Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 4

by Emile C. Tepperman

  Then his right hand, lifting for an instant to clutch at the other’s throat, tensed uncertainly. He had felt something—a mask or hood made of a substance that felt like pliant rubber. It covered the man’s shoulders and head. And across his face were heavy goggles. In a flash Agent “X” had the answer, incomprehensible as yet, as to how the raiders saw their way about in the darkness. Somehow they had protected themselves against the night they created.

  With fierce eagerness “X” sought to tear that hood from the man’s head. He was sure that without the hood his opponent would be as helpless as he himself.

  But the other apparently sensed his purpose, and began fighting like a living fury. Lifting a knee, he gave a savage, treacherous blow, twisted and turned on the carpet. Agent “X” thrust his knuckles against the man’s heart in a jiu-jitsu blow, which, if he had not been handicapped by his cramped position, would have ended the fight then. As it was, it struck with only half strength, and his own movements weakened. Air whistled from between his teeth.

  Then, through the thunder of his own pulses, “X” heard the clatter of feet on the tiled corridor outside. He strove desperately to deliver another blow. He must knock this man out, take off his hood before help came. If the hood enabled him to see, he might be able to do something. The labored breathing of his opponent told him that victory was almost within his grasp.

  But at that moment a new voice snarled an oath, and before the Agent could leap away in answer to the warning of his senses, something struck him heavily beside his ear. Something that made lights dance before his eyes, and seemed to bring the black room crashing down about his head. He stiffened, gave a choked gasp, and collapsed senseless over the man he had almost mastered.

  Chapter V

  THE TORTURING LASH

  A SWAYING vibration accompanied the slow struggle of the Agent’s senses back out of the black pit into which they had been plunged. The dark in his brain, coming on the heels of that other dark in Banton’s office, had left a blank page in his memory. He was dazed, uncertain.

  Then, without conscious effort, his will fought to regain its poise, aided by the balanced nerves of a perfectly coordinated body.

  The swaying which seemed part of some hideous nightmare became gradually familiar. His ears picked up sounds that registered in his brain. He was in an auto, traveling swiftly. The swish he heard was the sound of tires. That rumble was the throaty voice of a heavy engine. He was in an auto, and these criminals who worked behind the black fog were taking him away, bound hand and foot.

  “X” discovered then that he still was unable to see. But it was not the unearthly darkness this time—only a prosaic strip of adhesive taped across his eyes that shut out the light. He knew, of course, why he had been made a prisoner instead of being killed on the spot. Some one had found out that he had warned Banton of the raid. And his attack on the man with the whip, his refusal to be cowed by fear like the others, had frightened the raiders. They thought he must know something about their activities, and they wanted to find out exactly what.

  Twisted and cramped on the car’s floorboards, an old wound in the Agent’s side, made long ago by bursting shrapnel in a field in France, gave him a twinge of pain. Eminent doctors had told him at the time that the wound must kill him. Yet he had gone on living, his magnificent vitality triumphant. The pain from that wound invariably acted as a spur to a steely grimness of intent. And, curiously enough, the cicatrix of the wound took the form of a crude “X”—a living, pulsing symbol of the Secret Agent’s indomitable spirit.

  His fingers curled tensely, reached back and touched the ropes binding his wrists. Given time he could get those bonds off. But there was no time for that. The auto was slowing already. The rumble of the motor diminished and the vehicle turned lurchingly with a grate of shifting gears. It entered some sort of drive or alley, and stopped. Garage doors rumbled back, the car plunged forward a few feet, came to a standstill. The doors clanged shut.

  Voices sounded, clipped and indistinct. A second of silence, then rough hands abruptly reached in and yanked the Agent out. He made no attempt at struggle. Feigning complete unconsciousness, he let his body sag.

  Every sense was active, every nerve alert as they carried him into a building and down a flight of steps. A short, straight passage was traversed, a door was opened, and warmer air told him that they had entered an inside room. His captors dropped him to the floor as though he had been a sack of grain.

