Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2

by Paul Chadwick

  Then Agent “X’s” feet touched the thick fabric of the blimp’s back. It was similar to the back of some great pachyderm. He reached down with one hand, grabbed a shroud line, let go of the gyro’s landing gear.

  He crouched clinging to the top of the blimp as the gyro continued to sail on. Slowly it slid backwards as the blimp’s speed out-distanced it. Once the air wheels of the gyro did touch. A slight shudder passed over the helium filled bag beneath “X.” It might have been attributed to a gust of wind. The gyro fell away in the darkness behind, sacrificed as he had sacrificed the Oriole.

  “X” had accomplished the seemingly impossible. He was alone on the Octopus’s strange craft.

  Chapter XXIV

  Who is the Octopus?

  AS the blimp nosed into the fog bank like a great fish, Agent “X” began the desperate climb down over the craft’s side. The clutch of the wind was terrific now. A steady stream of cold, moist fog whipped against his face. The fog was like the slimy tentacles of an Octopus trying to snatch him away to death. But the Agent moved carefully, inch by inch, foot by foot.

  He made sure of each hold before he let go the one he had. The fog was a blessing in a way. It was so thick that it veiled completely the faint light of the stars. It cloaked his movements in an impenetrable veil of blackness.

  He came to the maximum bulge of the blimp’s bag, began to work inward. Before him, along the slanted shroud lines, he saw the faint glow of a small light. It was forward, toward the blimp’s control room.

  “X,” too, worked forward. The light came through a small port in the gondola’s side. “X” located one of the two motors that propelled the craft. It was slightly away from the side of the gondola, giving the propeller room to revolve. “X” avoided those terrible whirling blades, one flick of which meant death.

  He marveled at the quiet efficiency of that muffled port motor.

  He could hear the faint movement of valves now, hear the drumming swish of the propeller. He worked behind it, climbed down to the motor nacelle, groped cautiously in the darkness.

  A six-foot, steel catwalk led from this nacelle to the cabin, facilitating repairs while the blimp was in the air.

  “X” lowered himself to the catwalk, felt along it, found a door in the side of the cabin. His heart beat faster. There was a handle on the door. It wasn’t locked. He turned the handle, opened the door, stepped inside. He was now in the very stronghold of death.

  A short, narrow corridor, lighted by one tiny bulb went to right and left. There were two doors along the side of this corridor, another up forward.

  Agent “X” cat-footed toward this forward door. Inside, the blimp was constructed differently from any he had ever seen. It had been built by an unusual man for unusual purposes.

  “X” came to the door at the end of the corridor, opened it.

  Silhouetted against another bulb above the blimp’s instrument panel, a man was standing. Rigidly as an automaton he held the controls that guided the blimp through the air. His eyes were fixed on the dials before him that were spread across the polished panel in glittering array. The blimp was in the fog now, being flown by instruments alone.

  Agent “X” passed through the door, started toward that silent figure in front of the controls, then stiffened. He had heard no sound behind him, but something cold was suddenly pressed against his back. Some one had come along the corridor silently, seen him enter the control room. Death was in that pressure.

  With the quickness of a striking snake, Agent “X” reached behind him, knocked the gun from the fingers that held it with a chopping upward blow of his hand. The gun clattered, but the silent man who held it leaped on Agent “X’s” back, bore him to the floor, wrapping fingers around his throat. The man by the controls gave an amazed, stifled cry.

  Agent “X” fought like a mad man. These hirelings of the Octopus were amazed at his presence; but to attack was instinctive with them. The other man left his place at the controls, joined his comrade. They did not cry out again. They bent their energies to overpower this human wraith who had appeared so mysteriously out of the night.

  But the light of battle was in the Agent’s eyes. He could not, would not, submit to defeat now. He fought tigerishly, fought for the suppression of the most vicious criminal band with which he had ever come in contact.

