Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2

by Paul Chadwick

  Over a dozen men were seated in the chairs around the table. But several chairs were still empty.

  Agent “X” walked forward, eyes focused on the edge of the table. Small numbers were inlaid in the mahogany. He took the chair before No. 14. He could feel eyes scrutinizing him. Not until he had seated himself did he look up. Then he laid Van Camp’s brief case on the table before him, adjusted his nose-glasses.

  An amazing group of faces met his eye. Many were familiar to him. Here were famous gangsters, confidence men, gamblers. In this assembly were some of the cunningest, most ruthless czars of crime the underworld had ever produced. Big shots, each in his own line.

  “Duke” Saragon, who had blasted his way to power in the beer-running days. The Belli brothers, last of a dynasty of Sicilian gunmen terrorists who had held sway in Chicago’s North Side. “Smiling” Dan Kilrain, the New York mobster. “Emperor” Lee Wong, head of a sinister West Coast dope ring, who had evaded the cleverest narcotic agents. And Benjamin Sullwell, suave, pink-faced stock promoter, operator of a chain of bucket shops, until income tax evasion had landed him for three years in the federal penitentiary.

  These and others like them formed the Octopus’s “Board of Directors.” And what of the Octopus himself, the chairman? “X’s” eyes looked down the length of the table, narrowed slightly.

  There was no chair at the head. Instead there was a boxlike cabinet with a paneled door in its front. It was still, sinister. What did it mean? The Agent waited, hiding his curiosity under the calm demeanor of a lawyer.

  He sensed the tense uneasiness of these men around him. They seemed to know each other, but their expressions were strained, uncomfortable. They had assembled from every quarter of the country, all dominated by one sinister power—the Octopus. There was an air of expectancy in the manner of each.

  A gangster next to “X” turned his head, spoke in a low-voiced whisper, afraid to raise his voice in that room, afraid that unseen ears would hear.

  “If it wasn’t for the heavy dough in this racket, I’d slide out,” he said. “This circus stuff gets on my nerves—and I like to know who I’m working for.”

  Agent “X” nodded. Others around the table were muttering, except the Chinaman who sat stolidly, staring before him. “X” pondered the significance of his neighbor’s speech. These men did not know who the Octopus was. This amazed him. He glanced again at that cabinet at the head of the table.

  Other directors came in through the door from the mirrored hallway, seating themselves at the table. A small brass clock on the wall struck nine as the last chair was filled. The low-voiced conversation ceased. Every face turned toward that still cabinet.

  Another five minutes passed. The tension in the room grew electric.

  Suddenly the two panels of the cabinet opened outward. Behind them was a white screen six feet square. Below the screen the lattice work of a loudspeaker showed.

  A sound like a sigh went up from those gathered around the table. Eyes blinked. Hands grew taut. On the screen the lifesize head and shoulders of a man had suddenly appeared. A mask covered his whole face. Only his eyes and month were exposed. The eyes seemed to bore into those about the table. The thin, mobile lips moved.

  “Greetings, gentlemen.”

  The sound came startlingly out of the loudspeaker. The mysterious chairman of the criminal board had made his appearance. The Octopus had arrived through the magic of science, the wonder of television. His image was there on the screen; but he himself was as aloof, as enigmatic as ever. There was no saying where he was, from how many miles distant the broadcast was being made.

  A strange smile curved the Octopus’s lips. His dry, disguised tones came again.

  “This promises to be an interesting meeting, gentlemen. Our work in the past weeks has been most gratifying. We have done well by our stockholders. We have other ambitious plans for the future. Will the treasurer, Mr. Sullwell, kindly read his report.”

  SULLWELL, the promoter who had drawn thousands into financial ruin back in the boom days of ’28 and ’29, rose in his seat. He took a paper from his pocket His hands were trembling. The image of the man on the screen seemed to fill all these others with terror.

  “We have five hundred thousand outstanding shares of stock at the present. Disbursements in the last quarterly dividend amounted to four million, three hundred and sixty-two dollars. A surplus of two million one hundred thousand is now on hand.”

