Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 5

by Paul Chadwick

  Then the beam of a flashlight struck down through the darkness, illuminating the under-cowl of the car. He heard the sound of heavy breathing. And in the reflected rays of light, Agent “X” saw the distorted features of Scar Fassler. A long knife was in the big mobster’s hand. Its keen blade sliced through the cords that bound “X” to the pedals and steering wheel.

  The Agent saw that his wrists were linked by a heavy log chain. A leader of steel cable ran from the chain to a loop set in the garage wall. Fassler grinned up into the Agent’s face.

  “Whyn’t you try a sock at me now, Mr. ‘X’,” he goaded. “Which freshes up my memory to the fact that I owe you a poke, don’t I?” Fassler’s great fist fanned the air in a haymaker which “X” attempted to duck. But the blow landed on his jaw, sending flames of pain through his head, and setting his ears to ringing. The Agent gritted his teeth. Great muscles in his arms rippled and drew taut beneath his flesh. His steely eyes burned with cold fire.

  Fassler grinned. “You goin’ to get out, or do I knock you out?” He raised his right hand, balled around an automatic.

  “X” shrugged, kicked open the door of the car, and stepped out. In spite of the weight of the chains, he carried himself perfectly erect. He moved easily across the garage toward the loop which confined him. Fassler followed.

  WHEN within a yard of the wall, Agent “X” turned around. With a speed that took Fassler completely unawares, “X” swung the heavy chain above his head, and brought it down in a blow that landed on Fassler’s right forearm. A harsh cry of pain ripped from Fassler’s throat. The automatic in his hand fell to the floor. “X” dropped to his knees and, manacled though he was, recovered the weapon.

  The blow which he had given Fassler might easily have broken his arm. The gunman had dropped to the floor.

  Suddenly, “X” heard a faint rustle behind him. He pivoted. A shadowy thing of uncertain shape swirled down upon him. His head was blanketed in a soft black rope that reeked with the sweetish odor of chloroform. To battle in such intoxicating darkness was hopeless. “X” felt himself seized in powerful arms. Then he became a floating thing without substance.

  When Agent “X” came out of his drugged sleep, he found himself alone in a small room. A single door with a small barred window was the only break in the monotony of the four walls. He was dizzy and nauseated from the effects of the chloroform. For a few moments, he lay perfectly still upon the floor, eyes wandering about the room. Not far from him was a complex apparatus partially hidden by a black screen centered with an opaque window of some white material. This he recognized as the most up-to-date television receiver on the market.

  For awhile, he watched it dully, wondering what its purpose could be. Then he sat up. The manacles had been removed. He ran his fingers over his face to make sure that his makeup was intact.

  At the instant that his fingers touched his face, his heart pounded in his throat. His groping fingers had not encountered plastic make-up material and face-plates, but his own face! He stared down at his fingers. Finger tips were stained with black ink. His disguise had been penetrated, and, for the first time in his dual career of crime fighting and law evasion, his fingerprints had been recorded. For the first time, the hideous phantom of failure danced mocking before his eyes. He had at last met his equal—the hidden leader of the corpse-legion whose butchery terrorized the city.

  The one light in the room faded out, and was supplanted by the glow of the television screen. A powerful radio sound circuit moved into operation. Across the television screen, a black shadow moved. It was a shapeless shadow that might well have concealed a man. “X” watched it closely.

  “We meet, Secret Agent ‘X’,” a voice boomed from the radio. “Rest assured that though my curiosity has led me to look upon your true face, no other eyes than mine have seen you as you really are. You would have been a worthy opponent hadn’t the green eyes of the Leopard Lady enticed you into my trap. I have no particular desire to reveal your identity to the world unless it becomes necessary to do so.

  “My plan, I think, will interest you. You may have guessed of the hate I bear all who support the law. And inasmuch as you are the paragon of law-enforcement, my hatred has centered upon you. I have conceived a delightful means of tormenting you before you die—a means which is related to some extent to what those ancient monks of the Spanish Inquisition called ‘Torture by Hope.’ Observe the screen of the television unit carefully, Agent ‘X,’ and you will understand perfectly.”

