Secret Agent X : The Complete Series Volume 3

by Emile C. Tepperman

  Of course, the Man of a Thousand Faces is not completely emotionless. He does show signs of horror at his enemies’ plans (as “The Torture Trust” notes) and friendliness towards allies like Jim Hobart and Betty Dale—but not much more. It is as if he does not want to become too close to people, not even to those who should be dearest to him. Here we see a distinct problem with Chadwick’s earliest “X” work: the originator of Secret Agent “X” missed a terrific opportunity to imbue his fictional creations with life. As a consequence, readers could not identify with (read “root for”) a protagonist and supporting players of such shallow characterization. They and the master of disguise become figures with as much life as a casket.

  In contrast, Emile Tepperman, with his fresh ideas on characterization, offers us a more believable Man of a Thousand Faces. In “Hand of Horror,” “X” is human enough to walk onstage, whistling a tune from H.M.S. Pinafore, as Will Murray and Tom Johnson have noted (The Secret Agent X Companion 89). This is lightheartedness personified! On the opposite end of the spectrum, “Servants of the Skull” presents us with an Agent equally as human. In one episode from this one, he shows more than a little pessimism, if not fatalism. It is a prefigurement of the mindset Operator #5, Jimmy Christopher, will later express during Tepperman’s Purple Invasion cycle. Here in “Servants” the situation is dire: The Man of a Thousand Faces and Betty Dale are trying to escape certain death in the Skull’s lair. To Betty’s exclamation that she and the Agent are free from the Skull’s clutches, the Agent replies, “We’re not out yet... This is going to be a grueling ordeal, Betty. You must keep a stiff upper lip. I—have doubts now about our ever getting out alive” (“Servants of the Skull”). Later in “The Murder Monster,” the Man of a Thousand Faces “[feels] a surge of bitter repugnance” at the fate of the robots in the story. It is extremely doubtful if Chadwick would have depicted Secret Agent “X” in such terms. And it is as questionable that Chadwick would have given as much care to the “X”-Betty Dale dynamic.

  In Chadwick’s initial series entries we see Betty as a young woman who enjoys a friendship with the Secret Agent, but their connection is stiff, formal. She “loves him from afar,” so to speak. So the series’ legend goes, he cannot become too deeply involved with her because it would endanger her life. In other words, criminals would strike at him through Betty. Also it would divert “X” from his war on crime and criminals. What really happens, from a narrative perspective, is the fact that Chadwick fumbles the ball again, failing to explore the relationship with Betty and Secret Agent “X.” She thus becomes little more than a plot device to advance the story, an all-purpose damsel in distress and all around cliché of the Thirties professional woman. In comparison to Doc Savage’s cousin Pat Savage, a prototype for the modern woman, Betty Dale’s development is shallow, in Chadwick’s depiction.

  Tepperman’s vision of Betty metamorphoses into something warmer, more human, as does her connection with the Secret Agent. It is clear that the two experience something like love, though she never sees his true face (not until “City of Madness” by Fleming-Roberts, in fact). Furthermore she has become one of his “lieutenants,” Tepperman’s narrator informs in “The Murder Monster,” as though to say the Secret Agent has pulled her deeper into his service. She suffers agony when she does not hear “X’s” voice, the same entry tells us, and feels calmed again only when he calls her. Moreover, as this new Brant House expresses in a text note in “The Murder Monster”: “And Betty had grown to care more than she liked to admit for this strange man [emphasis added]...” Something is going on here, and it is not mere infatuation. Apparently, Betty is really falling for the Agent, and the feeling for him is mutual. In reality this is a new direction Emile Tepperman was taking the series, one Chadwick could not have envisioned. Secret Agent “X” was gaining much more emotional depth.

