The long, powerful body of Damon Preston was launched in a spring that carried him not toward Agent “X”—for the electrician was but one of the Agent’s marvelous impersonations—but toward terrified Dr. Yan.
“X” dared not shoot; for Preston, coward that he was, was hiding behind the doctor, knowing well that “X” would not risk shooting an innocent man. And “X” was certain that Preston had obtained his information on ostectis from the doctor’s notes, and that Yan himself was innocent.
Damon Preston’s long arm flicked out, sweeping up the automatic Yan had dropped. From over Yan’s shoulder he fired straight at the Secret Agent. A wince of pain crossed “X’s” face. The shot had clipped across his biceps and the gun in his hand had dropped to the floor.
“X” dodged around the centrifuge, to emerge from the other side, charging straight toward Yan and Preston.
In his eagerness to get in a killing shot, Preston started forward. At almost the same instant, Dr. Yan, doubtless for the sake of self preservation, dropped to the floor. Preston pitched over Yan’s body, rolled over and got to his feet just as the Agent’s flying body struck him just at the knees. “X’s” arms locked around Preston’s legs in a magnificent tackle.
Then as Preston struck the floor with “X” on top of him, the Agent’s left hand came up, locking over Preston’s gun. Another wild shot rang out. Then with a quick twist, “X” snatched the gun from Preston’s hand and flung it across the room.
Preston was fighting desperately as even a coward will fight. But he was no match for the Agent’s trained tactics. In another moment, Preston’s wild, beating arms came together. “X’s” left hand clamped over Preston’s wrists. A pair of handcuffs gleaming, clicked as they were fastened over Preston’s wrists.
On his feet, “X” dragged the kicking, screaming Preston toward the great centrifuge and linked his captive around a post of the great metal machine. Preston was lying half on and half off of the steel platform that supported the centrifuge. “X” stopped, picked up the cable-like thing, and stood up. “This,” he said mockingly, “is an electric lash. And for every human creature that you damned, you will receive a dozen lashes until you have decided to sign a full confession to all of your deeds, to being Thoth, and also produce information that will involve Donna Magyar and the whereabouts of your loot. Dr. Yan, you will make a reliable witness!”
“X” whirled the lash above his head. The tiny wires came whistling down. A thousand little bolts of lightning snapped from the lash to the charged base of the centrifuge—and pierced the body of Damon Preston, alias Thoth.
Preston screamed in fear and agony as he knew the pain that had been his weapon. Eagerly, his trembling fingers reached for the pen and paper that Dr. Yan handed him. Eagerly he wrote while Agent “X,” lash in hand, looked on.
“I told you, Yan,” “X” whispered as Preston signed the confession, “that I would do the job before I left and that it would be a good job!” Then suddenly, he stooped, swept up the confession and at the same time plunged a strange, forked metal tool with an insulated handle into one of the floor plugs. There was a spurt of blue flame as the current was shorted. Then every light in the laboratory went out. A door opened and closed as “X” passed out into the darkness.
In the drive in front of the hospital, a blue police car had just pulled up. Red-faced Inspector Burks had stepped out. There was an atmosphere of serenity about the hospital grounds and Burks looked bewilderedly about him.
“Say,” he called, to the overalled man who had just left the laboratory, “I just got a tip to come over here—that Damon Preston had something to say to me.”
“Damon Preston is in the laboratory,” replied the overalled man. “He probably doesn’t want to see you, but after you read this note he gave me to give to you, maybe you’ll want to see him.” The overalled man thrust a folded piece of paper into the inspector’s hand.
While a detective held a flashlight over the inspector’s shoulder, Burks read the confession of Damon Preston.
“What the hell?” he muttered. “Say! That guy must have been—oh!” Barks’ teeth ground together. An eerie whistle sounded out of the night. The overalled man was gone, but his whistle, the musical mark of the Secret Agent lingered on the still, warm air.
But Inspector Burks knew his duty. Much as he hated Agent “X,” he turned toward the laboratory and entered, handcuffs in one hand and Damon Preston’s confession in the other.
