Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2

by Paul Chadwick

  From somewhere, a faint breath of air had come to him. Fresh air.

  He looked up, sniffed. Above him he saw a trickle of light, coming through the top of the tunnel.

  He brought his face up close, and breathed fresh air. Then he put out his hand, and felt an opening in the earth above him. He realized what that meant—safety. For it seemed that the tunnel was not far below the surface, and the top had caved in here, affording an opening into the air above.

  Chapter XXII

  Secret of the Crypt

  THE actual opening was no larger than a man’s hand, but the ground around it had weakened, and when “X” set to work on it, he was suddenly showered by an avalanche of loosened earth that cascaded down upon him.

  It bore him down to the bottom of the passage, half buried him in a wet, clayey mixture of dirt and muddy water. He struggled up out of it, his clothes caked with mud, his face and hands black and grimy. He used the fallen earth to climb on, hoisted himself out through the now wide opening, and breathed deeply of the fresh night air.

  He looked around to get his bearings. Behind him, about a hundred and fifty feet, the house was brilliantly lighted, and figures moved back and forth past the windows. Several guards patrolled close to the house. The garage door was wide open, and he could see a trooper on guard beside the hearse.

  He wondered that no one in the house had heard the explosion, but that was explained by the fact that it had taken place underground, and at a considerable distance. If they had heard it at all they might have taken it for the distant rumbling of thunder. This was especially likely in view of the overcast condition of the sky.

  The Secret Agent glanced at his wrist watch. The glass was shattered, and the hands had stopped at two o’clock. He judged that he had been in the tunnel for at least a half hour after the explosion, which would make it roughly two-thirty.

  He hugged the ground, and crawled away in the direction of the mausoleum. There, if anywhere, would lie the end of this adventure, he felt. Whoever had perpetrated these crimes had made use of the mausoleum and the tunnel from which to launch his attacks.

  He had covered perhaps twenty feet in his awkward position, never moving fast lest he attract the attention of the guards at the house, when he suddenly stopped, hardly breathing. Directly ahead of him, a man was crouching in the shrubbery. His back was to “X,” and he was raising a gun to fire at some one or something ahead of him. “X” could distinguish that the man’s gun had a silencer attachment.

  Even as “X” watched, the man fired—once, twice, three times, and then cursed, low and violently.

  “X” had been too far away from him to prevent his shooting. And now the Secret Agent’s eyes narrowed. For he recognized the man’s voice. It was State Senator Thane.

  Thane had been shooting in the direction of the mausoleum, which loomed gray and dreary in the dark.

  Now, from that direction came answering shots, also muffled, but distinguished by the flashes that accompanied them.

  Thane fired once more at the flashes, and there were two quick shots in return. Thane spun around, dropped his gun, and put a hand to his stomach, slowly sank to the ground. He uttered a high-pitched cry, and doubled over.

  There were shouts from the house, and several figures came running toward them. “X” moved swiftly to the left, circled the wounded Thane. He saw a dim figure stealing through the shrubbery some distance away. It was the unknown duellist who had wounded the senator. He started in pursuit, but almost immediately lost the shadowy figure. Whoever he was, he knew his way about very well.

  Behind him, “X” heard the voice of Major Denvers. “It’s Senator Thane. He’s shot! Somebody phone for a doctor! The rest of you spread out and comb the grounds again. Do it right. Don’t stop till you get that killer this time. Where’s Judge Farrell? Make sure he’s safe…. Plimpton! Find the judge and stay with him every second. I bet he’ll be next!”

  The Secret Agent made his way toward the mausoleum. If the other man had gone there, it would be dangerous, but it was just as dangerous to remain on the grounds.

  He stopped in front of the grilled door, looked through. The massive stone door was unlocked now, and it swung open. Within the crypt was impenetrable darkness.

  HE went down the single step cautiously, inched open the stone door. The dank odor of death assailed his nostrils. Was the attacker of Thane lurking in there, automatic ready, to send a slug into him as he had done to the senator?