  Ignoring for the moment those fingers around his neck, he lashed out with his fist at the man in front. Knuckles cracked against flesh. The man staggered away. Then Agent “X” deliberately fell backwards with all his might, fell on top of the man who was trying to strangle him. It was an utterly unexpected maneuver.

  “X” jerked his own head forward as he struck. He heard the other’s body hit the steel flooring. There was a thud, a gasp. The hands around the Agent’s neck relaxed. “X” bounded to his feet.

  THE man who had been at the controls was coming forward again, jerking a gun from his belt. Agent “X” didn’t give him time to use it. His two fists cracked against the man’s face with the speed of descending trip-hammers. The man went down this time to stay.

  Agent “X” whirled on the other, saw that he was out, too, a huddled heap across the sill of the control room door. “X” was master of the forward part of the blimp.

  But how many others were there? A sudden, sinking qualm affected “X” like a chill. What if the Octopus himself were not on board? What if this robbery had been accomplished by his hirelings alone? Then “X” recalled those broadcasts. This was the Octopus’s blimp. It must be his broadcasting station as well. He must be on board when such a huge robbery as this was underway.

  “X” took one look at the controls. The altimeter read two thousand feet. Its needle showed that the blimp was still level. The compass was steady. The craft could be safely left alone for many minutes. The steady wind would not make it change its course.

  Agent “X” stepped over the body of the man near the corridor door. He walked down the corridor silently, eyes alert, gas gun held ready. The strange stillness of the big craft amazed him. The smooth throb of the motors, the faint rhythmic swish of the propellers were the only sounds.

  Quickly, silently, Agent “X” opened the first door he came to. There was a small flashlight in his hand. He turned it on. This room went the full width of the gondola. Stout metal beams crisscrossed it. Suspended from the beams was a squat, compact piece of mechanism, an electric hoist, geared to tremendous power. Agent “X” gave an exclamation.

  In the center of this chamber, raised above the level of the floor, was the black, mysterious car in which the Mandel child had been whisked from his home.

  It was like the spy cars suspended from Zeppelins during the World War. The mystery of the kidnaping was explained. The blimp had hovered above the Mandel home, motors slowed till the craft was stationary against the wind. The car had been lowered to the sun roof. The child had been snatched from his bed. Then the car had been raised on the hoist, the motors of the blimp started so that the car plunged ahead.

  There was also a grappling hook on a moveable beam swinging from the hoist. Agent “X” stepped across the floor. At his feet, piled carelessly against the metal wall, was the five million in gold taken from the Morencia.

  He left the room, walked silently toward that other door. Coming close, he saw that there was faint light around it.

  With fingers tense as talons Agent “X” reached for the handle of the door. The mystery of the Octopus was at last to be solved.

  Quietly as a guest entering some room where his host expected him, Agent “X” pushed through the door. There was a brilliant overhead light here. The room was filled with complex machinery, and, at a desklike table in the center of the room, a lone man sat.

  Agent “X” drew in his breath with a shudder of amazement. Prepared as he was for a surprise, he was not prepared for this. For the man at the table desk was Professor Norton Beale, the great criminologist.

  Beale raised his head, gave a slight start, then sat rig
idly, arms spread before him. His leonine head, his broad shoulders, gave an impression of power held in leash. His eyes behind his glasses met those of the Agent calmly.

  The Agent’s gun was steady. His own eyes were steely bright.

  The whole incredible drama of crime was climaxed by this quiet man sitting before him. A great criminologist turned criminal. A man who had spent his life fighting crooks, now the master crook of them all.

  Looking at that huge, intellectual head, Agent “X” realized that here was a man led astray by strange forces. A fierce will, a suppressed thirst for power that the profession of criminology did not bring him, a desire to show the surpassing brilliance of his mind by a mad game of life and death with Society itself, had urged Beale on.

  FOR nearly fifteen seconds the Octopus did not speak. A lesser man would have leaped to his feet in amazement at the sight of this unexpected visitor where no visitor seemed possible. But the machine-like brain, the steely nerves of Norton Beale were under perfect control.