  If Betty Dale changed subtly under Tepperman, so too did the corps of the Secret Agent’s operatives, with the introduction of Harvey Bates to the series. Here in “The Murder Monster” he is merely “Bates,” head of the Agent’s other detective agency. Interestingly he sounds like an intelligent, if not educated man, much different from Jim Hobart, the redheaded ex-cop. Also Tepperman’s version of Bates gives G. T. Fleming-Roberts a springboard from which to launch, as much as Chadwick’s take does. As far as the portrayal of Jim Hobart goes, the owner and operator of the Hobart Detective Agency alters a bit, as well. Chadwick’s Brant House had always maintained that Hobart worked for A. J. Martin, but that he, Hobart, never realized his boss was actually the Man of Mystery. With Tepperman, Jim Hobart has strong suspicions in this direction, as the following text note from “The Murder Monster” discloses:

  Jim sometimes wondered if the orders he received from Mr. Martin had not originated with someone else who was using Martin as a go-between. If that was so, Jim had a good idea, or thought he had, who that “someone else” was. But he was thoroughly satisfied to continue, because he was in a position to know, the opinion of the police to the contrary, that the “someone else” was emphatically on the side of law and order.

  Who could the “someone else” be but the Man of a Thousand faces himself? Perhaps this new treatment of Hobart signals a change in his relationship with the Agent. But alas, we will never know, given that this new Brant House scribbled only one more entry, “Talons of Terror,” for the magazine. Doctor Blood, its sinister mastermind, is as horrible a villain as “X” ever encountered, being a character from the weird menace tradition. And like the other three “X” stories by Tepperman, it deserves another reading.

  Examined superficially, this final contribution might seem to have ended the influence of Emile Tepperman on Secret Agent “X.” It might even cause us to regard his labor on the magazine as an experiment that failed. Yet his tenure there was not futile. Quite the contrary, he penned some entertaining fiction for the Secret Agent; and he did so in many ways. Born from a willingness to take narrative risks, his new insights lent vitality to the characters. His leaner, innovative plots more effectively moved the stories forward. And his more realistic style brought dynamism to a series in danger of stagnation. Secret Agent “X” was primed to move into its next and greatest phase, the G. T. Fleming-Roberts era. Who would have thought four stories could do so much? Truly Secret Agent “X” remains the Man of a Thousand Faces, a Thousand Disguises—and a Thousand Surprises!

  Servants of the Skull

  From the macabre maze of a labyrinthian world, the Skull, master of murder, reached out and destroyed the brains of mighty financiers. Money kings were his meat. And the law could not protect them... Only one man could match brains with the sinister Skull—and that man was Secret Agent ”X.” But the Skull did not fear “X.” For “X”—the Man of a Thousand Faces, a thousand personalities, a thousand tricks—had one vulnerable spot. And the Skull knew where it lay.

  Chapter I

  MEET THE “SKULL”

  THE thirty-odd men in the artificially lighted room looked up from their various occupations with tense expectancy when the heavy, iron-bound, door swung open. These men represented a strange conglomeration of criminal types; crafty, hard, ruthless, their predatory natures were reflected in the very manner in which they moved and talked. It would have seemed, at first glance, that there existed no power on earth that could control these men, no power to make them toe the mark. Yet, when that door opened they all, without exception, froze in their places. The eyes of many reflected a nameless fear; others exhibited a sort of sullen defiance. Not one of them smiled or laughed.

  A distinct rustle of interest swept through the room as the opening door disclosed two figures standing in the corridor. One was a tall, slender man whose hair was graying slightly at the temples. This man had a blindfold over his eyes, and he was resting one hand, with long, tapering, sensitive fingers on the shoulder of the other man, who was guiding him.

  The other man was far from a prepossessing sight. He was dressed in nondescript, soiled clothi
ng. The sleeves were too short for the long arms, and the coat seemed too small for the barrel of a chest in the squat, powerful body. This man had been endowed with great physical strength, but there his endowment had stopped; for his face clearly indicated that he was lacking in mental balance. And in addition, that face was horribly scarred as if by a terrible disease.

  They entered the room, and the one with the scarred face closed the door behind them, then turned to the other and said in a highpitched, cackling voice:

  “All right, Fannon, you can take off the blindfold.” A black shock of wild, disordered hair falling low, almost obscured his scars as he faced the men in the room. “Well, boys, the boss is right on the job. Here’s another one to take Tyler’s place. An’ he’s the goods, too—Frank Fannon, the best safe man in the world.”

