Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2

by Paul Chadwick

  But even the threat of lead had no effect. Shots fired above the heads of the crowd were answered by armed members of the mob. A policeman went down, a bullet in his shoulder. The acrid stench of powder in the nostrils of the besiegers was like a red flag waved before an angry bull. They went berserk.

  The barrier of police cars was being pulled aside and rolled away. The top was torn off a car. Men swarmed over it, shouting wildly. In another moment there would be bloody war added to the horror of the plague-ridden city.

  Agent “X” sprang into action. Mounting the steps of the institute he faced the crowd, took a deep breath and made his voice as powerful as he could. He flung up an arm and pointed dramatically off across the institute grounds to where dense evergreens made a dark line.

  “The apes!” he howled. “The apes are coming! They have been scared out!”

  For seconds his words made no impression. He repeated his shouted warning. A few in the crowd heard and realized what he was saying. They stopped in their tracks, yelled to their comrades. Tear gas and the threat of bullets had not stopped the charge. But the menace of the horror-inspiring apes chilled their blood. The foremost men of the crowd echoed “X’s” cry.

  “The apes!” they shouted in horror. “The apes!”

  Instantly the tide was turned. Frenzied cries of fury changed to roars of fear. Dread of the germ-laden anthropoids amounted to superstitious horror.

  People at the rear of the crowd began to slink away. They suddenly wanted to get back to their safe homes, out of the darkness and terror of the night. But fear is as catching as anger.

  THE front ranks of the mob not only stopped their charge but began violently pushing back. The angry charge toward the white-pillared facade of the institute turned into a mad stampede away from it. Men pushed, swore, jostled one another in their terrified flight. Vronsky roared that this was only a ruse to disperse them. But they had no ears for Vronsky now. He was thrust off his soap box and tumbled to the street. He had to fight desperately to keep from being trampled on.

  Even the police had now taken up the cry, and with fear-blanched faces were following the crowd. Baxter, who had mounted the steps at “X’s” first words, stared at him uncertainly. “X” spoke hoarsely.

  “It was the only way, chief—but I’m afraid some of them are going to be trampled.”

  The fear-ridden mass of humanity was like a flood now—a roaring, undulating rapids. The square began to empty as quickly as it had filled. It had taken only a sudden change of mood to break the spell of Vronsky’s words.

  Agent “X’s” blazing eyes surveyed the scene. He had saved the institute and possibly the lives of those within it. But his fears were grounded. Dozens of people were being trampled by fear-crazed men and women who had no thought of anything except to escape from the claws and teeth of the apes they imagined at their heels.

  “Call ambulances!” said “X.” “Quickly, chief!”

  The Agent himself rushed down off the steps of the institute and made his way through the barrier of parked and partly wrecked police cruisers. There were people limping painfully after the retreating throng. Others lay writhing, unable to rise from the pavement.

  On the edges of the almost deserted square a few cops lingered. They were some of the younger men of the force and seemed to have had the courage to resist the impulse to flee. But their eyes still held fear as they turned toward the institute grounds.

  With a sharp command, Agent “X” motioned them to him, and enlisted their aid in moving the injured to safety. The bells of ambulances were clanging in the streets now.

  “X” went on toward the outer edges of the square, stepping over debris left by the brief battle—night-sticks, discarded torches and clubs, and a litter of broken glass and stones.

  Then suddenly he gave a hoarse exclamation and leaped forward toward a dark heap on the pavement. A ray of light had caught the glint of bright blonde hair, and a terrible realization seared the Agent’s mind. He stooped and lifted the slight figure of a girl in his arms—and looked down into the white, unconscious face of Betty Dale.

  Chapter IX

  The Hand of Death

  FOR an instant fear laid its cold hands on Secret Agent “X.” The weight of the girl in his arms was no more leaden than the weight in his own heart. He spoke hoarsely.

  “Betty! Betty!”

  But she didn’t answer. Her golden head drooped pathetically, her body remained limp. With expert deftness the Agent’s tense fingers searched to see whether any bones had been broken; whether the mad, fear-crazed mob had trampled her underfoot. But Betty seemed unharmed. He decided that she had only fainted in the smothering crush of the stampeding crowd.

