Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2

by Paul Chadwick

  FELLOW AMERICANS! The time has come for staunch citizens to unite! The time has come to prepare ourselves for what lies before us!America is soon to be bathed in bloodshed, anarchy, revolt! The depression is not ended, the New Deal will break down.We, the wise, the true-hearted, the brave, must become the dictators and the saviors of our country! We have formed a society therefore to champion the inalienable rights for which our fathers bled and died! We are training ourselves to take a firm grasp on America’s helm, to pilot the Ship of State through the troublesome waters that lie ahead.Our courage fills cowards with fear. Our frankness makes the treacherous furious. The boldness of our methods makes the weak tremble. Today every man’s hand is against us! Tomorrow we shall command universal respect! If you are strong, loyal, unselfish—we ask you to join our ranks; we, the Defenders of the American Constitution!

  Here was an example of the propaganda that was luring thousands of embittered souls into the ranks of a secret society that was as false as it was criminal. The word “DOAC” was an abbreviation of the phrase “Defenders of the American Constitution.” But Agent “X” wasn’t fooled by their high-sounding title.

  There were murderous fanatics in the membership; thieves and killers who sought only their own good. To swell their ranks they were wilfully sowing the seeds of fear, doubt, bitterness; trying to undermine the faith of those who believed in the strength and destiny of democratic America.

  He folded the paper, put that in his pocket also, picked up the small pamphlet that the envelope also contained. Its date was 1918. It was a pamphlet dealing with codes, ciphers, and secret inks—the kind issued formerly to operatives in the American Intelligence Service.

  It hinted that Ridley, the murdered man misled by the false propaganda of the DOACs, and learning his mistake too late, had at one time been connected with the Secret Service.

  It gave “X” a clear mental picture of the man, Ridley, discharged from service at the end of the World War perhaps, had become bitter when he found himself at last among the ranks of the unemployed. He had been fit material for the DOACs’ lies. But Ridley, finding that the organization of which he had become a member was really a threat to the country he had once served and loved, had tried to do his duty, tried to bring details of the menace he saw to the ears of the one man he thought might help.

  Agent “X” put the pamphlet and the gun back into the floor space. He put the board over it, placed the carpet and the tacks back in place.

  He had found out all he wanted to know here. No need to question the landlady. She wouldn’t even be aware of the strange significance of her roomer. “X” unbolted the door, slipped out into the hall as quietly as he had come. He descended the stairs of the still, gloomy old house, opened the front door.

  Then instantly he paused, his eagle-sharp eyes swiveling forward while the crack of the door was only a few inches wide.

  For a man was lounging across the street, a man who had the manner of a shadower. He was watching No. 24, leaning against a fence.

  THE Agent drew the door shut swiftly, not knowing whether the man, a detective possibly, or a spy of the DOAC organization, had seen him or not. He retreated quickly along the hall toward the rear of the house. His discoveries had been too precious for him to risk capture now.

  In the stuffy, old-fashioned parlor he raised a window quietly. There was a trellis just outside, a yard beneath. The yard was still and dark. He climbed through the window, shutting it after him, swung down from the trellis onto the soft turf of the yard. He cat-footed across it, climbed a fence, and immediately became conscious that he was being followed. There was a skulking figure behind him in the shadows by the fence.

  The Agent set his lips grimly. He slipped into the darker shadows himself, removed his gas gun which could knock a man unconscious even in the open air with its charge of dense, anesthetic vapor.

  Moving along the side of the fence, he passed through a free-swinging gate into another yard. Here he waited, planning to make a prisoner of this shadower behind and find out who he was—detective or DOAC spy. But the man did not come on. He, too, waited, crouching animal-like, a barely visible blob in the eerie gloom of the night.

  Then the Agent whirled, eyes narrowed. On his right, across the width of the yard, something else moved. The lighted rear window of a house in the row along Warner Avenue was suddenly blotted out by the head and shoulders of a man. “X” felt a tensing of the skin along his scalp. There was a purposefulness about the man’s movement. It came to the Agent abruptly that this man and the shadower behind him were working in perfect accord.

