Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 5

by Paul Chadwick

  “I asked who this dangerous man is. Maybe this man you hear about and never see—Agent ‘X’?”

  THE watchman shook his head. “No.” His eyes opened wide, eyes like twin steel gimlets, boring Naramour’s brain. “The man I’m expecting is called Thoth.”

  Paul Naramour’s lower jaw dropped a little, his unlighted cigarette clinging to his lower lip. He paled ever so slightly. “Thoth,” he whispered. “Say, that’s a dangerous game!” There was a note of awe in his voice.

  The watchman nodded carelessly as if he thrived on dangerous game. He watched Naramour groping for a match. From his pocket he produced a cigarette lighter. “Want a light, Mr. Naramour?”

  The reporter nodded and leaned over the door. He poked his cigarette toward the watchman’s light. A press of a button and the lighter flicked into flame. Naramour puffed his thanks through blue smoke.

  “Don’t thank me, Mr. Naramour,” said the watchman strangely. His finger touched another button on the lighter. There was a hiss. A cloudy film of vapor mingled with Naramour’s smoke. A perfectly blank expression crossed the reporter’s face. He gasped. He fumbled at the catch of the car door. Then nerves and muscles seemed to wilt. His head rolled on the back of the car seat, and then sagged forward on his chest.

  A grim smile crossed the watchman’s face. He blew out his red lantern and set it down. Then he opened the car door, seized Naramour beneath the arms and dragged him to the road. With a sudden display of strength, he lifted the reporter bodily and started across the velvety lawn toward a little vine-covered summerhouse. He carried the unconscious man inside.

  The watchman’s fingers worked in the dark, searching his own pockets, laying out materials for the strange job that he was about to undertake. When he at last pressed the switch of a small but powerful fountain-pen flashlight, his equipment was lined up in front of him. There was a small, unbreakable mirror and a folding leather kit equipped with small lead tubes, oddly shaped metal plates, transparent adhesive tape, and cleverly designed toupees—all a part of the strange crime-fighting paraphernalia which the mysterious Secret Agent “X” carried.

  George Marcus had never employed a watchman to wave red lanterns in his driveway. The watchman had been a wholly fictitious character created on the spur of the moment by Agent “X.” Two hours ago, he had had no idea that he would want to attend George Marcus’ elaborate party. Then a tip had come to him through his vast network of trained spies—a tip that he dared not ignore.

  As soon as he lighted his pen light, “X” began his weird work. In a few moments, the very commonplace features of the watchman would vanish. And in their stead would be another miracle of impersonation.

  A single searching look into the little mirror, and Agent “X” had determined that he had altered his real features until he looked enough like Paul Naramour to be his identical twin. A quick change of clothes; then a motion so rapid as to almost appear a trick of legerdemain, and “X” had pocketed his make-up material. The pen light was turned off and returned to its accustomed resting place inside his pocket.

  ACROSS the well-kept lawn, he hurried back to Paul Naramour’s car. He got in, started it, and drove carelessly along the winding drive. Then between two little wooded knolls, he could see the house, like some great white jewel, its every facet a lighted window. Suddenly he slammed on brakes.

  His keen eyes strained toward the west portico of the Marcus house. And across the grassy, moonlit terrace that inclined toward the portico, he saw a dark shape move. It was too monstrous a shape to be a man. It was monstrous, not in the sense of being large but in its odd, crouching, almost simian carriage.

  The shadows of a great lilac swallowed the sinister figure. Agent “X” opened the door of Naramour’s car as quietly as possible. He got out and started toward the portico, his shoes making no sound on the resilient carpet of grass.

  He saw it again—that weird shadow. He noted its shuffling gait, its powerful dangling arms, and the silhouette of its misshapen head. “X” quickened his pace, for the thing had lumbered over the portico railing and had disappeared in the shadow of one of the great white pillars.

  A scream, muffled before it was well born, sounded above the rhythmic wail of the dance band. Agent “X” sprinted to the portico and vaulted over the railing. He saw struggling shadows—the hideous, malformed thing and a woman.