  He studied the Agent’s face calmly, intent. Then with a magnificent show of aplomb, Beale removed his eye glasses, wiping them with a handkerchief he flicked from his vest.

  “X,” anticipating some trick, waited tensely. Beale spoke at last.

  “This,” he said, “is an unexpected pleasure. Whoever you are I compliment you sincerely.”

  “X” crossed deliberately to the table, took a chair on the opposite side from Beale, gun still centered on the other man’s forehead. Beale studied the Agent’s hypnotic, burningly intent eyes. Then he threw back his head and laughed suddenly. He laughed as though at some uproariously funny joke. “X” wondered if the man were slightly mad. But there was real mirth in the professor’s laugh. It was the mirth of a man who can view a situation with scientific impartiality. Beale spoke, again.

  “You needn’t introduce yourself,” he said. “There’s only one man who could have accomplished this. Again I compliment you, Agent “X.” I’ll be interested to hear how you got away from my board of directors, how you survived the fire and explosions in which they reported to me you had died.”

  There was maddening calmness, a smug tone of self-complacence and power in Beale’s voice. Faced with the last person in the world he had expected to see, faced with his most relentless enemy, Beale still behaved as though he were complete master of the situation.

  There was no humor in the eyes of Agent “X.” He spoke quietly.

  “Even if you hadn’t spread terror over the whole county, Beale—even if your employees didn’t go around killing, robbing, kidnaping, extorting, I would put you in prison for the murder of one man. You made a mistake when you had my detective, MacCarthy, killed, Beale.”

  “And you, Agent ‘X,’ made a mistake when you first undertook to hinder my work. Even now, when it seems that victory is yours, you cannot win.”

  Beale ceased speaking. His eyes glittered. Agent “X” took something from his coat pocket. It was a small black box hardly larger than a pack of cigarettes. There was a tiny lever at one end. The Agent’s finger poised over this lever. He smiled at Beale grimly.

  “I’ve knocked out two of your men, Beale. You may have many more on this ship. You may have secret alarm signals. Help may be on the way this second. But, if you make any such move, neither you nor any of your men will live. There’s enough explosive in this box to annihilate us both, destroy this ship and everything in it. Force my hand and I’ll use it to rid the world of a master criminal.”

  Beale shrugged, then chuckled softly. “Don’t be impetuous, Agent ‘X.’ When you reach my age you’ll see that there are times for violence and times when it is futile. You’ve misunderstood my meaning. I’ve no other help on this airship. A pilot, an engineer and myself are all it carries. Its mechanism is automatic. It is not even equipped for battle. You say you have overcome both my employees. Very pretty—but I still say your victory isn’t won. Did it ever occur to you that no one in the whole world will believe you when you tell them I’m a criminal?

  “Did it ever occur to you that in trapping me you have only tasted the final sting of defeat? Turn me over to the law—and I’ve only to say I’m a victim of Agent ‘X.’ I’ve only to state that you yourself are the Octopus; that I’ve been fighting you tooth and nail, and that you’ve taken me prisoner. You understand now, Agent ‘X.’ We have waged a battle of wits, and I take the final trick.”

  Agent “X” nodded silently. There was truth in every word Beale said—appalling truth. The man had played his cards so well that he was above suspicion! Not even the members of his own corporation knew him. For seconds Agent “X” did not move. His shoulders began to droop dejectedly. Then he took a cigarette case from his pocket, selected one and passed them across to Beale.

  Beale’s eyes glittered as he stared at the cigarettes. He spoke with sudden amusement.

  “If I should disappear from sight for more than a week, Agent ‘X’—if some one should take a notion to—ah—murder me—there are certain papers in the care of a friend of mine which will be opened. These papers state that I am being pursued and threatened by a dangerous and fiendishly clever criminal; a man who calls himself the Octopus. I have even intimated in these papers that Agent ‘X’ may be the Octopus. You will realize by this that my death would be no triumph for you.”

