agent “X.” It was here that he had come to get in touch with Tony Garino, Monk Magurren, and the others in the first place.

  He parked his car and moved forward confidently now. Diving through an alley, he crossed several cluttered back yards by the simple expedient of vaulting over their fences. He counted the fences, came at last to a yard where he stayed.

  There was a light in the basement of the house. A witchlike old woman was puttering around in a dirty kitchen. But it was a room in the third floor that held the eye of Agent “X.” A light burned in this. There was a crack beneath the shade. It was the room where Tony Garino dwelt.

  With the silence and agility of an ape, Agent “X” crept forward and drew himself up to the first platform of the rusty fire escape that snaked down the rear of the house. He ascended cautiously, testing each rung of the iron ladder to be sure that no squeaking bar betrayed him.