Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 4

by Emile C. Tepperman

  Lola sprang to one side, flattened herself against the wall. “Remember,” she breathed, “you promised to save Laurento!”

  “X” nodded grimly. He kicked open the door, sprang out into the corridor, a gun in each hand. Down the end of the hall he saw Wilkerson and Mace, running toward him. Wilkerson was waving his horrid claw, and shouting: “That’s the man. That’s Secret Agent ‘X.’ Get him, Mace!”

  Behind them came four or five other men, still in policemen’s uniform, armed with revolvers and submachine guns.

  Mace stopped short upon seeing the Agent, dropped to one knee, and raised the Tommy-gun to his shoulder.

  Secret Agent “X” faced them squarely in the narrow corridor, his feet planted wide apart, the two guns at his hips. His face was a calm, gray mask as he pressed the triggers on his two guns, sent lead rocketing down the corridor toward Mace and the others. He was a cool, efficient fighting machine, and each shot that he fired counted.

  The attackers were taut, excited, awed by the thought that they were in conflict with the man whose name had became a legend in the underworld—Secret Agent “X.” The Agent’s slugs screamed from his guns before any of them could get into action with the tommies. Smoke filled the corridor, and the reverberations of the Agent’s methodically exploding guns rocked the narrow hallway. Not a single shot answered him. He had fired too fast and too straight.

  When the smoke cleared, it revealed the Agent, still standing, the guns still at his side, ready for more. But at the other end of the corridor men writhed upon the floor, helpless, groaning. Mace had been shot in the right shoulder. Wilkerson squirmed on the floor beside him with a bullet in his side. No single man of the attackers was left standing on his feet. The Agent, in spite of the imminent danger which had threatened, had not shot to kill; but each of his slugs had been directed at some spot that would disable his attacker.

  He called out over his shoulder: “Come on, Lola.” Then he advanced down the hall, watchful, wary.

  The woman came out of the room, followed him at a short distance. Her startled eyes took in the wounded, writhing men. Her eyes sought the back of Secret Agent “X” and lit up with wonder. She could hardly understand how one man had been able to overcome so many opponents armed as these had been.

  THE Agent stepped across the bodies, and Lola followed him. They were in the anteroom now, which led out into the street. The guard was not there. Apparently he had been one of the attackers in the corridor.

  The woman exclaimed: “Those shots must have been heard. The police will be here. How will you get Laurento away?”

  “No fear of those shots having been heard,” the Agent told her. “The walls of this jail are entirely sound-proof. A man standing just outside wouldn’t have heard a thing.”

  He examined his two guns. Lola’s was empty, and he discarded it. The other still had a single bullet left. “Wait here,” he said. “I am going to find Doctor Blood. If you hear anyone coming, run out into the alley and wait there.”

  He left her before she could protest, went through a small door at the right and found himself at the foot of an iron staircase which led up to the first tier of cells. From above there came to him the sound of a mad jabbering, of wild voices. Then they suddenly ceased, as another voice, cold, curt, spoke suddenly. The Agent could not understand the words, but he could tell that they came from up above in the cell tier.

  Quickly, noiselessly, the Agent mounted the iron staircase. All was dark here. The cells ranged along both walls, leaving a wide cement corridor between. Faces peered at him from behind the iron doors of these cells. Strange voices shrieked at him. These were the madmen whom Lola Lollagi had mentioned. Doctor Blood kept them in cells until he was ready for them to do his evil work.

  Slowly, cautiously, the Agent advanced between the two tiers of grilled doors, flashing his light into each in turn. He knew that Doctor Blood was up here, for he was sure that it was he whose voice had spoken just a moment before. Was Blood hiding in one of those cells, waiting to ambush him as he came along, or had he retreated before the advance of Secret Agent “X”?

  Four cells the Agent passed, and in each he saw a mad face peering out at him. Four cells on the right, four cells on the left. Eight of these madmen, there were, and each was brandishing a claw through the bars of his door. These claws, the Agent could see now, were of metal, made like a gauntlet which could be slipped over the hand. It was with these that they ripped men’s throats.