  The shadow was gone. Again a switch popped. Shadowy objects on the television screen were brought into focus. Agent “X” saw an interior view of a house that was well known to him. It was the exotically furnished home of Felice Vincart, the Leopard Lady. Between two twisted pillars that might have been brought from Granada’s Alhambra was an iron-barred cage containing two tawny leopards of unusual size.

  The door of the cage was in the form of a circle of metal. It appeared that the door was made of many pieces of metal mounted and movable like the iris of a camera. A long pendulum clock was mounted above it.

  AGENT “X” remembered that some strange whim of Felice Vincart had led her to install an amateur television transmitter in her home. Now he understood that it was to be put to a terrible purpose. On a gilt divan, directly in front of the leopard cage, was the form of a woman. In spite of the small proportions reproduced on the screen, “X” knew that woman. There was no mistaking the wealth of golden hair that rippled across the cushions of the divan. The woman was Betty Dale.

  The Agent’s heart throbbed in hopeless rebellion against what he feared he would be forced to witness. The helpless girl writhed against her bonds. Shudders convulsed her entire body as one of the leopards flung its tawny strength against the circular door. Then “X” knew the meaning of torture!

  The great clock above the cage had been set in motion. Its long pendulum ticked out an eternity of minutes; and as each minute ticked by, the steel, iris-like door opened the merest fraction of an inch. Eventually, that door would widen to such an extent that the big cats would break through. Their lean flanks, their gaping, hungry jaws gave mute promise of what might be expected.

  Agent “X” sprang to his feet. The house was silent. There was no sign of any living thing within the room save the torturous, silent pantomime of the television screen. “X” leaped to the door. It was heavy oak three inches thick. “X” looked through the opening, looked anywhere save at the baleful picture on the screen.

  In the hall outside, a powerfully built man lolled in a chair. A Winchester rifle was slung across his knees. The Agent’s fingers trembled over the lock of the door. He might easily pick it if his tools had been left him.

  He made a hasty inventory of the equipment he carried. His gas pistol had been removed from his coat as well as the automatic he had taken from Fassler. But his pocket make-up kit and compact tool and medical kits had been left him. “Why?” his brain hammered. Surely the shadowy gang leader was more clever than that. Did the Unknown imagine that Agent “X” could be confined in such a cell by even a dozen guards when the person whom he regarded above everyone else was in danger? Some sixth sense told him that here was a trick of some sort.

  “X” snapped open his make-up kit and removed a small, cylindrical bottle. Inside of it were two crystal glass capsules filled with a colorless fluid. From the pocket of his vest, he pulled out what appeared to be an ordinary fountain pen. Removing the cap revealed that it was a hollow barrel. “X” took one of the capsules from the cylindrical bottle and dropped it into the fountain pen. He inserted one end of the pen between his lips. The pen had resolved itself into a conveniently small blow gun. He drew deep lungs full of air, sighted the tube on the lolling figure of the guard, and blew with all his strength.

  The tiny glass capsule pinged against the wall a few inches above the guard’s head, releasing a tiny cloud of fog. The guard sprang upright. The startled expression on his face was supplanted by one of inane peacef
ulness. He collapsed on the floor.

  The Agent thrust the blowgun back into his pocket, and immediately went to work on the lock. Tiny, finely tempered tools, the product of a professional lock-pick, dropped from the Agent’s tool kit. In spite of the panic which possessed him, “X’s” hands were perfectly steady as he guided a gleaming tool into the tumblers of the lock. There had not been sufficient quantity of his anesthetizing gas in the tiny capsule to keep the guard unconscious for long. Eagerness, triumph, and doubt were expressions that alternately crossed the Agent’s almost boyish features.

  In another moment, the lock was released. A backward glance at the television screen showed him that the circular door in the leopard cage had opened far enough to permit one of the savage beasts to thrust its drooling muzzle through the opening.