  “X” spoke quietly. “I am not a murderer, Professor Beale. Have a cigarette?”

  Beale smiled, shrugged, selected a cigarette and made use of the match that “X” preferred. The professor puffed, savoring the cigarette and seeming to find nothing wrong with it. But in a moment the glitter of his eyes became less bright. His head began to nod. The complacent look faded from his face.

  Slowly, calmly, the great criminologist and master criminal fell sidewise in his chair, slumping to the floor. The harmless narcotic which “X” had administered to him in the cigarette would keep him unconscious for many minutes.

  A cautious search proved to “X” that Beale had told the truth. There wasn’t another living soul on board the blimp outside of Beale himself and the two whom “X” had knocked out.

  “X” returned to Beale’s chamber. He studied the complex apparatus it contained. Here was one of the moat elaborate radio and television broadcast stations “X” had ever seen. Here were the sensitive instruments by which Beale exerted his influence over a mighty crime empire. “X” studied, tested, made notes. Then he went into the blimp’s control room and changed the wheels and levers until the airship began to climb.

  Up out of the fog bank it soared like a great monster, up till it had reached an altitude of several thousand feet. Then “X” headed it in a northwesterly direction, toward the lonely, far-off Adirondack mountains.

  IT was twenty-four hours later that the Octopus’s sinister board of directors met again. Broadcasts to the secret radio receiving sets of each had informed them that another board meeting was scheduled. A new disbursement of assets to stockholders was to be discussed. That, and the proper investment of a large profit which the corporation had just taken in.

  The country was still seething with the news of two crimes. The Mandel kidnaping and the theft of the gold from the liner, Morencia. These two appalling events had followed each other in the same week. Both had shocked profoundly the police and the citizens of the country. The kidnaping had brought terror to hundreds of homes. The theft of gold threatened to have international complications. But the Octopus’s directors were pleased. In both crimes they saw the hand of their master.

  Quietly at the appointed time they took their places around the boardroom table. Even Van Camp, the criminal lawyer, was there now. He had quite recovered his composure after the narrow escape he had had at the hands of Agent “X.” He had explained how he had been drugged. The corporation members felt secure, now, safe in the power and efficiency of their vast organization.

  The doors of the television cabinet opened. The masked face of the Octopus appeared. He spoke in the precise tones with w
hich they were all familiar.

  “Greetings, gentlemen!” he said. “We have much to discuss tonight. Business has been extraordinarily good this week—just as it has during the whole month past. I am going to ask Mr. Sullwell, our treasurer, to mention briefly the outstanding deals we have engaged in—and to state what the profits from these deals have been.”

  In dry tones Sullwell enumerated a list of robberies and other crimes which had occurred in every State in the union and had netted over two million dollars. The image on the screen smiled.

  “Good! Thank you, Mr. Sullwell! The division of profits will be the main subject under discussion tonight. But, there is another little matter to be attended to first.”

  The Octopus paused. The board members stiffened, remembering that the last time the Octopus said this there had come the strange disclosure of an imposter in their midst. Surely that could not have happened again. They looked at each other uneasily. The Octopus continued.

  “Yesterday some of our employees, acting under my instructions, took prisoner a man so important to us and to society that I asked two of our members, Mr. Kilrain and Mr. Sullwell, to bring him here. Many of you must have heard the name Norton Beale. Beale has written books and has helped the police. He has been a thorn in the flesh of people like ourselves for years. He is our natural enemy. This man is a prisoner of our corporation now. Ring for an attendant, Mr. Sullwell, and have him brought in.”

  The evil promoter pressed a button and one of the corporation’s black-shirted men entered. A moment later Professor Norton Beale was ushered into the room. Two black-shirted attendants gripped his wrists; but this time nippers were not used. Beale’s wrists were handcuffed directly to those of his captors.

  The eyes of the man on the television screen seemed to burn into Beale’s, as though he could see him standing there. The voice in the loudspeaker was ironic.