Kingdom of Blue Corpses
Chapter I
EMISSARIES OF EVIL
THE night wind whipped back along the streamlined nose of the roadster. It swept against the slanted windshield wings and lashed the taut-muscled face behind the wheel. It snatched the droning words from the dash radio and hurled them out into the night.
That radio was tuned to the police broadcast, but the roadster was not a police car. The driver carried credentials that identified him as A.J. Martin, Associated Press, but he was not a newspaperman. And those eyes of his peering into the night gave lie to the youthful, reckless face. Those eyes had seen too much of the world’s viciousness, and too little of its gaiety. Eyes not good to look into. The eyes of Secret Agent “X.”
His black-gloved hand flicked to the radio. The droning voice came louder, filling the car, swallowing the angry roar of the lashed night air. That voice said:
“Watch all roads…. Stop all cars…. Pick up Private Detective Grebb…. Code Nine…. Pick up Private Detective Grebb…. Believed to be in Section Six….”
Secret Agent “X” killed the radio. Sea-tanged night wind again tore at the hurtling car. The speedometer needle climbed higher on its glowing dial.
Police headquarters wanted Private Detective Grebb. And so did Secret Agent “X.” Code Nine meant murder. Section Six was this particular stretch of Long Island’s desolate South Shore. The speedometer needle swung higher, higher.
Now, just one black-gloved hand piloted the rocketing car. The other hand plucked a grained-leather cigar case from an inside pocket. By sense of touch, Agent “X” opened the case on the cushion beside him. Those glittering eyes of his could not risk a moment’s respite from the writhing road ahead. The fingers of his free hand seemed to caress the open cigar case. It was a minute radio-telegraphic transmission and receiving set.
“X” tapped out a code key, waited and repeated the call. He was signaling the Harvey Bates organization, the larger of his two groups of intelligence workers. “X” canted his head, presently caught the faint buzzing of Bates’ contact signal. He eased foot pressure on the accelerator to lessen the wind roar. Then, with lightning-fast key pounding, he tapped out the message:
“What does T.S. report on Grebb…. Standing by.”
On into the night, twin headlights lancing ahead like the feelers of some planetary monster, the roadster swept along the South Shore road. The “T.S.” that Agent “X” had mentioned was Timothy Scallot, a spy in headquarters who gave Bates up-to-the-minute information on police activities.
Finally, the Bates reply buzzed from the tiny telegraphic set. It said:
“Inspector Burks and Detective Sergeant Mellor have located Grebb. They are on South Shore road, Section Six, closing in on Grebb.”
“X” tapped out his signing-off signal, replaced the cigar case in his pocket, and settled down to driving.
The Agent wondered how Inspector Burks had located Private Detective Grebb’s hiding place. For it was only within the hour that “X” had learned of it. He had been informed by Jim Hobart who headed the Hobart Agency, “X’s” second group of intelligence workers. And now, as in past cases, “X” was to be hampered by his greatest nemesis, Inspector Burks.
“X” glanced at the clock on the dash, checked the mileage, and slowly took pressure from the accelerator. A moment later, he killed the headlamps and dashlight. The dark driving was not a task, for the moon and stars bathed the South Shore in a ghostly silver. Suddenly, “X” swerved from the road, cut the engine
, rolled down a steep incline, and let the car slide between two shielding sand dunes.
HE got out, stretched cramped muscles. The night about him was quiet, tranquil, not a cloud in the sky. Taking a deep breath of the salt-bitten sea air, he rapidly threaded his way through the jutting dunes. Twice he caught glimpses of the weather-beaten bungalow where he knew Private Detective Grebb was hiding. It was on his second glimpse of the cottage that he heard the faint grit of sand on rock. And from the corner of his eye, he saw a black blob detach itself from the purple shadow of a dune.
“X” spun, flung himself at the misshapen black blob. No time to try for a gun. No time to measure off a stunning blow. Just primitive instinct. The instinct of a jungle cat warned of danger. And the Agent’s twisting leap had all the unleashed ferocity of a pouncing tiger.