  Agent “X” sprang into the hall. Without looking to right or left, he made for the door beside which the guard had lolled. A simple skeleton lock yielded to the key which “X” extracted from the guard’s pocket. Then he plunged down the stairs, and into the dismal street.

  He was several miles from the house of the exotic Leopard Lady, and in such a district, at such a late hour, there wasn’t a taxi in sight. However, parked a short distance from the house from which he had escaped, was a car. He ran to it, opened the door, and turned his flashlight on the instrument panel. The key was in the ignition lock.

  Again that strange premonition that this was not a coincidence passed over Agent “X.” It was all too easy—his escape and the finding of a car that must enable him to reach the Leopard Lady’s house in time. But this was not a time for hesitation. He was certain of trickery somewhere, but the scene he had witnessed on the screen of the television set could not have been faked.

  IN a moment, he was speeding down the street, steering with one hand and fumbling with the make-up kit which he had opened on the seat beside him. He needed no light for the disguise he was about to assume.

  Thick layers of plastic volatile material lent a heaviness to his face. Dark pigments rubbed into his jowls simulated blue-black beard stubble. Plastic material widened his nose. The dark toupee which he had used in the character of Peter Krausman had not been removed by the gang chief. By the time the car nosed into a suburban residential district, he appeared to be an entirely different person than the man who had left the dismal back street fifteen minutes before.

  The house that Felice Vincart had inherited from her wealthy husband was one of somber gray stone approached by a winding drive of white gravel. Agent “X” parked the car in front of the gate, got out and crossed the drive to the velvety lawn. There he broke into a run, eyes strained ahead to catch some sign of life in the great house. If there were lights inside every curtain had been securely drawn.

  “X” sprang up the steps of the portico. The door was locked, but it required him only a moment to unlock it with the aid of his special master keys. He entered the hall, needling the darkness with his flashlight. Everywhere were furnishings that reflected the exotic personality of the woman who owned the house. “X” pushed back a door of carved wood and crossed a sumptuous living room. He stopped stock-still, listening for the moment to the sound of bestial claws rasping over some metal surface. He sprang to a great oak-paneled door and flung it wide.

  The pale light from a pierced brass lamp reflected upon a high, carved ceiling, and the narrow twisted pillars of the Leopard Lady’s drawing room. In a gloomy corner of the room, he saw two pairs of baleful yellow eyes. “X” rounded the bulky apparatus of the television transmitting equipment. He inhaled sharply. Crouching near the golden divan to which Betty Dale was bound, was the lithe form of a huge leopard. Aside from the switching tip of its tail, it was entirely motionless.

  “X” sprang toward the big cat. He swept up a chair. The beast turned, and launched itself straight for him. The chair in the Agent’s hands swung up above his head, meeting the hurtling yellow shadow in the mid-section. But the weight of the animal sent “X” crashing to the floor. With a snarl, the beast’s forepaws lashed out. Powerful claws ripped splinters of wood from the chair.

  Every muscle in the Agent’s powerful body was brought into play in a mighty heave that hurled the leopard to one side. “X” sprang to his feet. His eyes darted toward the cage. The second leopard crouched in the circular door of the inclosure. “X’s” lips puckered. He uttered a piercing whistle. The effect of that whistle on the beasts was remarkable. The muscles of the leopard in the cage relaxed. The other beast slunk into a corner, and sat down upon its haunches.

  Agent “X” sprang to the couch to which Betty Dale was tied. Apparently, she was unharmed though unconscious. The agony of waiting for that circular door to open and free the hungry beasts had been too much for her. She had fainted. “X” took out his pocket knife and cut the cords that bound her. He was in the act of taking his medical kit from his pocket in order to give Betty suitable stimulant, when a soft, husky laugh sounded behind him. “X” pivoted.

  Felice Vincart stood not ten feet away. A dark traveling suit hugged her slender form. Her peculiar greenish eyes were smoky behind the wisp of veil on her smart hat. Her slender, gloved hand held a small automatic.