  The newcomer removed the blindfold and stared coolly around the room. He returned the nods of several men who greeted him, surveyed the room with interest. His guide sidled close to him and said:

  “The boss’s orders is, you wait here till he sends for you. He’ll tell you all the rules of the place. My name is Binks. Anything you want, you ask me for it. I’m the ‘Skull’s’ handy man.”

  Fannon merely nodded, and watched Binks go out. The door snapped shut after him. Fannon noted that there was no handle on the inside of the door; it could only be opened from the corridor.

  He frowned, cast an inquiring glance at the men in the room. One of them, a heavy-set man with thick, gnarled hands, burst into harsh laughter. “Whatsamatter, Fannon? Don’t you like the idea o’ bein’ a prisoner? You oughtta be used to it by now!”

  Fannon, still frowning, crossed the room to the heavy-set man who was sitting at a table with four others where they had been playing stud poker when the door opened. Fannon looked down at him thoughtfully, remar-ked, “I seem to know you from somewhere.”

  The heavy-set man guffawed heartily, turned to the others at the table. “Can you beat that? He seems to know me from somewhere! They used to call him ‘Dude’ Fannon where we came from. His manners is like the Prince o’ Wales!” He poked a finger up at Fannon. “Sure you know me from somewhere. Don’t you remember the stretch we did together at Folsom ten years ago? You oughtta remember me—Nate Frisch. We was together for five years.”

  Fannon smiled. “Quite so. Now I remember perfectly.” He gazed around the room. “There seem to be quite a few other old friends of mine here.”

  “Sure,” said Nate Frisch. “Let’s get intro—”

  He stopped, looking fearfully toward the door. A sudden terror had come into his eyes.

  The door had opened soundlessly again, and Binks stood there. “My, my,” he croaked, grinning at Frisch with his gruesomely mutilated face. “I see you been forgettin’ the rules, Nate.”

  FRISCH was shivering violently, his face a pasty hue. “I—I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, Binks. Fannon is just an old friend o’ mine, an’ I was kinda recallin’ old times with him.” His voice was almost pleading now. “It ain’t nothin’ to report to the Skull, Binks. Sure I know the rules—no talkin’ to new men till they been passed by the Skull. But I just forgot it for a minute. You won’t mention it to him, will you? Be a regular guy for once.”

  Binks resembled a gargoyle when he laughed. “I’ll think about it, Nate, I’ll think about it. Maybe I’ll toss a coin. Got a coin fer me to toss?”

  “Sure, sure,” Frisch said eagerly. He took out a half dollar and flipped it to Binks who caught it dexterously. “Thanks, Nate. Maybe I’ll forget about it, like you said.” He motioned to Fannon. “Come on. The Skull will see you now.”

  Fannon followed him out into the corridor, watched him swing the big door shut, heard it click. The corridor was long, dimly lit by a single weak bulb at the far end.

  “We won’t need no blindfold now,” Binks said as he proceeded toward the illuminated end. “You couldn’t get out of here in a million years unless I took you. I’m the only one,” he added proudly, “outside of the Skull, that knows the way out.”

  “I don’t even know where we are,” Fannon said. “What’s this, a cellar?”

  Binks cackled. “Maybe the Skull will tell you. I ain’t sayin’ a word. It ain’t healthy to talk out o’ place in here.”

  They reached the end of the corridor. There was no door here, only a blank wall. Binks bent down, fumbled in the corner, and suddenly the wall at the end of the corridor seemed to slide away, leaving a dark opening. Binks stepped into it, and Fannon followed. Binks bent down, manipulated something again, and the panel through which they had stepped slid to, leaving them in utter blackness.

  Fannon could tell that Binks was once more bending to the floor. In a moment Binks straightened up, there was a whirring of well-oiled machinery, and they began to rise. They were in some sort of elevator that moved smoothly and noiselessly. When it stopped, Binks reached down, pulled a lever. Fannon’s eyes, more accustomed to the darkness now, noted the exact position of the lever, but he said nothing.

