Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2

by Paul Chadwick

  The Agent rushed to the designated square; it was four minutes after five now. He kept turning around, but no one approached him. “X” quelled an impulse to shout his identity. His eyes were feverish, his mouth parched. The pigments put on for the A.J. Martin disguise hid the hectic flush that panic had caused. For all he knew, Betty this minute was in the hands of those revolting old men. Maybe already her fresh beauty was denied by death!

  He brushed a hand wearily across his face. There is a limit to any man’s resistance. “X” thought he was going to collapse. Then his eye singled out a man hurrying from a western exit. There was no mistaking that tall lean form, the leonine, stalking stride. The man was the DOAC representative who had met him before.

  “X” stifled a cry. The emissary wouldn’t recognize him as A.J. Martin. Before, the Agent had posed as Danny Dugan, the race-track tout and cheap sport. The Agent pulled a badge from an inner pocket, thrust it into his outside coat pocket, hurried after the DOAC.

  When he stepped alongside the man, he had his hand in his pocket, and a cold gleam in his eyes. He grasped the DOAC’s arm roughly, spun him. The man gave a startled jerk and shrank back from the Agent’s glare.

  “Comin’ along nice, Harry, or do you want me to tap you?” rasped “X.” “I knew I’d nab you sooner or later. You’re losin’ your class, Harry. Those bank notes you turned out wouldn’t have fooled a child. No, Harry, you haven’t the knack any more! Why, fifteen years ago, you could turn out the prettiest line of green goods on the market. You know what it means this time, Harry. The judge will throw the book at you. Come along nice, Harry. I like to be gentle to has-beens.”

  The DOAC representative uttered a gasp of amazement. “Who are you? What—what’s the meaning of this outrage? Harry? My name isn’t Harry. Green goods? I’m not in the grocery business. Let me go, or I’ll have you arrested.”

  The Agent laughed, and made the DOAC swallow hard by flashing his badge, the insignia of a government Secret Service operative. He rushed the man along to a southern exit. “X” didn’t want to meet this man’s chauffeur—yet.

  “Trying to pull the old stuff, are you, Harry?” sneered the Agent. “You’re not Harry Hagar, the counterfeiter, are you? You’re probably Sterling Wright Worthington, the philanthropist. You wouldn’t steal the bread out of the mouths of widows and orphans. Not you, Mr. Worthington. You’d get their money before they had a chance to spend it. Don’t kick up a fuss, Harry. I want to get you in the city’s ice box an’ knock off. Takin’ the missus to the movies tonight.”

  The Agent kept talking and ignoring the DOAC’s protests. The man was convinced that “X” was a government detective who had mistaken him for a counterfeiter and confidence man. Outside, the Agent piled the representative into a taxi, and gave the driver the address of his hideout.

  When the DOAC discovered that the car wasn’t heading for the city prison, he began to splutter again. “X” silenced him with the cold ring of his gas gun.

  “Never mind where you’re going,” he said in a low voice. “Keep quiet. You’ll get your chance to talk later.”

  The menace of the gun made the DOAC tractable. “X” got him into his apartment before the man spoke again. Then the startling truth dawned on him. Fear spread a sickly wash across his face. His eyes grew wide. He began to tremble.

  “You—you’re Secret Agent ‘X’!” he cried in a sudden frenzy.

  Chapter XVII

  Council of Doom

  FOR a moment he stared aghast at the Agent. His eyes were glassy with fright. His jaw sagged, and the color drained from his fear-distorted face. He cowered against the wall, lips quivering and terror taking complete command. He started to plead with “X.” Then his swiveling eyes fixed on a slender bronze statue on the table.

  He uttered a snarl like a trapped beast. His foot lashed out, dealing the Agent a painful kick in the shin. It diverted “X’s” attention long enough for the DOAC to grab the bronze figurine and hurl it.

  The missile struck “X” in the stomach. The impact knocked him backwards. His gun slipped to the floor. Now the DOAC’s eyes glittered. Fright changed to savage triumph. To kill the Secret Agent would gain him a high post in the wicked organization. He grabbed a lamp from the table and hurled it. “X” saved himself by warding off the missile with his forearm. He got to his feet and lunged into the DOAC, his left fist ready for destruction.

