Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2

by Paul Chadwick

  A surge of fierce rage went through the Agent. He wanted to lunge at the DOAC leader, wanted to tear words from his lips. Where was Betty Dale? Before anything else now “X” had to find her.

  The members of the council filed from the chamber. The leader remained. The Agent followed the others, but in the darkness of the tunnel, he fell behind, lingering till the group had passed through the first door. Then he returned.

  A telephone receiver clicked softly on its hook. “X” stood in the gloom outside the chamber while the leader used the phone. The Agent listened intently, muscles taut, nails pressed against the palms of his hands. Then he heard the leader give a number.

  “X” did not wait for the DOAC to speak the words that would condemn Betty Dale to horrible death. He moved forward into the room, crept up behind the leader. The light from the ceiling threw his shadow ahead of him. The DOAC saw it, uttered a cry of alarm, dropped the receiver and whirled. He whirled directly into a terrific right uppercut that landed somewhere along his jaw. “X” couldn’t get an accurate aim, because of the man’s hood. The blow was high, yet it staggered the leader.

  He reeled back and shouted at the top of his lungs. The three old men dashed from behind the curtain. They were formidable only when they had a prisoner ready for the molten lead. While he forged into the DOAC council chief, “X” flipped a backhand slap at one of the creaky executioners. The blow was light, yet it sent the hideous ancient spinning against the wall. The other two fled.

  The DOAC pulled a blackjack from his pocket and flailed it at the Agent. The shot-loaded weapon struck “X” on the shoulder. The numbing smash halted his attack for a moment. A stinging pain shot through his arm. The blackjack, swung up, and swished down for his head. “X” saved himself from disaster by knocking the DOAC’s arm sidewise. Then he launched a deadly attack that drove the leader against the wall.

  FOOTSTEPS sounded in the tunnel. His legs wobbly from a bruising-blow to the head, the DOAC staggered to the side, got a chair between him and his enemy and shouted for help. “X” reached him with another flesh-splitting clout that sent him crashing into the chairs. He had to finish this man before the others came. He had to get to the telephone and speak to the party at the other end.

  The DOAC lost his blackjack, but he produced a snub-nosed automatic from an armpit bolster. Before he could fire, “X” knocked the gun to the floor. Then he connected with a one-two punch that found the DOAC leader’s jaw. The DOAC jackknifed to the floor, out of the fight completely.

  Snatching up the ugly automatic, the Agent blasted three shots at the oncoming DOACs. He didn’t shoot to kill or even to disable, but to drive fear into the murderous group. Three men had catapulted through the door. The two ancients had not returned. This sort of business was out of their depth. They were insane, but they still possessed the will to live, and “X” knew they had hidden themselves.

  “Quiet!” the Agent snarled at the three hooded men. “One more step and I shoot to kill. Line up against the wall. Raise your hands. That’s it. You’ll slaughter others, but you won’t take chances with your own precious lives, will you?”

  The Agent was the master of the council chamber.

  Keeping the DOACs covered, he rushed to the telephone. The party had hung up. He clicked down the hook, and called central, demanding that the connection just broken with this number be traced.

  “Don’t ask questions!” snapped “X.” “I’m a government agent. And if you don’t rush my order through, you’re going to be among the unemployed.”

  He gave the number of the DOAC phone, printed on the number plate, and ordered the operator to call him back the instant she obtained the desired information. The Agent’s voice was incisive, authoritative. He jammed the receiver on the hook, and went to work on his prisoners, yanking off their hoods and staring at them.

  The men were strangers to him. The leader was a smooth looking fellow, but the other council members were obviously persons of the criminal class. “X” quietly slipped his gas gun out and fired quick shots in their faces, knocking them out.

  He found a winding passageway that branched off from the main tunnel, and he dragged his inert prisoners there. By the time he got back to the council room, the telephone was jangling. Central was on the wire. The call had been traced. “X” was given an address two miles across town.

  The Agent went upstairs cautiously, stopping often and straining to catch the slightest sound. He didn’t relish the prospect of getting a knife in his back.

  He got out of the embassy building without being challenged. The fact that he did caused him grave concern. The DOACs had left the mansion, had gone after Betty Dale probably, or to warn the intermediary of the “Master.” They might get there before him. He was racing against time. Before he opened the door, he removed his hood.