  “I advise you,” she said softly, “to put up your hands. I am rather a good shot. I would not hesitate to shoot an ordinary house breaker.”

  Agent “X” regarded the woman calmly. He closed his medical kit, and returned it to his pocket, but not until he had craftily palmed a small glass capsule in his right hand.

  “Put up your hands.” The woman’s purring voice was unaltered. Slowly, “X” raised his hands above his head.

  “I suppose you know who I am?” he asked.

  THE Leopard Lady shrugged. “I am sure I have no way of knowing. I’ve been a little out of touch with the East, having just returned from California half an hour ago.”

  “X” was certain that she was laughing at him. He leaned slightly forward, throwing his weight on the balls of his feet. The woman turned her head slightly and tittered a sharp command in French. “X” saw the leopard get up from its corner and slink toward the cage. In another moment it was inside the cage beside its mate.

  The Leopard Lady moved toward the couch where Betty Dale lay. “One of your victims, or a partner in crime?” she asked softly. She brought her left wrist up ever so slightly. For a moment, her eyes rested upon her watch. It was a movement that another man might have missed or misinterpreted. But Agent “X” knew that the Leopard Lady was expecting some one to come to her assistance. It was, as he had expected, some sort of a trap into which he had been forced to walk.

  But action was imperative. His legs shot out like two springs, hurling him toward the woman. She fired instantly, the bullet jerking at the Agent’s coat sleeve. “X’s” left hand chopped down to lock over the Woman’s gun wrist. With a quick, twisting motion that brought a wince of pain from Felice Vincart, “X” disarmed her. But hardly had he obtained the gun before the doors at the opposite ends of the room opened.

  “Reach for the ceiling!” a voice well known to “X” bellowed. He dropped the gun, raised his hands, and turned slowly. Through the door at the rear of the room, came Inspector John Burks followed by six policemen. “X” looked over his shoulder at the other door, weighing his chance of escape. But at the other door stood Commissioner Foster, and his jumpy little friend, Major Derrick. Behind them was a second group of policemen.

  Chapter IV

  FRAMED

  THE red lips of the Leopard Lady curved into a brilliant smile. “Thank you very much, Commissioner Foster. I was afraid, right after I called you, that this man would leave before you could capture him. I decided to risk holding him until you came.”

  “A nice piece of work, Miss Vincart,” commended Foster. “Burks, search that man. If that tip was on the straight, he’s a member of that gang the papers call the Corpse Legion.”

  “Why, what do you mean?” demanded the Leopard Lady.

  It was Major Derrick�
��s whipping voice that answered her question. “Just before you called, Commissioner Foster had a tip that your house was being used as a headquarters for the Corpse Legion while you were in California. It isn’t the first time that criminals have made use of empty houses.”

  The Leopard Lady bit her lip. A worried frown crossed her face. “You don’t think that I will be involved in any way in this business, do you?” she asked appealingly.

  “Don’t worry, lady, you’ve done your part in capturing this bird. We won’t bother you any longer than is absolutely necessary,” said Inspector Burks. He stepped through the ring of detectives around Secret Agent “X.” He regarded the Agent a moment through half-closed eyes. “Well, sir, either you’re Secret Agent ‘X’ or some member of his gang.”

  He glanced up at “X’s” raised right hand; it was tightly closed over the glass capsule he had taken from the medical kit when the Leopard Lady had put in her appearance. “Open up that hand, you,” ordered Burks.

  A slow smile crossed “X’s” features. “How do you know, if I am Secret Agent ‘X’ as you suppose, that my hand does not contain sure death, for you?”

  “I’ll take that chance,” said Burks gruffly. “You’re pretty fond of your own skin.”

  “X” opened his right hand. It was empty. It had required but the tiniest gesture for him to drop the little glass capsule into the sleeve of his upraised arm. It would be instantly available whenever he wanted it.

  Inspector Burks grunted his disappointment, and proceeded to search each one of the Agent’s pockets. In the meantime Foster, Major Derrick, and the Leopard Lady were busy over Betty Dale.