  He lay inertly while other doors slammed and feet moved by. Then voices sounded behind an adjacent wall. He strained his ears, but even to his acute senses the words were unintelligible. If only he had his hands free, and could use some of the strange devices he carried. Pressing his elbows experimentally against his sides, he could tell that these things, worn in secret pockets inside the linings of his garments, were still intact.

  Swiftly, surely, his finger ends touched and tested the knots that bound him. But before he could loosen even one, a door opened close at hand. A heavy tread crossed the floor toward him. “X” lay still, not knowing who it was that stood above him. It might be some grim murderer commissioned to blot out his life with knife or bullet. But “X” was gambling on the premise that he wouldn’t have been brought here unless his captors wanted him alive.

  Not by a single quiver did he betray himself. He was as one plunged in an abyss of sleep. The man moved to the wall of the room, returned, and flung a bucketful of icy water into “X’s” face. The Agent did not stir.

  An outthrust toe followed the water. It prodded, then delivered a brutal kick. Dizzying pain almost drove the breath from his body. But the groan that escaped his lips was calculated; the groan, apparently, of a man whose senses were still lost in a daze.

  A voice above him sounded, barking a sharp order.

  Shuffling footsteps responded, those of at least three men. They entered the room, walked to “X’s” side. He was jerked roughly to his feet and flung into a chair.

  “Wake up! Wake up!” He was shaken roughly.

  This time the Agent didn’t even groan. He let his head hang forward, lolled and slumped in the chair.

  “Maybe he’s finished,” a cold voice said. “That bruise behind his ear—”

  THE man who seemed to be in charge spoke again. The Agent recognized the voice as the one he had heard in Craig Barton’s office.

  “Don’t be a fool. Untie his wrists. Work his arms and get him breathing. And look out for tricks. You, Fritz, shoot him in the leg if he tries anything. We don’t care if he’s crippled.”

  There was utter callousness in the tone. Yet neither this voice nor those of others, were the voices of underworld criminals. No slang was here, no thickness of accent. It was the smooth, precise speech of educated men.

  The Agent’s arms were freed and moved forcibly from side to side as though he were drowning. He could feel blood coursing through his veins, prickling in the stiffened flesh of his wrists. Keeping up his part, he groaned again. The working of his arms continued. Slowly he let his body stiffen, closed his mouth which had been hanging slackly open.

  Something struck against his face with a ringing smack that nearly made him jump. Crack, crack! It was the leader, slapping him with flattened palm. Fury surged over the Agent, but he forced it back with iron will. The blows stung painfully, even through his flexible disguise.

  He stiffened a little more, feigning the behavior of a man returning slowly to consciousness. The man who had slapped him laughed harshly. “Wait,” he said, “here’s something else. That ought to fix him.”

  A pain like a knife thrust curled the nerves of “X’s” wrist, as a cigarette’s lighted end was pressed into his flesh. But the Agent had schooled himself to stand pain. Spartan courage had saved him in more than one perilous situation. Torture had been his lot before. He opened his mouth, emitting a sudden hoarse cry, exactly as a man resuming consciousness might be expected to do. He lashed out wildly with one arm, mumbling incoherently.

/>   He was instantly pinioned on either side. The grim voice of his torturer spoke in front of him.

  “So—you’re back with us again, Hearndon!”

  Agent “X” let his mouth gape with mock surprise.

  “Yes,” the other sneered, “we found your card. We brought you with us just for a friendly little visit. We think we’re going to find your conversation most entertaining.”

  Agent “X” stiffened, lifted his head toward the speaker. The adhesive tape still covered his eyes and no move was made to tear it off.

  “You’re going to talk, Hearndon,” the other continued. “Talk is cheap, and won’t cost you anything. But remember that silence comes dear! Now—what were you doing in the bank? Why did you give Banton a tip? And who sent you to meddle?”

  The Agent kept silent a moment, marshaling his thoughts. There was some inconsistency here. They had found his car, addressed him as Hearndon—and yet wondered why he had warned Banton. Did they doubt his disguise as a Department of Justice man? He tried a quick rejoinder in his chosen role.

  “You can’t do this! You can’t buck the government. We found the girl you murdered, Ellen Dowe. Not so smart—leaving her there! It wasn’t hard to figure out why she’d been tortured. You birds are washed up now. You’re in a tight spot!”