  Frantically the DOAC looked for another weapon within reach. Finding nothing that would inflict damage, he tried to fend “X” off with his foot.

  The Agent sidestepped neatly, unleashing a dynamiting haymaker for his foe’s jaw. “X” pulled his punch a little, because he wanted only to daze the DOAC. The man’s legs failed him. He sprawled out, and before he could struggle up, the Agent had him pinned down and had snapped a pair of handcuff’s on his wrists.

  “You’re through,” he informed the DOAC. “Accept defeat and do as I tell you! You’re luckier than you think. The DOACs are going to make their big push for power soon. But unless something happens to me, the leaders of your organization are going to find themselves in the death house, their mob of thugs scattered and broken. Now you’re going to tell me the means you have of identifying yourself at DOAC headquarters. Talk fast!”

  The captive was sullenly silent. Yet his ugly manner was obviously a cloak of fear. The man’s hands were palsied. He had to lick his lips repeatedly. His face had the mottled whiteness of raw dough.

  He showed a spark of defiance, but it died under “X’s” hypnotic glare. The DOAC seemed to shrivel under the Secret Agent’s burning eyes. It was will against will, and the prisoner’s sagged beneath the iron force of “X’s.”

  The Agent didn’t speak for a moment. He was accomplishing his purpose without threats or rough tactics, crushing the DOAC’s spirit with his fierce gaze. Suddenly the captive wilted. He slumped in a chair. A sob escaped him. His defenses were broken. He was soft clay.

  “All right,” said the Agent. “Give me the facts straight! I’m going to get into DOAC headquarters—and you’re going to help me! Give me the countersign, quick—and whatever else I need to know.”

  “I can’t! I can’t!” The DOAC whimpered, fear making his teeth chatter. “They’ll kill me—fill me with hot lead—cook my insides. I can’t squeal—do you hear! I can’t!”

  The prisoner broke into low moans. He rocked his head from side to side. His eyes were wild and staring. One of the Secret Agent’s most effective weapons was his reputation. His identity was unknown. But the startling, daring things he had done in his ceaseless warfare on crime had caused rumors to spread through the underworld. His enemies feared him as a mysterious, unknown quantity—the quantity “X,” which might appear and work havoc at the most unpredictable moment.

  The universal fear in which he was held had often served the Agent as an asset. At the moment, however, he saw that it might prove a liability. For terror was unhinging the mind of the prisoner. Hysteria was getting possession of him. If he lapsed into raving madness, he’d be useless to “X.” The Agent gave him a reassuring tap on the shoulder.

  “Snap out of it,” he said in a more kindly voice. “Give me the countersign. How do you get into the place? Tell me the procedure—and I’ll promise protection from the DOACs and leniency from the law.”

  The man was whipped, ready to clutch at anything that promised him safety. He blurted out an address on the other side of town. Then he stopped as the significance of what he’d done stung into his consciousness. Cowardice had shattered his morale. He was nothing more than a blubbering mass of fear. The Agent spoke again encouragingly, nodding to the DOAC to continue.

  “Ring the bell three times, then once, then seven,” whispered the prisoner in a croaking voice. “My number is C B Forty-two M. The countersign is, ‘I regret that I have but one life to give for my country!’ But don’t tell them, for God’s sake! Don’t let them know I squealed!”

  The Agent knew his captive wasn’t putting on a
n act. He knew that the man was telling the truth. All the while he’d been intently studying the man’s features.

  Suddenly he snatched up his gas gun and fired full into the man’s face, silencing the DOAC’s instant scream with a blast of anesthetizing but harmless vapor.

  As the DOAC lay unconscious, Agent “X” went to work quickly before his three-sided mirror.

  HE changed the pigments that covered his skin, built up the frontal bone above his eyes with plastic materials, broadened the bridge of his nose, and reshaped the contour of his face. When he had finished, he bore uncanny resemblance to the man lying on the floor. The Agent changed clothes quickly with the DOAC member, then stretched him out comfortably on a couch and administered a hypo injection that would keep him unconscious for at least twelve hours.