  A block from the DOAC headquarters, the Agent hailed a cab, and ordered the driver to stop at the first cigar store. The cab stopped at the beginning of the business section, and “X” rushed into a store to telephone. He was impatient, restless, apprehensive. Maybe there would be no answer to his call.

  But there was. And the man at the other end was Jim Hobart, gruff, slangy, loyal Jim Hobart. “X” had called his apartment. Jim had arrived by plane.

  “No time for gab, Jim,” barked the Agent. “Grab my car at the Apex Garage down the block, and meet me at the corner of Wyndham and Georgia Streets as soon as possible. Make your deadline five minutes. Speed, boy!”

  In the phone booth, “X” laid out his make-up material on the stand, spread his small three-sided mirror, and quickly molded the features of one A.J. Martin, newspaper man. He waved a dollar bill at the cab driver to prod him into getting to his destination in the least possible time. He reached Wyndham and Georgia about a minute before Jim Hobart arrived.

  Jim was at the wheel of another one of the Agent’s cars, a high-powered little coupé, geared to make ninety miles an hour.

  “You made speed from South Bolton, Jim,” said the Agent. “Now let’s see you make speed to Hastings Avenue. I’ll make out I’ve been hurt. Keep the siren going. To hell with traffic lights. When a cop whistles, point to me. I’ll act like a dying man, and he’ll let you through.”

  JIM HOBART immediately proceeded to violate traffic laws. The siren shrieked and the motor raced. Part of the route spread through the thick of business traffic. Cops shrilled on their whistles, shouted, cursed, fumed. But always Jim pointed at the Agent, whose head and arms were dangling over the side of the car. Crimson was dripping onto the running board. “X” looked like an injured man desperately in need of hospital care. The scarlet liquid wasn’t blood, but a beet-juice preparation, which he carried in a small vial, just to stage such an effect as this. The theatrics used by “X” on many occasions had saved lives. He knew the value of realism.

  Jim sent pedestrians scurrying for safety. He was a skilled driver and he wove the car through the heavy press of traffic like a huge shuttlecock. Soon he was out of the congested area, speeding unhampered through the broad avenues of the residential sections.

  On Hastings Avenue, the Agent called a halt about a block from the address he meant to visit.

  “Be ready for a quick get-away, Jim,” “X” ordered. “I’m going into a house after that girl I spoke of—and I don’t know whether I’m coming out alive. But if this girl is in there and I get her out, you rush her to safety and don’t take chances trying to help me”

  “You’re the doctor, A.J.,” said Hobart “But I’d like to go along, too, and take a crack at some of those DOAC palookas. I’ve been getting mad at them for a long time.”

  The Agent waved to his operative, and sped down the sidewalk to the number he’d got from central. It was a peaceful looking place, two stories, brick, with a small trim lawn.

  Boldly the Agent went to the front door and pressed the button. He was ready for violence, for sudden happenings. Immediately approaching footsteps answered his summons. “X” stood tensely,
though outwardly he maintained a casual attitude. But he didn’t maintain that attitude long.

  The door opened. “X” gave a start of utter amazement.

  A woman stood in the hallway, a slim, beautifully gowned creature, with chestnut hair and delicate features. She stared at Agent “X,” now disguised as A.J. Martin, uncomprehendingly.

  The woman was Greta St. Clair.

  Chapter XIX

  DOAC Knives

  BEFORE he could speak or recover from his astoundment, the Agent heard footsteps crunching on the graveled driveway. He recovered himself then. Trouble was coming. There was fire in the Agent’s eyes. The woman shrank back under his fierce gaze.

  “Where’s Betty Dale?” he demanded harshly, forgetting for the moment all subtlety of approach. “I want to see Betty Dale. What are you doing here? Don’t stall. I want the truth.”

  All color drained from Greta St. Clair’s face. She shrank back as though he had struck her, but her voice came huskily.

  “Who are you? How dare you address me in such tones? You must be mad! Betty Dale—who is she? I’ve never heard—”

  Two hooded men bounded up the front steps. “X” turned and dodged just in time to avoid a gleaming knife spinning through the air. The wicked blade crashed against the brick wall. The woman uttered a cry of terror, clutched at her throat, and cowered back into the hallway.