  Oddly, the thought occurred to him, that if it had been the senator who had shot the flashlight out of his hand in the tunnel, he had certainly not done well by himself in that duel. “X” had seen him fire three shots without hitting his antagonist.

  He had the heavy door wide open now. He dropped to the floor. If that man was waiting inside, “X” would make a splendid target for him, standing up. The Secret Agent inched his way into the crypt. Now he felt more at ease. That infallible instinct of his told him that he was alone there.

  He reached out and swung the door to, then felt his way across the floor toward the spot where the coffin had lain with the horrible, swollen body of the Princess Ar-Laasi. He wanted to examine that body now. Later, he would try to find whether or not there was an exit from the crypt into the tunnel.

  He touched the coffin.

  He took out a book of matches and lit one. He had been reluctant to use them in the tunnel for fear that he might cause a secondary explosion with the fumes of the cordite.

  Now, in the flare of the match, he glanced down into the coffin. For a long time he stared, speculating, his mind racing. Finally, he let the match drop to the floor and go out.

  The coffin was empty. The body of the Princess Ar-Lassi had been removed.

  So engrossed was he in the train of thoughts that followed this discovery, that he did not notice the slight movement of the massive door—did not notice that some one was inching it open from the outside.

  He lit another match, and let his eyes rove over the interior of the crypt. The other coffins were in their proper places in the niches. He stepped close, and examined the drawers. They had not been moved recently, for the dust was not disturbed.

  The match went out, and he lit another. He eyed the stone table against the opposite wall, and frowned. He went across to it, and stooped. The table had a wide stone base. Around the base, on the floor, were odd little scratches.

  He allowed the match to die; then, in the darkness, he put both hands on the right-hand edge of the table and heaved.

  The table swung out from the wall on a pivot. Once more he used a match, and by its light stooped and peered into the opening in the floor that the table had concealed.

  This was the other end of the tunnel. There were four steps down, like the four steps at the house. At the bottom he could see the muddy iridescence of the film of water that covered the floor of the passage. And with the last flicker of the match, he saw something else—two bodies lay there.

  One was that of the princess, her gaudy red dress wet and torn, and clinging to her bloated body. And beside her lay another body—the body of a man. And “X” started as he caught a flash of those features, stiff in death.

  And while the Secret Agent scraped another match, he did not hear the muffled steps of the figure who had worked the door open, and was stealing across the floor of the crypt toward him. He was too absorbed in the new mystery that was presented by the face of that dead man.

  The only thing that saved him was the fact that he suddenly bent his head to see better what the match would reveal. As he did so, the viciously swung gun-barrel wielded by the shadowy intruder, just missed the back of his head, and struck his shoulder with stunning force.

  “X’s” left arm was numbed from shoulder to elbow. The match flew from his fingers to be extinguished in the water below, and the Secret Agent pitched forward into the tunnel.

  He landed on his side, close to the body of the princess. He looked up to see the base of the table movi
ng slowly back into position over the opening.

  Chapter XXIII

  No Quarter

  HE flexed his muscles, bit his lip to keep down the wave of nausea that assailed him as a result of the blow, and lunged up the steps. The table was moving slowly, and “X” got his head and shoulders into the opening. The man who was moving it back into place was just on the other side, and “X” saw a pair of feet. He grabbed one foot with both hands, and yanked hard.

  The man uttered a cry of pain as his shin struck the table. The table stopped moving.

  “X” was up into the crypt in a flash, raised his arm in time to deflect the muzzle of the automatic that was fired almost into his face. He gripped the wrist that held it, and twisted hard. The automatic spat flame four times more, harmlessly into the ceiling, then clicked on an empty chamber.

  In the dark “X” drove a smashing blow to his opponent’s head, and the man staggered back under the impact. But he came back in a rush, trying to slash “X’s” face with the barrel of his gun.

  “X” seized the wrist again, clinched with him to avoid being raked by the barrel. His face was close to the other’s, and the faint light that came from outside through the partly open door showed him the man’s features. He exclaimed:

  “Judge Farrell!”