  A harshly sneering laugh was his answer. Then the unseen questioner spoke again, gloating evil in his tone. “A good line, Hearndon! A nice bluff you’re putting up! But drop it now! Talk straight. You’re no D. J. man. You’ve been checked on that. You got away with it at the bank, but not with us. You’re a fake. But I want to know who sent you, and what’s behind it. Understand?”

  A COLDNESS stole over Agent “X.” These men were clever as well as ruthless—super clever, keeping track of the Department of Justice lists, guessing so soon that he was a fraud. Had they penetrated his disguise, too? But no, the speech of his questioner had shown they had not done that.

  He growled a sullen curse, squared his shoulders, thrust out his jaw. Let them think, if they wanted to, that he was a hard-headed dick from some private agency, posing as a government man.

  “All right, Hearndon,” said the mocking voice. “You found the girl we murdered, you say. Ellen Dowe. But you aren’t a dick. You didn’t bring any cops to the bank with you. How was that?”

  Agent “X” remained stubbornly silent. A note of icy anger crept into the other’s voice. He thrust his head so close that “X” could feel the man’s warm breath against his face.

  “You’ll talk, damn you! We’ll have no snoopers getting in the way. You were at the bank. You heard those cattle screaming under our whips. You found Ellen Dowe—and know what happened to her. Well! Now you’re going to talk.”

  The man paused abruptly in the midst of his furious shouting, and when he resumed his threatening of Agent “X” his voice was an insinuating purr, more deadly than the bellowing rage that had preceded it.

  “You were a kid once, weren’t you, Hearndon? Maybe your parents whipped you sometimes, too. But not the way we do it. Oh, no! Not with our kind of whips. No man can stay silent under the lashing we give them. Ellen Dowe couldn’t. She told us all we wanted to know. We whipped the truth out of her. Unfortunately our man got over-enthusiastic. Maybe he liked the way she screamed! When I talked to her she was all through screaming. She couldn’t even stand. I promised not to whip her any more if she talked—and she did. It wasn’t our fault if she decided to talk—too late! So you see, it may be too late for you—if you don’t talk now!”

  Secret Agent “X” maintained his stubborn silence. He knew, too, that nothing he could say would appease them. Unless he told the truth. And that would mean death—the end of his campaign. They wouldn’t let the Secret Agent go. Even by men like these he would be feared. And what men fear, they kill.

  “All right—you asked for it! Let’s see if you can stand as much as Ellen Dowe!”

  Two men sprang forward and jerked “X” from his chair. His feet were still tightly bound. No move was made to untie them. They dragged him by the arms across the floor and spread-eagled him on a narrow cot. The two men pulled his arms in opposite directions, almost yanking the bones from their sockets. A cold something was pressed against his scalp by a man at the head of the cot.

  “The same way we handled Ellen Dowe,” the cold voice said mockingly. “Except for the gun. You ought to be flattered, Hearndon. I’ve given instructions to shoot you through the brain if the whipping makes you too violent. Now, boys—go to it! Let’s see you tear his coat to pieces!”

  The snaky head of the whip was like miniature lightning in the air. The metal tip struck with a vicious crack. Its nipping bite, directly between “X’s” shoulders, proved that the whipman was an expert—as sure of his aim as those professional performers who can snap a cigarette from between human lips on the stage.

  Crack! The whip landed again, and the cloth beneath it ripped. In a moment it would be gnawing at the Agent’s quivering flesh. They could not make him talk—but slow, torturing death faced him on that cot.

  Chapter VI

  THE AGENT TRAPPED!

  NEVER had Agent “X” been closer to complete disaster. Never had the hand of Fate seemed so set against him as now. With his ankles tightly bound he would be helpless as a cripple, even if he could break away. Before he could hop ten paces, he would be shot.

  The third blow of the whip sank through his coat and undershirt, breaking the flesh of his back over a bulging muscle. Clothing, skin and living tissue would be churned to a bloody, pain-racked froth if this continued. He did not doubt his ability to steel himself against the torment. But in this case, resistance would accomplish nothing.