  The Agent, dressed and made up as the DOAC operative, took a taxi to the Capitol grounds. His face buried in a newspaper, the DOAC’s chauffeur was waiting for his employer. “X” approached the car from the right as though he had just come from the rotunda.

  He had the door open before the hard-faced driver turned. The man dropped his paper and touched the visor of his cap. “X” experienced a tense moment. Would some irregularity in his make-up betray him?

  The chauffeur had a poker face and an unnaturally piercing gaze. The Agent eyed him severely. Immediately the driver became apologetic.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he spoke humbly. “You were away longer than I expected, and I took the liberty of glancing at the news. It won’t happen again, sir, while I’m on duty. Headquarters, sir?”

  “X” grunted affirmation, and slumped on the cushions. He frowned with disapproval, but inwardly he was elated. His disguise was sufficient. The chauffeur’s attention was given to avoiding a rebuke for not opening the door for his employer.

  The motor purred. The driver shifted gears, and the car rolled down the graveled path. What lay ahead? The Agent realized the grim possibilities. Suppose he made a slight misplay at headquarters? Suppose the DOACs discovered his identity and threw him to those evil old men?

  “X” shook his head violently as though to clear it. He had to get his thoughts into another channel. Imagination could play havoc with one’s nerves.

  In a few minutes the chauffeur swung the car into a broad, maple-lined street of decaying grandeur. The imposing edifices on each side dated back to the glamorous Nineties. There were embassy buildings, homes of wealthy politicians. Once cabinet members had lived here, a vice-president. In former administrations much of the Washington social life had centered here. Now it was a quiet street, with “To Let” and “For Sale” signs on many of the houses.

  The chauffeur drew up before a three-story building that had the forbidding aspect of a home that had been closed for the season. “No Trespassing” signs had been posted on the lawns. The windows were boarded up. The house seemed bleak and forlorn.

  “X” waited until the driver got out and opened the door for him. Then he hurried to the house. He pressed the button three times, then once, then seven. He waited tensely. There was no response. He heard no sound of footsteps inside. But he felt that prying eyes were studying him. A wave of desperation swept over him.

  Suppose his captive had lied after all? Suppose these were not the right signals? The Agent was shaken by the thought. Good Lord! Was he going to fail? He had surmounted all obstacles so far. Was he walking into a death trap now, a trap that would snuff out his life and Betty’s? He was chilled with foreboding.

  Then his pulse beat quickened. The door was opening, silently, slowly, mysteriously, as though by a ghost hand. The house exhaled a gush of cold, musty air. Inside, the hallway was shrouded in deep gloom. “X’s” eyes probed the darkness. The furniture, draped with gray covers, appeared like wraiths.

  “X” entered. The door closed softly. There was a sharp, ominous click of the lock. The Agent tingled with suspense, uncertainty, but he dared not show his concern. He walked slowly down the dark, tomblike hallway, not at all sure that he was following the customary procedure.

  Another click. A slot opened in the wall. A brilliant rapier of light stabbed at the Agent. He stopped instantly, seized with misgiving, licking his lips nervously. A sharp voice cracked out one word.

  “Number?”

  “C B Forty-two M,” intoned the Agent.

  The slot closed. “X” drew a sharp breath. He clenched his fists, moved on through the darkness, wondering, if the next moment he would be knocked senseless, carried to the death chamber.

  He walked a few feet. Another slot opened. The Agent felt much relieved. Evidently he had done nothing so far to arouse suspicion.

  “The countersign,” another voice demanded.

  “I regret that I have but one life to give for my country,” said the Agent evenly.

  “Proceed to the council hall and give your report,” was the response.

  “X” GAVE an inward groan. The council hall. How would he find it in the dark maze of rooms in this house? The building was a closed-up embassy, constructed to accommodate many people. Besides the many rooms, there were probably secret chambers, specially built by the DOACs. But he had to do what he could—for Betty Dale’s sake.

  He felt along the wall until he came to the first door. It was locked. The Agent quickly fitted a skeleton key and entered the pitch-dark room. He carried a flashlight, but he knew it would be hazardous to use it. Before he left the room, “X” donned the blue hood he had taken from the captured DOAC.