  Then he remembered that she was staying with an aunt in Branford. He quickly summoned a taxi and gave the address. Holding Betty on his lap, her blonde head resting against his shoulder, he urged the taxi to speed. With his free hand he took something from his pocket—a small vial with a screw cap. He opened it, put the bottle to Betty’s lips, and forced her to swallow a few drops of a special concentrated restorative that he always carried with him.

  A minute passed as the cab raced through dark streets. Then Betty Dale’s eyes opened. Color began to flood back into her pale cheeks. She moved her arms, cried out, still mentally fighting the mob, mistaking the jouncing taxi for the surge of frenzied people about her.

  Agent “X” spoke soothingly, gripping her shoulder tightly.

  “It’s all right, Betty!”

  The sound of her own name brought her back to full consciousness. Her blue eyes lifted to the face of Secret Agent “X.” She became aware suddenly that a man held her in his arms. The glow in her cheeks deepened.

  “Who are you?” she gasped. “Where am I?”

  The Agent’s present disguise was as strange to her as the other he had worn. But the look of deep understanding and intensity in his gaze, the fact that he had called her by name, made her gasp again.

  “You’re not—you can’t be—”

  “Yes, Betty—Agent ‘X’ speaking.”

  She clung to him for an instant in a way that made his own heart beat faster; made him conscious of the beauty, loyalty, and intelligence of this girl.

  “I heard that Doctor Vaughton had been killed in an auto accident. I was frightened—desperately frightened—for you—”

  “If it had been an accident, I might have been killed. But it wasn’t an accident, Betty. It was deliberate.”

  He helped her gently to her own side of the seat. Her eyes were wide with horror.

  “You mean some one tried to murder you?”

  “Yes. What I suspected is true, Betty. There are human fiends behind this epidemic. The people of Branford don’t know it—but they are fighting more than germs.”

  “But why did that mob want to burn the institute? I saw them rushing at it with flaming torches before I fainted. They were like wild beasts!”

  “They were infuriated because they had heard that Dr. Vaughton was treating the rich and neglecting the poor. They thought he was at the institute and were trying to force him to come out. They didn’t harm the institute though. They were frightened off at the last minute.”

  He did not tell her that it was his own clever ruse that had saved the day. Agent “X” never boasted. Betty Dale laid a hand on his.

  “Tell me what it all means,” she pleaded. “I can’t understand. How could any human beings, no matter how low, do such a thing as—spread disease ?”

  “It’s an extortion scheme, Betty. The cleverest and the worst I’ve ever heard of.”

  “Extortion! You mean— But what good does it do to infect people with sleeping sickness?”

  “The criminals who have the apes apparently have a curative serum as well. They can charge for curing their victims. Only the rich of Branford were deliberately inoculated. The others who caught sleeping sickness were infected by mosquitoes. That is something the criminals hadn’t counted on. But they seem callou
s to it.”

  “I thought encephalitis was incurable!”

  The Agent’s eyes blazed with intensity as he answered.

  “In the light of modern science it is, Betty. That is the horror of it. Medicine is powerless to aid the victims of the criminals. But whoever is behind this has a curative serum. They are charging thousands to effect cures—and Branford’s rich are meeting their demands.”

  “But where does the serum come from?”

  “No one knows, Betty—but a man named Hornaday, one of Drexel’s most brilliant workers, has disappeared along with all his notes and papers. It is barely possible that this man is the fiend behind it all—or—”

  Agent “X” became silent. He had outlined the crime to Betty, given her insight into the horror that lay like a black pall over the city of Branford, but he was not yet ready to put forward any theories.

  She sat forward, clenching her small hands. Her eyes were bright as steel. Her breath came quickly.

  “It’s the most ghastly thing I ever heard of! Hundreds of people condemned to a living death so that some fiend or fiends can grow rich. I understand now just why you’re here. Can’t I help you? Can’t I do something?”