  Stooping, running silently on the balls of his feet, Agent “X” tried to put distance between himself and this second shadower. But a third figure appeared at his left. Then something moved straight ahead—and “X” knew suddenly that he was surrounded; that the night was filled with skulking, sinister forms. That these men were DOACs, determined to capture or kill him.

  Chapter IV

  Human Wolves

  HE waited tensely, taking stock of his chances of escape. They appeared slight at the moment. These men, who to the Agent’s experienced eye did not behave like detectives, had completely surrounded the house where Ridley had dwelt. They were closing in on him—human wolves seeking their human prey.

  He could see the ghostly whiteness of their faces, see the glitter of their eyes. They wore no hoods now. They counted on the darkness to hide their identities—or else were so sure of their victim that they didn’t care whether they were seen or not.

  Agent “X” flung toward the darker shadows of a scraggly hedge which made an uneven line by one of the fences. He merged with it, paused a moment, then ducked back on his tracks.

  The men immediately in front converged on the hedge, thinking evidently that “X” planned to use it as a barrier. He saw the gleam of guns in their hands. Yet they seemed reluctant to shoot. It appeared that they wanted to take him alive.

  He saw his chance and vaulted over another fence. Somewhere in the darkness behind him there was a sibilant exclamation—a warning or a command.

  He glanced over his shoulder in time to see two figures fling over the fence after him. The sinister chase was on again. Against the lights in the rear of the houses he saw crisscrossed clothes poles with lines strung between. He stared intently, wondering if these offered a way of escape; then quickly gave up the idea. A building, taller than the others, showed up ahead, with two backyards intervening. It was a six-floor, walk-up apartment, and it occurred to “X” that there might be a basement area-way here, offering an exit to the street.

  He moved swiftly toward the rear steps of the nearest rooming house, leading the chase that way. Then he put on a burst of speed, leaped across a weed-grown flower bed.

  The dark, clustered leaves of a bank of peonies rose like a protecting barrier. He swished through them, crouched. He knew now why the men around him held their fire. They did not want to draw attention to themselves—and they felt sure of their victim.

  The Agent found an old empty basket leaning against the fence behind the peony bed. He flung this to his left, making it stir the dank stems of the plants ten feet away. He himself moved with catlike steps in the other direction. This ruse gave him nearly twenty feet advantage over his pursuers.

  He was vaulting over a fence when they spotted him again. He dropped down, crossed another yard and then a second fence. The rear of the dingy apartment was directly ahead. “X” saw no areaway entrance; but there was one dim bulb burning in a basement window, and the window was open.

  Quick as a flash “X” slid through it, and found himself in a damp cellar with ash cans, a coal bin, and an unlighted furnace. Ahead was a door leading to the street apparently; but “X” hesitated to use it. Seeing the grim efficiency of these men, he guessed there would be other watchers posted outside; guessed that every side of the block was under close surveillance. Those who had murdered Ridley were out to see that the man who had answered his cipher did n
ot escape.

  The Agent wheeled around the coal bin in the cellar, saw an old cracked wardrobe closet standing against the brick wall before him. It might offer a possible hiding place.

  He reached forward, drew the door open, and instantly changed his plan. Here was no hiding place. The wardrobe was hardly more than eight inches deep. The whole front opened up. But the janitor had obviously used this discarded piece of furniture for his own convenience. An old coat and a pair of dusty overalls hung on hooks inside. A row of whisky bottles, some empty, some half filled, were ranged along the floor.

  Agent “X” snatched the two articles of clothing from their hooks. He strode into a space behind the coal bin where he saw a workbench and a rack of rusty tools. He slipped into the overalls with lightning speed; then, before snapping the shoulder straps, he took certain articles from an inner pocket of his own suit

  A light, silk mesh toupee was among the articles. He discarded his hat, throwing it into a refuse can and dropping a soiled burlap bag over it. Next he slipped the toupee over his head. He peeled away portions of the flexible, pliant material forming his disguise, giving his face a suddenly cadaverous look.