  The fourth cell on the left held Laurento. “X” recognized him at once. The youth was strangely silent, his face drawn and haggard. He said nothing, did not shout or jibber like the others. “X” passed him by, peered into the next cell.

  At first he could see no one in there. Then he lowered his light, and noticed the figure of a man cowering in a corner. It was Larkin. His face was white with fear, his entire body was trembling.

  “God, take me out of here,” he cried. “Take me away from these madmen! Let me go. I’ll pay anything!”

  “X” maintained silence, passed on and looked in the other cells. He saw Sturgis in the next, was about to look beyond when his eye caught the slightest hint of motion from farther down in the hall.

  One of the cell doors at the end was opening silently, stealthily. The Agent dropped flat to the floor, his gun extended in front of him. His keen eyes noted the muzzle of a submachine gun poking out through the bars of the half-open cell door, detected a shadowy shape behind. Slowly that gun was swinging around in his direction.

  “X” sighted carefully for a spot just above and a little to the right of the muzzle of the machine gun, and fired once. A horrible shriek answered his shot, and the sub-machine gun clattered to the stone floor. The shadow behind it resolved itself into a human body that toppled forward, crashed into the iron door, and lay still on the floor.

  The Agent sprang to his feet, ran forward. He stopped when he approached the still figure on the floor, directed his flashlight downward. His lips set in a grim line as he saw the face of the man he had killed—the face of Doctor Blood.

  SLOWLY he turned away, retraced his steps. As he passed Sturgis’ cell the mayor gripped the iron bars of the door, shouted hoarsely into the darkness: “Who are you? Where is Doctor Blood? Let us out of here!”

  “X” made no answer. He continued on until he had reached the cell where Laurento was confined. That young man stood still, white-faced, his eyes wide with consternation under the beam of light which the Agent flashed at him. There was no madness in the young man’s eyes any longer—only a terrible misery. Apparently whatever it was that Doctor Blood had administered to Laurento had worn off, leaving him without that ghastly blood-lust which had made a ruthless animal of him.

  “X” fitted one of his pass-keys to the cell door, swung it open. Laurento backed away, suddenly shouting: “Leave me alone! Don’t feed me any more of that stuff!” His voice was thin, cracked. It aroused the other mad inmates of the neighboring cells, and the jabbering and screaming, which had ceased when the Agent fired, began once more, filled the whole tier with a wild cacophony.

  “X” put out a hand to Laurento, said: “Come with me. I will not harm you.”

  But his voice was drowned by the shouting. Laurento feared him, probably thought he was Doctor Blood, or one of Blood’s men. He had a grip on his taloned gauntlet, and he swung out at “X” with it, attempting to keep him at arm’s length.

  The Agent warded the blow, stepped in under it, and drove in a short blow to the other’s chin. Laurento crumpled up, slid to the floor. In his weakened physical and mental condition that light blow had been enough to down him.

  “X” now stooped, swung him over his shoulder, and carried him out of the cell. All the way downstairs he was followed by the mad ravings of the demented men in the other cells, by the shouts of Larkin and the others to be taken out of there.

  Down in the waiting room he found Lola Lollagi sitting in a corner, her nervous fingers tearing at a handkerchief.
When she saw “X” and his burden she sprang up with a glad cry and ran toward them.

  “X” placed the young man in a chair. Laurento was recovering his senses. He opened his eyes, saw “X,” and started up. But Lola put a hand on his shoulder, cried entreatingly:

  “Laurento, brother darling! It’s Lola! Your sister!”

  For a moment his eyes were wild, terrified. Then they focused upon Lola, seemed to recognize her. Then he broke down. He rested his head in his hands, wept like a child.

  Lola stroked his hair, glanced entreatingly at the Agent. Tremblingly her lips formed words. “What—what are you going to do with him? You promised me—”

  “X” was watching the brother and sister with deep understanding.

  Laurento cried out between his sobs: “Lola, Lola dear. Take me away from here. Take me away from Doctor Blood!” A spasm of revulsion seemed to be racking his body.