  Betty Dale’s hand gripped his. Her eyes held tense appeal. But the Agent shook his head.

  “There’s nothing you can do now, Betty. If I need you I’ll call. Just keep silent about everything I’ve told you—and keep your eyes and ears open.”

  “I’ve wealthy cousins in Branford, too,” she said suddenly. “My aunt’s sister’s people, the Channings. Paula Channing puts on airs. I never liked her very well. But still she’s my cousin. Do you think they ought to be warned? I was going there tonight.”

  THE Agent thought gravely for a moment. “I think not,” he said finally. “If they have been marked by the criminals, warning them won’t do any good. And they might spread rumors that would be bad all around. I’m following a lead, Betty. In a few hours or days I hope to—”

  The Agent did not reveal to Betty Dale the angle along which he hoped to strike at the hideous extortionists. He left her at her aunt’s with the promise that he would call on her if she could be of any help.

  Then he directed the taxi driver to take him to the Garwick mansion. He sat back tensely smoking a cigarette as the cab lurched forward. After the battle at the institute, the citizens of Branford had returned to their homes like frightened rabbits to their burrows. The streets were abnormally deserted, empty even of patrolling police, who had been called to attempt to quell the riot, and had not yet returned to their regular beats. Horror had won out tonight. The spirit of horror appeared to be in complete control of the city.

  The taxi lurched into a drive, slid up to the white-columned yellow brick front of the stately Garwick residence. Agent “X” leaped out. Another car was standing before the house, a car bearing the green crosses of a doctor.

  A pale-faced servant opened the door. Fear showed in the man’s eyes. His skin was drawn with it.

  He ushered the Secret Agent into the presence of three tense-faced people—Mr. and Mrs. Garwick and Dr. Roeber. The woman’s hand gripped the physician’s arm. Agent “X” caught low pleading words.

  “Is there nothing that can be done, doctor—nothing at all?”

  The servant announced “X,” and Mrs. Garwick turned to him. Her eyes held no glimmering of recognition. “X” was a different man than the one who had come to her on the night of the ape’s attack. His hatchet face, gray hair, and alert eyes were impressive.

  “I am Doctor Preston of the State Sanitation Department,” he said, “investigating personally for the governor. They tell me your son was attacked.”

  Mrs. Garwick bowed her head miserably.

  “Attacked, yes! And now he has contracted the disease. He is already unable to talk—he—”

  Her husband stepped forward to lay a protective hand on her arm. Doctor Roeber stood by dejectedly, with an air of helplessness.

  “You will allow me to see the patient?” questioned Agent “X.”

  Garwick nodded, with the pathetic eagerness of a despairing man who clutches at any straw of hope.

  “Yes! You go with him, Doctor Roeber. Tell him about the case.”

  Following the family physician, “X” ascended a staircase to the sick room. One of the servants was there, acting as nurse. Her face was almost as pale as the starched white dress she wore.

  “X” felt a wave of horror sweep over him as he stared into David Garwick’s face. The boy’s features were set in the first stage of encephalitis—the dread Parkinsonian Mask. It was as though Death had already claimed him and was drawing him relentlessly into that terrible deep pit of sleep from which there is no awakening. Breathing heavily, the boy stared at the ceiling with eyes vacant of all human expression.

  FOR seconds Secret Agent “X” gazed at him, pity and revolt warring in his heart. Then he drew Roeber into the hall, and fixed him with burning eyes. Fierce hatred of the criminals behind this thing made his lips white. But he kept his voice steady.

  “It seems to be a severe case, doctor.”

  Roeber nodded somberly.

  “It is. The boy’s heart isn’t good. He has always been more or less an invalid. I have done all I can.”

  Roeber started down the hall toward the stairs. But Agent “X” stepped back into the room and bent over David Garwick. A gleam came into his eyes as he noted the boy’s color, his labored respiration, and shallow, flickering pulse. If he knew anything about the disease, David Garwick was rapidly approaching a crisis.

  When he returned to the living room, Mrs. Garwick confronted him eagerly.