  In response to Binks’ manipulation of the lever, the panel slid open again, revealing another long corridor similar to the one below. Fannon estimated that they had come up one flight in the elevator. He said, as they went along this second corridor, “What’s all the mystery about? You’d think the Skull was another Fu-Manchu with all these secret passages and things.”

  “Nobody’s ever seen his face,” Binks told him. “Not even me. An’ he trusts me more than anybody else—I guess because I ain’t got the brains to do him dirt. Ha, ha!”

  There was a note of insanity in Binks’ laughter; a suggestion of sadistic cruelty that made his listener shudder. Fannon tried to pump him, without seeming to do so. “What happened to this chap, Tyler, whose place I’m supposed to take?”

  Binks half turned, looked up at him queerly. “You want to know? I’ll show you. Wait a minute.” He stopped under a dim electric light bulb set in the wall that lined the corridor. Fannon could see a narrow slot, waist high, in the wall, about a half inch long. Binks took a peculiarly shaped key from his pocket. This key was flat, just wide enough to fit into the slot.

  When he slipped it in a crack appeared in the wall. The crack widened; a panel was sliding open, disclosing another passageway at right angles to the one they were in. As soon as they stepped into this passageway, the panel closed behind them. This corridor, though wider than the others, was also lit by only a single bulb at the end. On either side were heavy doors similar to the one in the room below.

  Binks stopped before the second door on the left from the end. He turned the knob, opened it slowly. It was pitch dark inside, and the faint illumination from the hall failed to help. Fannon could feel an uneasy stirring from within, and then a slight groan. Binks produced a flashlight from his pocket, threw its beam into the interior of the room, illuminating the gaunt, cadaverous body of a man chained with his face to the wall.

  THE man had a stubble of beard a week old, and there was a mad, fearsome light in his eyes as he blinked at the flashlight, over his shoulder. He was so chained, Fannon saw, that his toes barely touched the floor. The strain upon his arms after any considerable period of time would be unbearable.

  Binks said with mock solicitude, “How do you feel, Tyler? You been gettin’ plenty time to think?”

  The chained prisoner only succeeded in croaking a few unintelligible syllables.

  Binks remarked conversationally to Fannon, “He’s been here three days now. We been havin’ some fun.” He lowered the flashlight so that it showed the man’s naked torso, and Fannon gasped. It was criss-crossed with long bloody gashes that had been made with a whip. The man’s back was a raw mass of bloody flesh. Binks continued, “But that’s only the beginning. Tomorrow the Skull is gonna give him the works. Tomorrow is execution day.”

  Tyler managed to gasp out, “For God’s sake, help me!”

  Fannon restrained himself with difficulty. He threw a significant glance at the poor victim as he followed Binks out into t
he corridor, watched him slam the door. He had noted that this door, too, had no handle on the inside. He noted, also, that none of the doors was equipped with a lock. It was only necessary to turn the knob from the outside to open them.

  As they went down the hall past a number of other closed doors, Fannon asked, “What did Tyler ever do to merit such punishment?”

  Binks only laughed. “The Skull will tell you.”

  Fannon said nothing further. He was busy going over in his mind every inch of the route they had covered, in an effort to remember it so that he could traverse the same route alone. They passed through another of the queer sliding panels, and stood in a square anteroom. Opposite them was a door with no handle on it, while at the left was another door that did have a handle.

  Binks indicated the door without the handle. “The Skull will let you in through that door,” he said. “I’m not supposed to be around when he talks to you fellers. I’m not supposed to know what his plans are.” He laughed idiotically. “Not much, I don’t!”

  Fannon watched him go out through the door at the left, saw the last grinning leer that he cast behind him before the door closed. Then Fannon went to the one chair in the anteroom, sat down, and lit a cigarette. His face was calm, betrayed no emotion, no sign of fear or perturbation. If anyone was watching him through secret peepholes, his face told nothing except, perhaps, that there was a criminal of higher type than average, who was supremely self-assured.

  After a few moments, the door opposite began to open slowly. There was utter darkness beyond it. Through the doorway came a stocky man, wide-shouldered, with a square chin and a low forehead. He grinned at Fannon, showing discolored teeth. “So you’re the new man, huh? Glad to know you.”