  From a small vial in his pocket he smeared reddish brown pigment over his features; black pigment beneath his eyes. Then he dabbed dust and cinders over his already changed face. The result was startling.

  In the space of a few seconds the Man of a Thousand Faces had created a new personality. He was, to all intents and purposes, a hatchet-faced, bent old man now. The plastic material remaining still on his chin, nose, upper lip and forehead, distorted the whole shape of his face. He let his shoulders droop, swung his head from side to side. He no longer resembled the man who had entered Ridley’s room.

  He could hear faint noises. The sinister members of the DOAC gang would arrive in the basement any moment, knowing that the man they had pursued must come through that window.

  “X” picked a wrench from the tool rack. At the end of the chamber behind the coal bin was a massive boiler. A tangle of pipes led from this along the wall. Several faucets led from the pipes. Agent “X” clamped the wrench over one faucet, turning the handle slightly at the same time so that water ran out. He flung some in his cupped palm over another pipe elbow. He bent forward and thrust the wrench in among the pipes. The glow of the dim bulb shed sufficient light for a man to work by.

  As he stooped over, back turned, his sensitive ears told him that he wasn’t alone in the cellar. Cautious footsteps sounded. The Agent deliberately rattled his wrench on a pipe elbow. So quietly that he could barely hear them, the footsteps approached.

  It took all the Agent’s will power not to turn. Lax as he seemed, he was ready for a lightninglike spring if he was attacked. Death was close at hand. But he was gambling on the perfection of his quick disguise. This bent, white-haired old man in slack overalls and jumper, stooped over the pipes, surely didn’t look like that agile-footed person the DOACs had pursued across a maze of yards.

  Then he felt the hard, vicious snout of a gun thrust against his ribs. A harsh voice told him:

  “Stick ’em up!”

  The words, the accents of the voice, smacked of the underworld. Agent “X” gave a deliberate start of surprise. He straightened slightly, mustered his breath in cracked accents. Then he turned, raising his arm as he did so, and letting the wrench fall.

  A man was standing before him, a man with a blue, close-fitting hood over his head. Only his eyes showed; glittering, feverish in their brightness, and the cruel, thin slit of a mouth. The man’s hands on the big automatic were as white as a girl’s however. The man’s pressed trousers spoke of the dandy.

  Behind that macabre hood was the vicious gunman type that “X” had met with before. It confirmed his suspicion that there were hardened criminals within the DOAC ranks. Looking over the gunman’s shoulder he saw other hooded faces staring at him in the gloom of the cellar, other guns pointing his way.

  The slightest out-of-character gesture on his part now and he would be cut down mercilessly. Here were the flitting figures that had pursued him across the yard. Here were the ruthless human wolves set to hunt him down.

  Agent “X,” playing his part in masterly fashion, let his body grow still more lax and let his jaw sag. When he spoke his tongue clucked and stuttered as though in mortal terror.

  “Go—easy—there, f-fella! I—I ain’t got nothin’—you want!”

  The hooded man’s eyes bored into his. The Agent’s dust-streaked face worked with apparent fear—worked as an old man’s might, helpless before desperate criminals. He could feel the eyes of the others searching him, too. Life or death dwelt in their gaze. He waited to see whether his disguise would be adequate.

  TENSE seconds passed. The gunman snarled an abrupt question. “Was there a guy in here a minute ago?”

  Agent “X” shook his head, moving his lips as though they were palsied. The muzzle of the gun was jabbed closer.

  “N-no. I didn’t see nobody,” “X” stuttered.

  The sinister beings in the room debated a moment. Then one of them spoke commandingly.

  “Keep him covered—we’ll look around.” The hooded figures moved away, all but the one guarding “X.”

  He heard their feet cross the cellar floor, heard them poking in every cranny and corner. Then their footsteps whispered up the stairs into the house. He knew they wouldn’t stop till they searched every floor, every apartment. They were out for the Agent’s death or capture.