  The other broke away from the clinch, cried hoarsely, “Damn you, you’ve—” and swung wildly at him.

  “X” blocked the blow, and delivered an uppercut that sent the governor-elect reeling backward. He tripped over the open coffin, struck his head against the floor, and lay still.

  “X” knelt beside him, lit a match. The governor-elect was unconscious, but no blood was in evidence. He had sustained a bad blow on the head, but that was all.

  “X” ran his hands through the governor-elect’s clothes, and found a pocket flashlight. He closed the door of the crypt, and then snapped on the light, went down the four steps into the tunnel.

  He stood there for a long minute, playing the light on the face of the dead man who lay beside the princess; a face that resembled in every characteristic the face of the unconscious Judge Farrell upstairs.

  His keen brain worked smoothly, clicking into place the various, apparently unrelated things that he had learned that evening. It continued to weave a startling solution, even while he grasped the cold, stiff body, and carried it up the four steps, while he laid it on the floor of the crypt.

  THE body had been embalmed, and it showed a dignity in death that was consonant with the sepulchral atmosphere of the crypt.

  Then he stood the flashlight on its end, so that the light was diffused upward, making it possible to read the papers that he took from his pocket. It was his first chance to go over them. They were the papers that Betty Dale had given him. There was a complete record of the career of the confidence man, Sam Slawson, and a full description.

  Strangely enough, he took a good ten minutes to study the papers, though there was the danger that the troopers would come into the crypt at any moment.

  Finally he folded up the papers, and stood looking at the body of the dead man, comparing it, feature for feature with the unconscious form of Governor-elect Farrell.

  While he stood there, Farrell began to stir uneasily, opened an eye, then opened both.

  He raised himself up on one elbow, looked at the corpse, then at “X.” All three of them might have been triplet brothers; for “X” still wore Farrell’s disguise.

  “You’ve—found him!” Farrell exclaimed.

  “X” watched him dispassionately as he managed to get to his feet. He came and stood over the body, looked down at it.

  The Secret Agent said, “Yes. And the answer to a number of questions!”

  Farrell turned to him, asked slowly, “Who are you?”

  The Secret Agent answered, “What difference does it make?” Then he said quietly, “Are you ready to come—out there with me?” He indicated the door.

  Farrell took a deep breath, said, “No. Not yet.” And he leaped at “X.”

  The two men locked in a deadly embrace. Farrell had his left arm around the Secret Agent’s waist; with his right hand he tried to reach “X’s” face. “X” warded that right hand desperately, trying to keep it from his face. On the middle finger of Farrell’s right hand the Egyptian ring gleamed ominously in the rays of the upended flashlight. From the mouth of the ugly figure carved on the ring a murderous needle snapped up. Farrell had pressed a spot on the ring that had shot the needle out.

  “X” knew now that the point of that needle was impregnated with the venom that had caused the deaths of the other men.

  He gripped that right wrist, forced it back away from his face. He knew what it could do—it would scratch him, perhaps pierce his cheek, cause him to swell up like Rice and Gates and Hanscom, like the princess who lay in her watery sepulcher below.

  Farrell twisted his wrist out of “X’s” clutch, stepped back, and brought his right hand, with the needle pointing out, down in a slashing slice at “X’s” head.

  “X” jerked his body backward, avoided the needle, but kicked over the flashlight. It went out, and they were in darkness.

  “X” felt Farrell’s hot breath in his face, felt another heave of the man’s body as he raised the hand with that deadly needle. And he put his entire weight and skill behind a blow that struck Farrell full in the face. Farrell grunted, swayed, and sank to the floor.

  “X” lit a match, saw the governor-elect madly sucking at a long scratch on the palm of his left hand. Farrell looked up wildly, his face gray with terror.

  He took the hand away from his mouth long enough to babble, “I scratched my own hand with the needle! God! Save me!”