  Secret Agent “X” said slowly: “You have nothing further to fear, Laurento. Doctor Blood is dead!”

  Lola started, stared at him. “You—you know who he is? You have—seen his face?”

  The Agent nodded. “I have seen his face. I know who he is.” He raised a hand before she could ask the next question. “Never mind about that now. I promised you that you could take Laurento out of here. Now you must promise me two things, first.”

  “Yes, yes,” she exclaimed eagerly. “I will promise anything you ask.”

  “First, you must give me your word that you will take Laurento directly from here to an asylum, the address of which I will give you. He will be well taken care of there, and if it is possible, he will be cured. After that he must agree to stand trial for his crime.” The Agent scribbled an address on a slip of paper which he handed to her.

  “I will do that,” she whispered. “I am sure that Laurento will not be sent to jail.”

  “The second thing you must promise,” the Agent said, “is that you will never mention what has happened here tonight. To you and to the world, I am Mr. Randall, and nobody else. Do you understand?”

  There was a strange film over her eyes, as she nodded. “I understand,” she said softly. “But in my heart I will always remember you by that other name. And hereafter, I shall never believe it when they say that you are a criminal!”

  The Agent watched her as she led her sobbing brother out. Then he turned and walked to the rear of the jail. He could hear groans now, whimperings of pain from Wilkerson and Mace and those others who still lay wounded in the corridor. He glanced at his wrist watch. Less than ten minutes had passed since he had shot his way out of the rear room. And in that time Doctor Blood had perished. And Secret Agent “X” was the only man thus far who knew the true identity of Doctor Blood.

  Chapter XVIII

  TRAIL OF THE BLOOD LUST

  IT was perhaps an hour later that the four squad cars of the raiding party from headquarters swung into the street in front of the old jail. Men, armed to the teeth, poured out of the cars. Commissioner Foster and Inspector Burks led the party down the narrow alley. With them was Betty Dale, the young newspaper woman from the Herald.

  Commissioner Foster said testily: “I can’t understand yet, how the thing happened. I never even suggested that meeting in Lacey’s house. Somebody must have phoned in my name.” He turned to Betty Dale. “Are you sure of your information?”

  She nodded. “My source of information is absolutely trustworthy. I don’t know who the man is, but I recognized his voice. He’s phoned me before, and given me tips which resulted in scoops for my paper. He instructed me to get in touch with you at once, and bring you here. And don’t forget, you promised to give me the exclusive on this.”

  “Don’t worry,” Foster grumbled. “If this turns out to be the truth, you’ll get the exclusive all right, Miss Dale.”

  The small door at the end of the alley was open, and they met no opposition as they pushed through the anteroom into the corridor behind. Here they stopped short, uttering gasps of astonishment. For, lined up upon the floor were six men—Wilkerson, Mace, and the others who had posed as policemen. Their wounds had been neatly bandaged, but each was unconscious, deep in a comatose sleep.

  Burks knelt beside them, exclaimed: “This is Wilkerson. We’ve been looking all over the country for him. They’ve all been put to sleep by some sort of drug!” He raised his eyes to Commissioner Foster, said slowly: “This begins to look familiar to me.”

  Foster returned his glance, nodded solemnly. “It looks like our work has been done for us, Burks.” He was interrupted by a sudden discordant shouting and screaming from somewhere up above. Burks rose to his feet, led the way back, followed by Foster, Betty Dale and the police officers. In the upper corridor they found the electric light switch, and clicked it on. Betty Dale shrank from the sight that greeted her eyes. The madmen in the cells were shouting, jabbering, brandishing their steel talons.

  “God,” Foster exclaimed. “These are the animals that have been clawing people to death. They are men!”

  “Yes,” Burks added, “madmen.”

  They passed down the corridor, along the cell doors, until they arrived at the cell in which Mayor Sturgis was confined. The mayor’s face was white and drawn, and when he saw the commissioner and the inspector, he uttered a gasp of relief.

  Betty Dale watched while they unlocked the cell doors with master keys, released Sturgis, Larkin and Lacey.