  The Agent went from room to room, becoming more desperate as each door failed to open onto the council chamber. He had the feeling that he was spied upon. Certainly his actions would be questioned. How could he explain the delay? He crept up the winding staircase. He guided himself by the railing, which was as chill as a slab in a morgue. The oppressive silence was becoming an intolerable burden. If only he could hear footsteps, some one speaking. Even the scuffling sounds signaling an attack would be better than this dread, brooding quiet.

  He reached the landing at the top of the flight. He paused, tensed, his brow knitting in a frown of attention. He heard a weird, melodious peal, muted by distance and sound barriers. It was a somber ring, struck in a minor chord, like the tolling of a bell for the dead.

  The chiming of the bell came from below, far below. “X” raced down the stairs. He was grateful that the mournful ringing continued, for it gave him direction. At the rear of the hallway, he found a narrow door. It was unlocked. He opened it, and went down a long flight of steps. At the bottom was another door. This opened onto a long, dank, and winding tunnel.

  The bell ceased its sonorous pealing. Voices sounded from the end of the twisting underground corridor. Presently “X” found himself in the council chamber. The hooded DOACs were there, ghastly and wraithlike in the phosphorescent glare from the ceiling. He heard the cackling old men behind the curtain.

  The hooded leader rose and raised his hand in the DOAC salute. “X” repeated the gesture. He was told to take a chair before the assemblage.

  “Where is the hated foe?” demanded the leader. “You have failed. Secret Agent ‘X’ is our greatest obstacle to power. He has ferreted out facts, spied upon us, dared to combat us. You, as a trusted member of the council, were sent to bring him here. You return alone! All DOACs are sworn to the code that death shall be dealt to those who fail. You understand, C B Forty-two M, that you must suffer the price of incompetence—unless you have some very adequate and satisfactory explanation as to why you have not fulfilled your duty.”

  “X” stood rigid as the dread words fell on his ears. From behind the curtain came the demoniac laughter of the madmen, the DOAC executioners.

  Chapter XVIII

  A Clue?

  THE Agent thought quickly. His explanation had to be convincing, or he’d become another victim on the gory death list of the DOACs. Also in voice and manner he must imitate the man he was impersonating.

  “You condemn me for another man’s cowardice,” he sa
id thickly. “I was at the rotunda at the appointed time. Secret Agent ‘X’ did not appear—but I was determined not to return without our hated enemy. I waited long and he didn’t come. By now he may be a thousand miles from here, traveling by fast plane. Is it fair that I should be put under fire and threatened with death because another man is afraid?”

  A murmur passed through the council. It bore a triumphant note. The leader didn’t speak at once. Probably he was taking time to ponder the situation. Possibly he detected a suspicious inflection or pronunciation in “X’s” speech. The lead, boiling behind the curtain, and those slavering, giggling killers were still a threat. But the Agent maintained a respectful silence.

  “Yes,” said the leader finally. “Yes—you are right, comrade. You have nothing to fear—for the DOACs stand for justice, kindness. You have worked well, comrade, and the Master will reward you handsomely. Seekers of liberty and right, we have reached the turning point in our fight for the DOAC cause. Secret Agent ‘X’ has retreated. His tricks and bravado were but a veneer, a mask to hide his cowardice.

  “He will not jeopardize his own life to save the girl who is his devoted ally. We have whipped him, comrades. He is running, running. Our greatest human obstacle has been dissolved by fear. That is good news, comrades. We have triumphed over an enemy—but there is something even more thrilling. Our plans have been changed, speeded up. This very night the command will be issued which will make the DOACs rulers of America. We are approaching the zero hour!”

  The leader stood up, staring with burning, fanatical eyes at those about him.

  “I will communicate with an intermediary of the Master at once,” he continued. “The Master will be glad to know that Agent ‘X’ has fled. He will clinch our victory over this man who tried at every turn to thwart us. This girl of the Secret Agent’s will be destroyed—as others have been destroyed. The Agent will know the full meaning of DOAC vengeance after tonight. The meeting is adjourned, comrades.”