  The Octopus’s dry laugh sounded. “Our corporation is not yet a year old, but we have been able to enrich our stockholders beyond their wildest expectations. And—you will note, gentlemen—this concern is unique in not having any liabilities.”

  The Secret Agent understood the irony of that. There could be no liabilities in a criminal group who took from society what they wanted. A group who plundered, murdered where they chose. The Octopus’s mocking voice went on:

  “This, I say, is only the beginning. The dividends we have paid to our stockholders will serve to attract others. The capital we will eventually control will be unlimited. Already many are putting excess profits back into our company’s stock. We have ambitious plans for the future, gentlemen. We are here to consider two projects for the weeks immediately ahead. Both of them give promise of excellent returns on the money we shall invest in them. But, before we begin—” The Octopus interrupted his address to the board to laugh as though at some very good joke— “there is a little matter which must be attended to. It would be wise, I think, to settle it before we go into the intimate details of our projects.”

  The Octopus paused. The board members moved uneasily in their seats. There was something dry, calculated, macabre, about the tones of that voice coming through the loudspeaker. The eyes of the Octopus were pinpoints of evil light. He continued.

  “It will surprise many of you esteemed gentlemen to know that we have in our midst tonight a spy and imposter, here to learn what he can of our secrets and to bring about our downfall.”

  Hoarse gasps went up from those assembled around the long table. Every man looked at his neighbor questioningly. Fear, rage, made evil distortions on the faces of the directors. Then they turned back to the image on the screen, staring expectantly.

  “This spy,” continued the Octopus, “has been clever enough to learn all our passwords and signals. He has been clever enough to disguise himself as one of our most distinguished members. But a certain precaution which I insisted upon, gentlemen, completely checkmated his plans. I refer to the invisible ultra-ray tattooing which each of you carries on his chest. When he passed in front of the fluorescent mirror on his way in here even the cleverness of his disguise was of no avail.”

  The harsh laughter of the Octopus filled the room. Agent “X’s” whole body had gone cold. He knew now he had stumbled into a trap; knew this master of crime had outwitted him. In the back of his mind he had been half fearful of some such thing. He remembered his thoughts on seeing the mirror in the hall. But he had not guessed it was a hidden fluorescent screen to detect invisible tattooing. No man could have guessed that. The Octopus’s cunning amounted to genius.

  “The imposter I refer to, gentlemen, is seated opposite our treasurer, Mr. Sullwell, Mr. Kilrain is on his right. The learned Mr. Lee Wong is on his left. You have deduced by now that he is impersonating director No. 14—our astute legal advisor, Mr. Van Camp. What steps do you suggest that we take to convince him of his error in coming here, gentlemen?”

  Chapter XVII

  Death to the Agent

  AMAZEMENT and fury blazed in the eyes of those around the Agent. All heads turned toward him. The calm, ironic tones of the Octopus were not reflected in the expressions of his board. Savage ferocity showed on every countenance. An audible hiss arose. A dozen men leaped to their feet, crouched over the table. Guns appeared as though by magic in the hands of most. The black muzzles pointed straight at Agent “X.” Death hung heavy in the room. The voice of the Octopus broke the strained silence.

&nb
sp; “Preserve your dignity, gentlemen! This is no ordinary spy who comes to us tonight. Unless I am wrong he is one of the cleverest investigators in the country—a man you have all heard of at one time or another—Secret Agent ‘X.’”

  The fingers of the two sinister Belli brothers tightened around the butts of their automatics. For a moment “X” thought they were going to shoot him then and there in cold blood.

  “Rat!” hissed one. “Police spy!”

  “You should feel flattered,” said the Octopus. “In giving us his exclusive attention for the past week he has paid tribute to our power. I suspected it was he when it was reported that a man shot down by some of our employees in a recent bank raid was later found alive by the police. I ordered that this man be captured. When he escaped by cleverly forcing our men to jump from their plane and later brought the plane to the ground himself, I knew it must be ‘X.’