  “Where are Randall and Marsh?” Inspector Burks demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Sturgis replied. “We were brought up here one at a time, searched and examined by some man with a mask, and then stuck in these cells. Marsh was brought up first, and Randall last.”

  Betty Dale had taken a few uncertain steps down the corridor. She uttered a cry, pointed to an inert body which lay half in and half out of an open cell doorway, with a sub-machine gun beside it.

  Burks and Foster left the group of rescued men, and hastened over. They knelt beside the body, and Burks uttered a gasp of astonishment. “Norman Marsh!” he exclaimed. “Shot through the head!”

  “So Doctor Blood got Marsh after all!” the commissioner said, sourly. He turned on Betty Dale. “I thought your informant told you that we would find Doctor Blood here. Where is he?”

  “And what’s happened to Randall?” Burks demanded.

  FOR answer Betty Dale stooped, picked up a folded sheet of paper which lay beside the body of Marsh. She opened it, and handed it to Commissioner Foster without reading it. He glanced at her queerly, took the paper and scanned it. His face became suffused with a dull red as he began to understand the purport of that message. He swallowed hard, glanced at the others who had come over to crowd around him, and read aloud:

  “To Commissioner Foster:

  Mayor Sturgis invited me to take a hand in this case. I accepted the invitation—but in my own way. I am making this explanation because my name was taken by a murderer, and I must clear it.

  Norman Marsh was Doctor Blood. If you will examine the newspaper records of five or six years ago, you will learn that Marsh headed an expedition into the Brazilian jungle. All of the members of that expedition were lost, and Marsh was compelled to live for three years with a tribe in the jungle of Brazil. This tribe is known as the Botocudos. Their religion contains a blood-drinking ritual, and Marsh became one of them. He returned to this country, recently, in order to raise a tremendous sum of money for the purpose of arming this tribe with modern weapons so that he could establish an empire in the Brazilian jungle and make himself a king.

  He surrounded himself with men, mentally deranged, whom he rescued from insane asylums; such men as Wilkerson. These unfortunates were easily subjected to his influence, and by means of administering hypnotic drugs he instilled in them a lust for blood, equipped them with the sort of talons which the Botocudos Indians used in ripping open a victim’s throat in order to drink his blood. These demented men are now confined in the cells on this tier. None of them, with the exception of Wilkerson, is
a confirmed criminal. They should be treated as mental patients.

  If you wish further proof that Marsh was Doctor Blood, you may go down to the basement where the cells for solitary confinement are located. There you will find a man named Hans, who was ostensibly the servant of Professor Hugo Langknecht, but was really in the pay of Marsh, and knew him to be Doctor Blood. By questioning Hans properly, and confronting him with the dead body of Marsh, you will have no difficulty in making him talk.

  You need have no worries as to the safety of Victor Randall. You will find him in his own home, but he will remember nothing of what transpired within the past twenty-four hours.

  “X”.

  When the commissioner had finished reading, he raised his eyes to the others. “Good God!” he exclaimed. “To think that Norman Marsh was Doctor Blood!”

  Betty Dale said eagerly: “May I go and phone my paper now?”

  “You certainly may, young lady,” the commissioner told her. “Whoever your informant is, he has certainly done you a service. You ought to get a raise for a scoop like this!”

  Inspector Burks’ face was stony, expressionless. “I hate to think,” he said bitterly, “that we are indebted to Secret Agent ‘X’ for breaking this case. He’s pretty smart, he is. But if he thinks that he can square his account with me in this way, he’s mistaken. I’m never going to give up the hunt for him!”

  As if to mock the inspector, from somewhere outside the jail there floated in the notes of an eerie, uncanny whistle that seemed to chill them all to the marrow of their bones.

  The eyes of Inspector Burks were stormy. He recognized that whistle, raised his hand in a mock salute, and spoke into the air: “All right, Secret Agent ‘X’—you have the laugh this time. But you haven’t wiped out all the other charges against you. Some day I’m going to have the pleasure of watching you strapped into the electric chair!”