  “The DOACs!” she cried. “The hooded men! They will kill—kill!”

  “X” leaped into the house, but before he could slam the door one of the hooded men had thrown his bulky body inside. He was armed with a set of brass knuckles. They didn’t use guns, apparently for fear of attracting the cops.

  The Agent swayed under a murderous swing from a brass-armed fist. The DOAC’s arm curled over his shoulder. “X” sank a paralyzing blow wrist-deep into the man’s stomach. The hooded killer doubled up, breath gushing forcibly from his mouth. He tried to clinch the Agent, but a set of hard knuckles rammed against his chin.

  The pile-driving smash made him spraddle-legged, but before the Agent could slug in a finish punch, the man’s accomplice sprang on “X’s” back.

  The two sprawled on the floor. The DOAC got a strangle hold on the Agent and was applying merciless pressure. For a moment “X” thought he was through.

  The blood was pounding in his head. Suffocation was poisoning his body with fatigue. The DOAC had the bony part of his forearm against “X’s” windpipe, and every gulp of air that went into the Agent’s tortured lungs wheezed through a closing channel.

  The other DOAC was recovering. He drew a knife from a sheath under his coat and raised it for a murder thrust.

  “Cut his heart out, comrade!” snarled the garroter.

  And the Agent could see that the comrade intended to do just that. Death was but a split-second away. “X’s” strength had been sapped by the DOAC’s choking clutch. But he mustered all his waning power in a terrific kick. His foot flung out like a catapult, catching the hooded man in the stomach. The DOAC uttered an agonized grunt. His knife flew from his grasp. The battering-ram smash knocked him sprawling. He struck his head against the wall and lay still.

  The long, slim blade flipped in the air a few times, flashing like a leaping trout and then plummeted down, deadly point first straight for “X’s” body! The DOAC had the Agent’s neck cramped in a hold as agonizing and dangerous as a grizzly’s bone-crushing hug. “X” felt his senses failing him. Sparks and black dots danced before his eyes. He thought his head would explode from pain.

  It all happened in the tick of a watch. The Agent saw that wicked knife descending, realized he was about to swoon from lack of oxygen. But his iron will asserted itself. He hurled his tattered strength in a desperate lurch to the side, saving himself from the falling knife, and striking at his foe, as he did so. His fist landed on the man’s neck. The garroter howled in pain. The sudden shock made him release his death hold. That was all the Agent needed. He rolled free, pressed a dent out of his windpipe, filled his burning lungs with fresh air. The oxygen sent strength coursing through his system.

  The DOAC leaped up, grabbing the knife again, and swinging it overhead for murder. But he was too late. The Agent struck another fierce blow. Knuckles cracked against flesh.

  The DOAC staggered a moment like a day-old calf, then fell forward, completely out. “X” plunged down the hallway, burst open a door, paused. He was in a handsome drawing room, heavy curtains drawn across the windows. His eyes, bright and cold as chilled steel, roved quickly.

  One of the curtains moved, infinitesimally—enough for the Agent’s trained eyes to note. He was close to it in two strides. His hand thrust forward, drew it aside—and clamped over the wrist of Greta St. Clair!

  He swung her out forcibly, whirled her around, pushed her across the room. The woman cowered back and sank on a divan, trembling under his spellbinding, hypnotic glare.

  “Now,” he said, “talk quickly! You’re supposed to be a prisoner of the DOACs. Your house was raided. You were captured along with Betty Dale. I know now that you are one of the DOAC gang. Where is Betty?”

  GRETA ST. CLAIR shook her head. “You are mad,” she said. “That is the only explanation. I have never seen you before. I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “Don’t lie!” the Agent said, his voice low and harsh. “Don’t lie—do you hear! The DOAC leader in Washington called this house a few minutes ago. You are here—free—not a prisoner at all. You pretend that you have never heard of Betty Dale. That is proof enough for me that you are one of them. Tell me where she is, I say. If she dies—”

  The dark eyes of Greta St. Clair had become glistening pools of fear. She stared at the man before her with nostrils dilated.