  “What are these rumors that the Vorse child has been cured?” she demanded. She looked swiftly from Agent “X” to Roeber and back to “X” again. Roeber spoke flatly.

  “Sometimes they get better. There is still hope for your son.”

  “I am asking because we received a phone call tonight,” continued Mrs. Garwick. “Some one claimed he could cure our boy.”

  The Secret Agent’s pulse quickened. This was what he had hoped for! The hideous criminals had made their second move—had gotten in touch with the family of their victim.

  Mr. Garwick spoke harshly.

  “I told you, Stella, that man was a quack! He was too mysterious—refused to give even his name. I don’t trust him. The city is filled with quacks. They are opportunists who would use this time to make money.”

  “What do you think, Doctor Roeber?” Mrs. Garwick’s eyes held appeal.

  Roeber’s reply wasn’t hopeful. He shrugged. “I don’t know. I cannot say. We medical practitioners seem to be helpless against encephalitis. It is true that the little Vorse girl has been recovering, but who can say what caused it?”

  “Then you don’t think I ought to have called in this man?”

  “Of course not!” said her husband harshly. “If our own doctors can do nothing, why should we put any faith in a stranger who will not even give his name?”

  Roeber shrugged again, turned toward the door. “Keep me informed of the patient’s condition. I will do all I can. Try not to worry.”

  Agent “X,” in his role of Preston, lingered after the other had gone. A notebook was in his hand. He appeared to be what he claimed, a representative of the governor. He spoke with sudden urgent authority.

  “This phone call, Mr. Garwick—tell me all about it!”

  “It was from a quack, I say—and an unscrupulous one, too. I wouldn’t dicker with him. He made some preposterous claim that for a large sum of money he could cure David. I do not believe it.”

  “I wanted him to try it,” said his wife. “I am ready to try anything—spend any amount of money.”

  “So am I,” said Garwick hoarsely. “It isn’t money that’s stopping me. But I won’t risk David’s one chance of recovery by placing him in the hands of some fraud. The boy’s heart is weak!”

  “Yes!” gasped Mrs. Garwick with terror in her eyes. “Even the
shock of being attacked by that terrible ape was almost enough to—”

  AGENT “X” spoke emphatically. “It will sound strange,” he said, “coming from a doctor. But I believe you made a mistake, Mr. Garwick. Remedies are sometimes found in strange places. This man who called may have a genuine cure.”

  Mrs. Garwick’s eyes brightened. “That is what I said! Oh Victor, let’s—”

  Her husband looked troubled. “You mean to say you think I should have agreed to his proposal?”

  “X” studied the man intently. He wanted to speak freely—wanted to warn these people of what threatened them and the whole of Branford. But they were on the verge of hysteria—in a horror of uneasiness at the mere thought of entrusting their son to a stranger whose very mysteriousness made him seem sinister. If they knew the actual viciousness of the people with whom they must deal they would be certain to refuse to go through with it.

  And go through with it they must. Not only to save the frail spark of life in their stricken son, but because now was the chance to get into actual contact with the extortionists. If they arranged for the delivery of David, Agent “X” could wait and follow. His voice became more emphatic, quietly reassuring.

  “Doctors try everything in treating a dangerous disease, Mr. Garwick. You must be ready to try anything. If this man telephones again, take my advice and accept his proposal. Do not ask questions. Pay whatever he demands.”

  He seemed finally to have convinced them. Mr. Garwick nodded.

  “If you recommend it, doctor, I will.”

  “Suppose he doesn’t call again!” exclaimed his wife fearfully.

  “I think he will,” “X” replied grimly. He kept the excitement from his voice as he went on. “If this man has a special cure, he may ask for complete secrecy. Agree to all demands and keep whatever promises you make—with one exception. You must let me know. As a representative of the governor I will be in a position to advise you on every point.”

  Garwick reached out and grasped the Agent’s hand.

  “I’ll do that. Just let me know where you can be reached. I’ll feel safer anyway if there’s some one in authority backing me up. Thank you for your advice, sir. I feel encouraged, now that there is some definite course of action to take.”