  “X” seized the misshapen thing by the shoulder. With a low snarl, it turned head down, feet shuffling awkwardly. “X” led his left fist in a powerful uppercut. The blow landed on the creature’s knobby jaw but failed to check its onrush. A long naked arm swung about the Agent’s neck. Muscles of primitive power were brought into play in a crushing grip that pulled the Agent’s head against a broad expanse of chest. “X” chopped blows into thick fur that covered the monster’s midsection.

  A weird whistle, entirely unlike anything that he had ever heard before, sounded through the night. Instantly, the spine-crushing hold that “X” had been unable to break, relaxed. The creature was struggling now to break away from the Agent’s grasp. “X” could hear short, bestial gasps as the thing fought frantically. A ponderous, hammerlike blow to the top of the head staggered “X.” A thick, crooked arm slipped through his grasp. Then he was clutching only crooked fingers; then nothing at all except a hard, round object that he could not see in the dark. The creature was gone, running across the lawn, dodging in and out through the shadows. “X” turned toward the woman.

  She leaned weakly against a tree. Her voice was low, almost sobbing with terror. “You—saved my—life…. How can I thank—”

  “Don’t worry about that, sister,” said “X,” falling easily into the crisp manner of speaking that was characteristic of Paul Naramour whom he impersonated. “I’m going to take a better look at that—”

  “No!” Both of the woman’s hands sought his arms in the dark. Small, strong fingers gripped his biceps tightly. “Please don’t. Don’t leave me alone!”

  SHE was so close to him that he could feel the warmth of her body through the glove-fitting evening dress she wore. The perfume from her hair was peculiar, seductive, and vaguely familiar. The Agent’s heart pounded in his throat. This woman that he could not see—what was it about the perfume that she used that intrigued him, that brought back veiled memories?

  Gently, impersonally, he held her in his arms and forced her back from behind the pillar into the light of one of the tiny lamps that glowed high above them on the ceiling of the portico.

  The Agent drew a long, deep breath. Now he remembered the perfume; and he remembered her, also. The Titian hair, the delicate, oval face, and the large hazel eyes that were somehow too worldly-wise for the eyes of youth. This woman—he would have known her anywhere; and regardless of what name she now assumed, he would always remember her as Donna Magyar, the name all Hungary had bestowed upon her. For by the time the World War had ended, Donna Magyar had become known as the most dangerous woman spy in all Europe.

  “You’re not afraid, are you?” “X” asked, a slightly amused smile crossing his face; for Donna Magyar would be the last woman to show fear.

  “Dreadfully!” she replied. One slim white hand caressed her slender throat. “That terrible beast! He has taken my necklace.”

  The Agent frowned slightly. “Have you no idea what it was?”

  “None whatever. But it could not have been a man. It was a beast, I tell you—a great hairy beast!” Her voice lowered. “Would you very much mind talking to me, just for a little while?”

  “It would be a pleasure, Miss—”

  “Sari Saphari,” she volunteered.

  “X” bowed and introduced himself as Paul Naramour of the Tribune.

  “A newspaper man?” queried the woman whom “X” knew as Donna Magyar in spite of the fact that she presented herself as Miss Saphari.

  “Yes,” replied “X.” “I’m really not a guest; just here to get the story of Mr. Marcus’ party. That’s why I’m so interested in lea
rning exactly what that creature was that attacked you.”

  “Oh, you would not put that in the papers!”

  “Sure. There have been others who have seen it recently—or have claimed to have seen it. And you still believe that it is a beast?”

  “I do not know what people claim to have seen. I only know,” she said with a shudder, “that this creature was a horrible beast!”

  “Yet,” “X” persisted, “beasts have no use for necklaces.”

  A slight frown of irritation crossed the woman’s face. “X” doubted very much if she had worn a necklace at all.

  “Nor,” he continued, “do beasts wear rings.” The fingers of his right hand opened. Inside was a curious, broad band of steel. That the edge of it was stained with blood indicated that the band had torn the skin of the creature’s knuckle when it had been jerked from its finger. Beneath the light from the window, he turned the ring slowly in his fingers.