  “A very charming lady concurred with me in my suspicions. By a ruse this morning he made other of our employees think he had been killed in an airplane crash. Now you have the whole case history, gentlemen. What is your will in the matter of his disposal?”

  “Death!” cried a dozen voices at once. “Death!” echoed those who had not spoken first. “Kill the louse,” screamed one of the Belli brothers. “Let me burn him, boss!”

  A note of mock reproach crept into the Octopus’s voice.

  “Gentlemen! We must not forget that we are the directors of a large corporation. Our conduct must never be unseemly. But I am glad to see that there is no dissension on this matter. Let it be conducted in the usual way. Will some one please make a motion?”

  Sullwell, the evil promoter, raised his hand. “I move, Mr. Chairman, that the spy and imposter in our midst be punished with death.”

  “Will some one please second the motion?” asked the Octopus.

  Lee Wong, impassive until now, spoke in a sing-song voice, toneless as the slithering of a reptile’s scales. “Mr. Chairman, I second the motion.”

  “It has been moved and seconded that the impersonator of Mr. Van Camp be punished with death. All those in favor say ‘Aye!’”

  A chorus of “ayes” filled the room, vicious as the snarling of a pack of blood hungry wolves.

  “Those not in favor please signify in the customary way.”

  Dead silence followed this pronouncement; a silence in which the merciless eyes of a group of the underworld’s worst spawn glared balefully at Agent “X.” The Octopus’s lips moved. His voice was as calm as though this were a routine business proceeding.

  “The motion is carried, gentlemen. Stand up, Agent ‘X.’ Perhaps your death will not be quite so—ah—drastic if you will answer a few questions.”

  The Secret Agent arose; knuckles resting on the mahogany table, gaze focused on the screen in the cabinet.

  “What did you do with Van Camp, and exactly how did you learn from him the passwords and signals which gained you admittance to this meeting?” asked the Octopus. “The gentlemen gathered around this table would like to know.”

  “I’ve nothing to say, Mr. Chairman.” The Secret Agent’s voice had the calmness of a director making response to some dry business matter. It matched the Octopus’s even tones. But the master criminal’s laughter filled the board room. It had a gloating, exultant quality.

  “I am amused and pleased, Agent ‘X,’ that you chose to come here tonight. I know how you work—for I have followed reports of your activities in the papers, and have gathered whispered rumors in other quarters. You share your secrets with no one. You do not call the police until all the groundwork has been done by you. That is clever: but it also has its drawbacks. For when you die tonight there will be no one to carry on where you leave off.

  “The police, I am assured, know nothing. Confidence in your own prowess has become your undoing, Agent ‘X.’ And it will perhaps surprise you to learn that I devised my ultra-ray methods of identification anticipating that you might try to sit in on one of our board meetings. Your phenomenal powers of disguise have gained you quite a reputation.” The Octopus paused.

  One of the directors muttered savagely: “Kill ’im.”

  “I am coming to that. You can talk freely now, Agent ‘X.’ There’s no need to preserve stubborn silence. Your work is over. You remember the doors you came through? Until I myself unlock them with radio impulse no single member of this board or employee of our corporation can leave this building. If you should use any of your novel little devices, your various defensive weapons—they would avail you nothing. Let us go a step further!

  “If you should succeed in killing every one of the estimable gentlemen around you, you would still be a hopeless prisoner doomed to death. For I have certain small devices myself which could handle the situation. In the event of a police raid, for instance, a gas more deadly than diphosgene, or dichlorethyl sulphide, will flood every crack and cranny of the premises in less than ten seconds. Let me suggest again that you answer my questions.”

  The Secret Agent spoke coldly. “You have received my answer, Mr. Chairman.” “X” had guarded his secrets carefully in life. He would take them to his grave if necessary. At least he wouldn’t give this satanic man the satisfaction of triumphing in that respect. The Octopus’s voice became more harsh.

  “You see that the gentlemen about you have guns in their hands and are anxious to kill you at once. If you make the slightest violent move they will do so. In many respects it would be better for you if you did make a break now and courted swift death. I am not advising you to do it; but you may take your choice. If you care to live a few minutes longer, however, keep absolutely quiet.”