  As the fourth stroke fell, he let a groan burst from his lips. His body twisted, then sagged. “Stop—stop! Oh, God—I can’t—”

  His acting was superb, the whimpering complaint of a wretched, weak-willed man whose spirit had broken. Insensibly the two clutching his arms relaxed their hold. And in that instant the Agent’s muscles, unmarred as yet by the scourging whip, contracted like released springs.

  He flung his head sidewise. His right arm wrenched free, tumbling the man who held it off his feet. The arm swept outward, forward, clamped over the wrist of the man holding the gun. The Agent twisted, squeezed until bone grated on bone.

  But as Agent “X” struggled to seize the gun, the guard’s finger contracted, and a bullet passed screamingly close to “X’s” chest. He wrenched his left arm free at the same instant, made a furious lunge, and tore the weapon from the other’s fingers.

  Swearing, cursing men flung themselves on top of “X” to pin him down, but he struck right and left with the gun muzzle, then gave a savage roll that took him clear of the cot.

  Death hovered to the room. The odds were all against Agent “X.” He had the gun—but the tape was still across his eyes; the ropes bound his feet. Apparently his maneuver had been the reckless, futile stunt of a fear-crazed and desperate man. Actually it was based on calculation, logic and a carefully thought-out plan.

  For with one swift sweep “X” tore the adhesive from his eyes. Then he held his breath, crouched tensely. The tape was gone—but its cruel pressure on his eyeballs over a period of time had made the retinas cast blurred and distorted images. He could see only that these men in the room with him were masked with some sort of black stuff that made them look now like ghoulish monsters. They were staring at him, coming toward him, and one seemed to be raising a gun.

  The Agent fired a single shot quickly and heard a man cry out. He didn’t often kill, but the memory of those crushed and mangled children in the zone of that first horrible robbery was still in his mind. The memory also of the lacerated body of the murdered Ellen Dowe. These men were fiends, human vultures, and what stayed his hand now was not mercy for their lives, but the knowledge that he could not shoot straight because of the state of his eyes—and a pressing need he had for at least one of the bullets in the gun. He snarled a fierce orde
r.

  “Back there—all of you! Against the wall!”

  They did not know that he could barely see them. His one lucky shot had made its impression. Tensely the masked men moved backward toward the wall.

  And, as they stood there, the Secret Agent suddenly did a strange thing. His gun left the masked figures. He bent like lightning, thrust its muzzle between his shoes, felt quickly with the fingers of his left hand, and then slammed a bullet through the ropes that held his ankle. The crashing lead, fired at close range, was quicker, more effective than any knife. Two ropes parted, and Agent “X” spread his feet and kicked the others off.

  But his act, quick as it had been, had given his masked enemies a chance for a treacherous move. An arm flashed out, a finger jabbed forward, and there was a click in the room as every light went out. Some one had pressed a switch.

  And the instant darkness fell the Agent heard stealthy movement. These men knew the room, he did not, and death was creeping upon him out of the dark. Instinct made him drop, fling himself sidewise, and as he did so pinpoints of flame stabbed the darkness, and a half dozen bullets crashed into the wall, close to where he had stood.

  He raised the weapon in his own hands, fired twice and leaped away again. Another cry sounded. His aim at the points of fire had been true. But the next time he shot his gun clicked empty. He was unarmed in that room with killers creeping upon him.

  HANDS stretched along the wall, the Agent felt for some possible means of escape. And suddenly the smooth knob of a door brushed against his fingers. The Agent yanked the door open, saw a glimmer of light. He didn’t know, but perhaps this led to the passage to the street through which he had been carried. Then the next second he saw a narrow stairway.

  But he had no choice now. He leaped toward the cavernlike mouth of the stairs, dropping to his knees as bullets whined about him. He flung the empty gun over his shoulder, heard it crash into the room, and ascending the stairs in long-legged strides, entered a dark hall. His flashlight, winked on for a moment, disclosed an old-fashioned hatrack, a pair of high front doors with curved Gothic tops. He turned the other way and saw draperies and barred windows beyond. Dusty, ancient furniture stood against the walls. The bandits had chosen an old house, obviously long closed and locked, for their hideout.