  “I understand,” she said slowly. “I see now. You are—Secret Agent ‘X’! It was you who came with her—as Claude Erskine. You are disguised now. You were disguised then.”

  “Yes,” he said hoarsely, admitting his identity for once. “Yes—that is the truth. And it will do you no good to lie. You posed as Carney’s fiancée. You made him think you loved him— but all the time—you were one of them. It was his money you were after. And when they raided the prison—”

  “I had nothing to do with that,” she said. “I did—love him. They forced me to join them—after I was captured. They promised not to harm him, if I would help them get his money.”

  The Agent saw treachery in the woman’s eyes, saw that she was not telling the truth; saw that she was hiding something. He shook her arm fiercely. Then spoke with irrefutable logic.

  “If you had joined the DOACs after the raid you would not have risen to such a high position so soon. The Washington leader would not have called you to relay a message to the Master. I know you are lying. Tell me quickly where Betty Dale is.”

  The woman was stubborn, keeping her one defense—her lies. She shook her head again.

  “I know that you are—fond of her. If I knew where she was—if I could save her—I would. Perhaps if you leave this house at once—”

  “She is not here?”

  “No.”

  The Agent stood dumbly for a moment, baffled, heartsick, everything forgotten except Betty Dale’s danger. A hoarse, pleading note crept into his voice.

  “You are a woman,” he said. “You would not want to see her die—with lead in her throat. You must tell me where she is—now, so that I can save her.”

  Greta St. Clair rose, facing him, the look of fear in her dark eyes slowly being replaced by craft. Womanlike, she sensed suddenly that she had the man before her at a disadvantage.

  THEN the Agent saw her glance swerve for an instant. It was only the barest movement; but, trained to miss nothing, he caught it. Every nerve in his body leaped into instant response. The brief shifting of her eyes was like a shrieking signal of death.

  The Agent lunged sidewise, whirled. In the doorway back of where he stood, a man was framed—one of the men he had fought and left in the hallway outside. Eve
n as the Agent turned, the man raised his hand. So quickly that it was only a shimmering, silver streak, the man hurled his knife.

  In a split-second response of nerves and muscles that co-ordinated perfectly, the Agent dropped to his knees. He heard the doom whisper of the deadly blade pass his head. He heard a soft thud as the knife struck something in back of him. Then he heard a cry that he was destined never to forget. It was the cry of a human being in pain and terror—the cry of Greta St. Clair.

  The man in the doorway gave a horrified exclamation. He lunged forward into the room, meeting a blast from the Agent’s gas pistol. And, as the man staggered back, the Agent turned toward the wall of the room once more.

  Greta St. Clair had sunk to the divan again—but not in fear alone this time. The gleaming blade of the knife had pierced her dress. Its ugly handle was quivering to her gasping breaths. She was staring down at it with a look of dull horror.

  He wondered that she lived at all. It seemed to have struck close to her heart. He dared not touch it, fearing that the slightest movement of the long blade would snuff out the spark of life that her steely will preserved. He leaped to her side, eased her gently back against the pillows. Crimson was staining her dress, spreading in a great ugly blot.

  She looked up at him then, her eyes already glazed with approaching death. They seemed uncomprehending; but they turned from him to the man lying on the floor. She nodded slowly, as if answering in her own mind some strange question that had troubled her. The Agent spoke softly then.

  “He did it! The knife meant for me—struck you.”

  “And—I—am dying!” she breathed, in a whisper so low that he could hardly distinguish the words. Her head fell sidewise. For a moment he thought she had gone. But, tensely, feeling an icy dread that he was too late, he asked a question.

  “Tell me. It can do no harm now! Where is Betty Dale?”

  The woman opened her eyes with the languor of one who is close to sleep. They became fixed on the face of the Agent. They seemed to be searching, brushing away a fog that was obscuring their focus. Suddenly Greta St. Clair smiled. It was the smile that had once flashed on the silver screen, bringing Greta close to stardom. It was the tender smile of a woman who, for all her strange cruelty and ruthless ambition, can still feel human emotion. Slowly she nodded again, spoke so softly that it seemed the voice of a person already talking from another world.