His outstretched arms, rippling with nitro-packed muscles, encircled the black blob. His fingers, living steel wires, sought a bone-crushing grip. But they found none. They touched that black blob, but could not grip. And his arms, tensed for a vise-like lock, slipped off into thin air.
A throaty chuckle reached his ears. A black tentacle of an arm swept out toward him. It landed on the side of his head with a brain-numbing impact. “X” stumbled backward, tripped over a rock, and fell against a sand dune.
Another black blob suddenly appeared beside the first one. They towered over him, serpentine arms outstretched, great heads bowed slightly forward. Their bodies slowly took the shape of man. And when they moved in the moonlight, they glistened like polished ebony.
“X” braced his feet, lurched out in a line-smashing football tackle. His battering-ram shoulders caught the first ebon figure just below the knees. The throaty chuckle changed to a surprised gasp and ended in a whoosh of breath. “X’s” butting rush had knocked the glistening figure flat on its back.
Still in a crouch, “X” snatched off his gloves. He wanted to feel the substance that had eluded his grip. His gloves were barely off when the second figure leaped at him. “X” was ready. But he fared no better than the last time. His steely fingers slid harmlessly over the glistening figure surging toward him.
But the contact had told him what he wanted to know. The two men were garbed from head to foot in greased rubber suits. “X” suddenly changed his tactics. Instead of trying to grapple with the rubber-clad man, he twisted off to one side and drove a sizzling fist at the glistening black head. That head went back. The ebon figure staggered, but didn’t go down.
“X” stepped in, shoulders weaving. His rock-hard fist swished out with a tigerish swipe. The black head went back again. That was all “X” saw, for the first ebon figure was swarming all over him. Down they went, “X” on the bottom. “X” tried to right himself, but every grip on the greased rubber suit slipped off into thin air.
That throaty chuckle again came from the hooded head. “X,” on his back, looked up but could distinguish no features behind the glistening rubber mask. “X’s” eyes traveled to the star-studded heavens. He had never seen so many stars—and was perhaps seeing them for the last time.
Then an impossible thing happened.
From that star-spiked blue came a dazzling streak of lightning. It lighted the dunes with the brilliance of day. The ebon figure on top of “X” was bathed in a ghoulish hue. He looked like a mouldy body that had crawled from a dank, shallow grave.
“X” stared like a man awakened from a horrible nightmare. Cold sweat made a clammy film over his body. Then—darkness.
And with that darkness came a crash that jerked the Agent’s head toward the bungalow. The frame structure shivered like a stricken thing. Creaking wood sounds changed to a hungry crackle. Bright flame licked at the window, glowered out on the night like a malevolent eye.
A SATISFIED grunt came from the rubber mask looking down at Secret Agent “X.” One black arm snaked out, scooped up a rock. “X” warded off the downward sweep, but his fingers slid over the greased rubber. The rock grazed his head, stunned him.
The ebon figure got up, strode over to his fallen companion. Through a haze of dull pain, the Agent saw that the man he had hit had been knocked cold. The other picked him up and lumbered off. “X” started to raise himself to an elbow, but he quickly sprawled out again on the sand. He narrowed his eyes to make sure that the thing he was looking at was true. For a long, black hearse had slipped silently up to the stumbling ebon figures. It was sleek and streamlined. Black cloth curtained the side windows, shutting out a view of the interior.
The rear doors opened. A third glistening black figure emerged and joined the other two. They held a consultation. The one whom “X” had knocked out was coming to his senses. He jabbed a black arm toward where “X” lay as dead. The third figure shook his head, jerked impatiently toward the open doors of the hearse. With a backward glance at “X,” the two others climbed in. The third followed, closing the doors behind him. There was no sound of meshing gears as the low, long car moved out of sight. It just eased off as noiselessly as a scudding black cloud.
“X” lay perfectly still for several seconds. Too many amazing things had happened for him to catalogue them sensibly. But one fact stuck clearly in his mind. Those rubber-clad men were unarmed—they carried no weapon of any sort on their person.