  A quick, startled gasp passed the lips of the woman beside him. “X” glanced up quickly. There was a strange, frightened gleam in Donna Magyar’s eyes, as she stared like one fascinated at the ring in the Agent’s fingers.

  Stamped upon the plain band was a curious device. It was something like the head of a bird with a long, curved beak. Beneath the device was the number “21.” Agent “X” recognized the bird-head symbol. It represented the Egyptian ibis, the bird emblematic of one of the chief Egyptian deities—Thoth, Lord of the Dead.

  “I think,” mused “X” quietly, “that our beast was a man. A man out of the ages past. A man who should have been dead thousands of years ago.”

  Chapter II

  MEET THE MONSTER

  FOR a moment, Donna Magyar regarded “X” in silence. Then: “Just what do you mean by that?”

  “I hardly know. But suppose we go inside. I am anxious to pay my respects to the host.”

  Donna Magyar put a hand on his arm. “That, I am afraid, you may not do. You see, George Marcus is not here.”

  “What?” “X” demanded sharply.

  “George Marcus has been missing for a week. Not an uncommon thing for a man like Mr. Marcus, I understand. But still is it not strange that he should not put in an appearance at this party of which he is host?”

  “Strange!” “X” exploded. “Are you perfectly certain of this?”

  “Perfectly. It is the common talk in the ballroom. ‘Where is Mr. Marcus?’ You hear nothing else. Yet everything goes along so smoothly. You see, the servants are so well accustomed to their master’s strange disappearances, that they went right ahead with the plans for the party, feeling certain that Mr. Marcus would turn up at the last moment. Invitations had been issued a month ago—”

  Donna Magyar’s voice tapered off into silence. It was quite obvious to her that her rescuer was paying little attention to what she was saying. At that moment, the Agent’s attentions were focused upon the dancers in the ballroom. His eyes followed one couple in particular. The woman was slim and lovely. Her hair, in soft waves, was like burnished gold. Her eyes were starry and deep blue. She was Betty Dale, a reporter on the Herald, and the Secret Agent’s devoted friend. Her partner was a tall, well-set-up man, though there was something thoroughly unwholesome about his dark face, with its hooked nose and small, nearly square, black mustache.

  The man called himself Count Vencelli, though it was exceedingly doubtful if his title could be traced. Paris and Monte Carlo had known him as confidence man, crooked gambler, and thief. The Chef de police de Sûreté of Paris, had once informed “X” that he doubted if there was any nefarious business in all Europe that Count Vencelli had not had his fingers in at one time or another.

  The tip that had brought “X” to the Marcus party concerned Count Vencelli. The bogus nobleman had arrived from Europe at approximately the same time that the name of Thoth became the terror of the criminal world. Yet even “X’s” specially picked operatives had been unable to connect Vencelli with anything underhanded.

  “Come,” said the Agent softly. And taking Donna Magyar by the arm, he led her to the door.

  At the door, “X” presented the credentials he had stolen from Paul Naramour. The butler bowed him stiffly in.

  “Do not announce me,” “X” told the man.

  MUSIC and color-organ had stopped. Dancers were walking to the portico and terrace. Agent “X” steered his ravishingly beautiful companion across the hall, toward where Betty and the count were talking.

  “You will have to pardon me, Miss Saphari,” said Agent “X.” “There is some one over there whom I must see.”

  Donna Magyar frowned. Then she quickly touched “X’s” arm with a caressing pressure. “Yes—she is very beautiful.”

  “X” bowed, started across the floor. He caught Betty Dale’s eye as he approached.

  She exclaimed: “Paul! What are you doing here?”

  “X” smiled. “The Herald isn’t the only paper that gets a break.” He glanced at Count Vencelli. “Miss Dale has promised the next dance to me. Mind?”

  “Mind!” exclaimed Vencelli, in a curiously tight voice. “But of course I mind. One does not relinquish so charming a partner to the arms of another, and then not mind. But of course—” he shrugged eloquently, smiled, and with a low bow to Betty, left them alone.

  “X” placed a hand on Betty’s elbow. “Come,” he said quietly, “I must talk to you alone.”