  “X” still waited, body slack, backed up against the pipes, staring at the blue, vulturelike head before him. He could barely make out the human features beneath the glazed, rubberized material of the strange hood. The slitted mouth, the eye holes, gave the man the appearance of some grotesque devil conjured up in a nightmare.

  The Agent’s lax, palsied manner made the gunman less vigilant. This was what “X” had anticipated. He waited, weighing each sound that reached him—waited till he was certain the others were on the floor above. Then, with an abruptness that took the gunman by surprise, Agent “X” swung both arms forward and down. One sliced to waist level, knocking the automatic from the hooded gunman’s fingers. The other, doubled up, struck the gunman’s chin in a perfect knockout blow.

  The man collapsed to the floor of the cellar soundlessly. His gun made only a faint metallic clatter. The Agent stood tensely, waiting, but nothing happened. The others were intent upon their search of the house.

  “X” stooped, lifted the front of the gunman’s rubber hood and saw the vicious, brutal face of some underworld character, a stranger to “X.” He groped in the man’s pockets for some identifying article, found nothing and lowered the hood. Then, all in one movement it seemed, he stripped overalls, jumper and white wig off. He snatched his own rubber hood out—the one he had taken from Ridley—slipped it quickly over his own head. The next instant he moved toward the open window of the cellar, and as he did so he heard some of the men above returning.

  Chapter V

  A Threat Made Good

  WITH the quickness of a cat Agent “X” raised himself and slipped across the sill. The use of the blue, vulturelike hood proved instantly to be a wise precaution. For, as his own body blotted out the light of the window, forming a silhouette, a hoarse voice sounded in the darkness, asking an abrupt question.

  “You got him?”

  Agent “X” straightened. He made out then the dim form of a DOAC guard, gun in hand. The man had been posted outside by the others to keep watch.

  So quickly that the guard never knew what struck him, Agent “X” lashed out. Again his knuckles cracked against flesh and bone, and the guard flung backwards, dropping to the sparse turf. A second only, “X” stooped to run swift fingers through the man’s pockets, hoping again to learn a DOAC’s name. But the man carried nothing except the gun in his hand and an extra box of shells.

  Agent “X” arose, crossed the apartment’s rear yard and merged with the shadows. He swung over a fe
nce cautiously, waited, eyes probing the darkness to see if he were being followed. There was no sign of movement behind.

  He put as much distance as possible between himself and the apartment, then drew off the DOAC hood, stuffed it in his pocket and made his way to the street.

  He thought of his armored coupé, shrugged. To go back to it now would be suicidal. It was registered under another name, as were the various cars he owned. It might be taken by the police as evidence, in which circumstance he would never be able to salvage it. Its loss would have to be chalked up to the other expenses of this case.

  Agent “X” signaled another cab which took him back to the vicinity of his office. Four blocks from it he maintained a hideout in a small walk-up apartment. He went here first, changed once more to the disguise of E.E. Winstead, and returned to his office.

  Other offices in the building were closed now. But the all-night elevator was still operating, and “X” had his key. To the manager from whom he had leased the office he had stated his business as that of private investigator. It explained his odd comings and goings at all hours of the day and night.

  As “X” opened his door he saw the yellow oblong of a telegram beneath it. He picked this up, ripped open the paper, scanned the message inside.

  “Tried to get you and couldn’t. Call Meadow Stream 224. Hensche,” it said.

  The lustrous, almost uncanny brightness of the Agent’s eyes increased. Meadow Stream was the town where the State penitentiary was located—and “X” had stationed Hensche there because of a recent, strange threat the DOACs had made.

  Agent “X” strode to his phone, dialed long distance and gave the Meadow Stream number. The guarded voice of Hensche came over the wire.

  “That you, boss?”

  “Yes. Winstead speaking.”

  Hensche began talking now, low and fast, not in verbal code as Hobart had done, but in tensely clipped sentences.

  “There’s going to be hell to pay, boss. That threat against Mike Carney was no bluff. A bunch of strange guys have blown into town since dark. I overheard two talking. A raid on the pen to get Carney out and make him come across about his dough is set for midnight. It’s the D.’s all right.”