  The Octopus then spoke to one of his boardmen. “Mr. Sullwell, please ring for an attendant.”

  The treasurer pressed a button. A man dressed in a black suit and a black shirt entered. His face was a dead, unhealthy white. His eyes like his suit were coal black and beady as a snake’s. The Octopus addressed him.

  “We are about to place a member of this board under arrest. You will bring three of your colleagues at once and conduct him to room 13. Switch on the extension when you get there. I shall hold you personally responsible for the prisoner’s safe keeping.”

  The attendant’s ashen face seemed to grow a shade more ghastly. He nodded, left the room at once, returning with three other black-shirted figures. Two of them held steel nippers in their hands.

  They approached Agent “X,” clamped the nippers over his wrists. The other two men thrust automatics against his back. A slight movement of his hands showed him that the jaws of the nippers were cruelly toothed and would slash his wrists into ribbons if he tried to break away.

  A dry laugh came from the screen where the Octopus’s image showed.

  “When you arrive in room 13 you will be given one more chance to talk, Secret Agent ‘X.’ And perhaps the surroundings there will be conducive to conversational talents!”

  The mocking note in the sinister voice prepared “X” for some hidden horror. He walked stiffly out of the board room between his captors. The murderous eyes of the directors followed him. He read disappointment there—disappointment that they were not to become his executioners themselves. But fear of the Octopus, observance of his slightest wish, held their instincts in check.

  HE was taken through a series of corridors, passed doors marked in white numerals. His four captors said nothing as they marched him along. The Octopus had not explained to them who he was. They had the impersonal air of paid executioners.

  They stopped before a door marked 13, opened it and led Agent “X” in. One of them switched on a light, and he stared in amazement at the collection of strange looking apparatus set on the concrete floor.

  At first it appeared to be factory machinery. Then a coldness gripped “X”—understanding that brought with it chill horror. One of his captors walked to a cabinet mounted on the near-by wall, a cabinet like that in the boardroom. He opened the doors, snapped a switch, and instantly the head and
shoulders of the Octopus appeared here also. His now familiar voice sounded. He spoke almost as though he could see the Agent.

  “You see, I follow you, Agent ‘X.’ You cannot escape me! Look around you and you will observe what function this room fulfills. I know by heart every item it contains. The ingenious machine directly in the center of the floor, for instance! Those cogs and chains—that movable framework! Merely a modern version of the rack. We anticipated that punitive measures might be necessary. Also methods of making bashful or stubborn persons talk. That rack has proved itself efficient.

  “By means of it the femur can be separated from the tibia—the radius and ulna from the humerus—the clavicle from the scapula. I believe you follow me, Agent ‘X’—you who are so well versed in science! I am speaking of the bones of arms and legs. Our rack can pluck them out of their sockets as easily as a woman would pluck superfluous hair from her eyebrows.”

  The Octopus’s chuckle was like some devil’s whisper from the black mouth of hell. He continued, showmanlike, gloating over his exhibits.

  “The medieval inquisitors gave considerable time and thought to the art of torture; but they were handicapped by their crude knowledge of mechanics and human anatomy. We have done better, I think I can modestly say. Let us take another little device as an example. The handsome statue of the lady in the corner is a development of the famous Iron Virgin of Nuremberg.

  “Victims, you remember, were put inside the hollow statue—and spikes were driven through the chest, back, and lastly the eyes and ears. In our lady the spikes, driven by electric gears, move with exquisite slowness. Blindness, deafness, and eventual death, come only after hours. The victim of our lady’s iron embrace longs for the cruder but speedier ways of the 9th century.

  “You see now,” added the Octopus dryly, “why my suggestion that you talk was made advisedly. I give you one half minute to decide. You will either tell the board members your name and the entire history of your career, including the method used to learn Mr. Van Camp’s secrets—or you will be given into the hands of our official torturer to die slowly and fearfully.”