Quickly, “X” scrambled to his feet and ran toward the bungalow. His long legs scissored with the speed and precision of a trained athlete. And as he ran, he wiped grease from his hands. He was going to need all the skill and dexterity those hands could marshal.
Far in the distance, he heard a mournful wail. It carried on the still air like the moan of a sick tomcat.
The police!
Inspector Burks and Detective Sergeant Mellor were fast closing in. Agent “X” flung his arm across his face and leaped into the burning bungalow. He stumbled over a chair, went down to his hands and knees. He got up, took two steps and stumbled again. His second obstacle was not a chair. Light from the burning walls showed a man’s body. The man was Private Detective Grebb. He was dead. And his corpse was a livid blue.
“X” crouched there, staring at it. His mind raced back to the lightning flash that came out of a clear, cloudless night. And he thought of the other blue corpses that had been recently found in different parts of the city.
Out of the night came that screeching wail of the police siren. “X” had learned that the police had wanted Private Detective Grebb. And “X” had wanted Grebb before the police took him. But some one else had wanted Grebb—some one who could turn living men into blue corpses.
The Secret Agent’s fingers moved to his face—the face of A.J. Martin of the Associated Press. In rapid, deft movements, he changed the nose from the predatory beak of the newshawk to the bulbous, piglike snout of the dead Grebb.
SHRILLING, the police siren came nearer. It died in a metallic moan outside the burning bungalow. “X” heard the car door slam. And he heard the bull-fiddle bellow of Inspector John Burks.
“I get all the breaks, Mellor—all the lousy ones! Just look at that damn fire!”
“I am,” said Detective Sergeant Mellor. “It’s going to be tough on anything inside. Are we going in?”
“We are!”
“X” was shielded from the two detectives by a wall of flame. Their voices penetrated the crackling roar. And could the policemen have looked into that bungalow, they would have seen two Private Detective Grebbs—one living and one dead. “X” shot a glance into the mirror of his vest-pocket makeup kit. He snatched up a tube of blue pigment, colored one side of his face from temple to mouth. Then he drew up the mouth with a deft touch to the fleshlike volatile plastic paste.
The Agent had never heard Grebb speak, and he would have to make some allowances for the hoarse voice he intended using. With a last look at the dead Grebb, he rapidly put away his makeup kit. He pitched his voice to a hoarse croak, calling:
“Help!… Help!”
A surprised oath blared from Burks’ throat.
Detective S
ergeant Mellor shouted: “He’s coming out!”
“X” had stumbled through the flame laced doorway. His clothes smouldered in a dozen places, mostly on the grease spots he had got in contact with the rubber-clad men. The Agent had figured on this to complete the picture of a man most burned to death. He took several faltering steps and flopped flat on his face.
Inspector Burks swooped over him, dragged him to a safe distance from the now roaring inferno of the bungalow. Over and over again, Burks said:
“He’s alive! What a break—what a break!”
Mellor quickly drew on gloves and patted out the smouldering spots on the Agent’s clothes. “This is Grebb all right, inspector. I once saw him in the line-up.” Mellor was young, Irish, and had a way of talking to himself in a barely audible voice. “Yep. Saw him in the line-up.”
Burks asked the Agent: “Can you hear me, Grebb?”
“X” nodded with a slow bobbing of his head.
“Were you alone—in there?” Burks wanted to know.
The Agent murmured: “Yes.” He had no qualms about letting the real Grebb’s body burn. Society and humanity would be best served by the role he was now undertaking. “X” brushed all other considerations from his mind.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Mellor. “Some county cops might stick their snoots into this.”
Burks’ voice rumbled agreement. “Drive to the commissioner’s home. There’ll be no reporters in on this—and no chance of a leak. Headquarters would be too risky for Grebb.”
Detective Sergeant Mellor lifted “X” across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry-hold and started toward the police car. “Sure. The Blue Spark would chuck some more lightning at him.” Then to himself: “Damn funny how he missed this time.”
But those two words caught and stuck in the Agent’s mind. “Blue Spark.” He had never heard the Blue Spark mentioned before. And this was one of the things that “X” was risking arrest to learn.
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 5 Page 50