  “X” stood rigid, silent. He shook his head. “As you know, Slawson,” he said, “there is no antidote that we have here for the deadly venom of the giboon viper. I’m afraid you must die just as the other men died.”

  The man’s whole arm was already swollen to twice its normal size. He was gasping for breath. “Kill me then,” he begged. “Kill me quickly!”

  The Secret Agent said, “I have no weapon. Even if I did, I don’t think I would do it.”

  There was a hard line on his lips as he turned away from the terrible sight and let the match drop to the floor. He turned his back, stood quietly, controlling his feelings with an iron will, while the man died. It took five minutes….

  Chapter XXIV

  Doctor Max

  OUT on the grounds, between the house and the mausoleum, a group of people were gathered about a groaning man on a blanket that had been spread for him.

  Senator Thane was gasping, “Get a doctor—get a doctor!”

  Betty Dale was resting his head in her lap, while one of the troopers applied a crude form of bandage to his abdomen.

  Major Denvers stood beside him, frowning. Several troopers crowded about, and Sergeant Plimpton said to the major, “I’ve phoned around, sir, to half a dozen doctors in the neighborhood. One of them ought to be here any minute. Too bad, the medical examiner just left a little while ago.”

  Denvers stooped, said, “Get a hold on yourself, Thane. A doctor should be here any minute. Can you tell us anything about the man who shot you?”

  Thane raised himself in Betty’s arms, was about to speak, then fell back in a faint.

  “I’m afraid to move him into the house,” said Denvers. “He might bleed to death.”

  “Here comes a doctor, sir,” said Plimpton.

  Denvers turned, saw the tall, stoop-shouldered man with glasses who approached them. He said irritably, “Why didn’t you bring your bag? This man is badly hurt.”

  The doctor snapped at him, “Don’t try to teach me my business, sir!” He knelt beside Thane, cast a look at Betty, then removed the bandage. He said, “H’m—bad, very bad! He’ll have to go to a hospital.”

  He folded the bandage again, replaced it carefully. “Get a stretcher,” he ordered. “If you can’t find a stretcher, find a board of some kind.
We’ll have to take him into the house. Phone to Camberwell Hospital, tell ’em I’m out here, and I say to send an ambulance immediately. Max is my name—Archibald Max.”

  Plimpton and another trooper went in search of a board.

  Doctor Max knelt again beside Thane, took from his pocket a hypodermic syringe, which he filled from a small vial of amber-colored liquid.

  Denvers asked, “Will he be able to talk soon, doc?”

  Doctor Max did not answer. He proceeded methodically to swab off Thane’s arm, and gave him the injection.

  IN a few minutes Thane’s eyes flickered open. They remained blank for a moment, then reflected the extreme pain of his wound. The doctor raised the wounded man’s head, looked up at Denvers, and said, “You can question him now. But be quick. He won’t last long.” To Thane he said, “Better answer this officer’s questions. You are dying.” He said it matter-of-factly, as if it were of no more importance to Thane than if he had said it was going to rain.

  Denvers bent down tensely, asked, “Who shot you, Thane!”

  Thane looked up weakly, recognized the major. Then his eyes slid to the doctor. “You—say—I’m dying?”

  The old medico nodded.

  Thane sighed deeply. “Slawson—shot me! He—killed us all off; Crome, Rice, Hanscom—I’m last!”

  “Why? Why, man?” Denvers demanded. “Why did this Slawson kill you all? And where is he now?”

  Thane smiled terribly. “God help me, I helped to plan it. Slawson—is posing as Judge Farrell!”

  “Posing? Then where’s the real judge?”

  “The real judge died—two days before election. We got Slawson—out of jail—set him up to pose as Farrell—to save the election. And then, he turned on us—killed us all off—so no one would be left alive who knew the secret—then he could go on as governor!”

  Denvers’ brows knit in puzzlement. “But Farrell was attacked himself—by Kyle. How’s that?”

  Thane’s face twisted in agony. Doctor Max lowered his head, said soothingly, “Go on. You’ll feel better in a moment, when the drug I gave you starts to work.”