  Blue eyes filled with wonder, Betty crossed the floor beside the man whom she supposed to be Paul Naramour. “X” led Betty to a small alcove, and said:

  “Betty, do you know that man with whom you were dancing?”

  A small frown crossed Betty’s brow. “Of course. But how strange you are tonight, Paul. Your voice—”

  “X” smiled. “Is different? Quite naturally. I’m not Paul Naramour.”

  “Then—then you are—”

  “X” nodded. “And I am here on the most peculiar mission of my life. You have heard of Thoth?”

  Betty nodded. “But very little. It is rumored that he is in some way associated with certain mysterious disappearances that have figured in the papers recently. Then there have been robberies, too. And these robberies are always marked—little gold seals left at the scene of the crime.”

  “The seal of the ibis head, emblem of Thoth,” “X” said. “But the robberies are identical. It is these strange, unexplained disappearances that are totally unaccountable. This man, who has given himself the fanciful title of Thoth, is engaged in kidnaping, Betty; but a sort of kidnaping that has never been heard of before.”

  BETTY placed her hand on the Agent’s hand. “You know,” she said, “that if there is anything that I can do—”

  “I know that, Betty. And you can help by finding out just what Count Vencelli is doing in this country. But remember, the count is dynamite.”

  “I’ll remember.” Her face became very grave. “Please be very careful.”

  “X” smiled. The dance band had begun to play again and the party without a host continued.

  The Agent moved toward the dance floor. His attention centered upon two men moving across the ballroom. They were walking close together and looked to be in earnest conversation. One of the men, a short, broad-shouldered individual with coarse pugnacious features, “X” recognized. The man was Stanley Heidt, former beer baron who had sky-rocketed into power as a political boss. The man with him, was in every way the exact opposite to Stanley Heidt. He was tall, slender and blond; his features almost classic.

  “Betty,” whispered “X,” without taking his eyes from the pair, “who’s that man with Stanley Heidt? I’ve seen his face somewhere.”

  “That’s Damon Preston. He headed the board that raised the money for the new United Charities Hospital—has a finger in all the philanthropic societies throughout the city. I’ve met him. He’s a great friend of George Marcus.”

  “X” nodded. “If he’s a friend of George Marcus, perhaps I can learn something of our host’s absence.” “X�
�� took Betty’s hand in his and pressed it warmly. “In case I don’t see you again tonight, good night, Betty.”

  There was no denying the worried look in Betty Dale’s face. She shook her head in mute negation. “Don’t ever say ‘good night’ that way again,” she whispered. “It makes me feel so—” A slight shudder rippled her smooth white shoulders.

  Smiling slightly, Agent “X” stepped into the ballroom and followed Stanley Heidt and young Damon Preston.

  On the other side of the ballroom, was a long drawing room. Heidt and Preston crossed this room, the former maintaining his perpetual scowl, and Preston pausing now and then to pass a pleasant word with the couples about the room.

  Damon Preston opened the door at the end of the drawing room and closed it behind himself and Heidt.

  “X” lingered a moment in the drawing room, admiring George Marcus’ collection of oils. Lighting a cigarette, he wandered with apparent carelessness toward the door through which Heidt and Preston had passed.

  A small, parchment-shaded lamp dimly illuminated a narrow hall. Opening from the hall were other rooms with closed doors. Moving slowly, his rubber-soled shoes making no sound on the carpeted floor, “X” went from door to door, listening intently. At the end of the hall he heard the murmur of voices. He paused, ear to the panel of a great oak door.

  He could distinguish Heidt’s low grumble from Preston’s cultured whisper, but the words of neither were intelligible.

  From the pocket of his coat, Agent “X” produced a strange device that had served him well many times. In appearance, it resembled a folded camera. He opened a concealed door at the bottom and extracted a coil of phone wire attached to a tiny, single-button microphone. Placing the microphone against the door panel, he held the box part of the “camera” to his ear. The voices of Heidt and Preston came in a noisy blur. “X” made some adjustments on the rheostat that operated the efficient amplifier inclosed within the box-like compartment. The conversation between Damon Preston and Stanley Heidt came in strong and clear. Preston was saying: