Secret Agent X – The Complete Series Volume 1 (Annotated)

by Paul Chadwick

  “Taub never lies, master. Taub always tells the truth. Taub is a loyal servant.”

  A chuckle filled the room. The dope fiend, Taub, began his report, telling in jerky sentences of how he had caught Greenford trying to shadow him and had killed the spy according to instructions. He mentioned, too, the gangster fight in the Mephistopheles Club.

  SILENCE had descended as though the very walls were listening. Taub could feel eyes upon him, but he could not locate the direction from which they came. This, too, filled him with dread. He repeated again and again that he always told the truth. The eyes that he felt upon him were real enough. He was under close, continuous observation by a man watching not ten feet away.

  In another small office behind the mirror, which formed a heavy partition, the unseen watcher sat. He was facing the mirror, the back of it. Through its surface, which appeared silvered to the hophead, he could see Taub plainly. The mirror was of Argus glass, the glass used in diamond brokerage offices, the glass that will admit light rays in one direction only. It was eight inches thick—thick enough even to withstand bullets. It formed an invulnerable barrier between the rear office and the mysterious room where Taub stood. But, as an added precaution, the man sitting behind it wore a heavy black mask. His features were hidden. Only his eyes showed, watching the dope fiend. Before him was a tiny microphone connected with the amplifier above Taub’s head. He could speak softly into it and his voice would resound in the next room.

  When Taub had finished his reports, the Black Master spoke again.

  “Greenford was a fool. I do not need him. I have other plans. To make men realize the value of the thing I have to sell, perhaps I shall have to demonstrate it—in a spectacular way.”

  The Black Master was silent for a moment. Taub waited. Then the Black Master’s laughter sounded again. It had the harshness of infinite evil.

  “You say these two gangs battled—tried to wipe each other out? What if I aided them in their mutual ambitions? What if I gave the police, the city, and the country a demonstration of wholesale killing that they will remember? Nine murders have taken place already. Would it not be more conclusive to the powers that be if I demonstrated what I can do by wiping out wholesale a nest of rats—two nests of them?”

  “Yes, master,” said Taub in a trembling whisper.

  “I shall destroy Baroni and Dwyer and all those who follow them, Taub. It will be amusing as well as beneficial. As men spray powder on annoying insects and kill them, I shall destroy these criminal parasites. Then—certain men will understand. Then I will get the price I ask for what I have to sell. If not—there will be other murders—till I have made my point clear. You shall aid me, Taub.”

  “Yes, master. When do these gangsters die?”

  The Black Master was silent for a moment. Behind the mask his eyes glittered.

  “When conditions are right,” he said. “When they least expect it. Go back to the Mephistopheles Club, Taub. Find out Baroni’s and Dwyer’s plans. Find out what effect the battle tonight will have. Find out where they can be located.”

  “I will, master.”

  Taub hesitated after he had spoken. He seemed to be waiting for something—something that he was afraid to mention. The Black Master’s laugh rang out.

  “I know what you want, Taub! The laborer is worthy of his hire! As long as you are a faithful laborer, you shall be paid. Come close to the panel between the mirrors.”

  Taub moved forward uneasily. He waited in front of the panel. A section of it disappeared suddenly, disclosing a round dark hole six inches in diameter—large enough for a man’s hand to come through. Fingers appeared in this hole, gloved fingers holding a small vial—the fingers of the Black Master.

  Taub took the vial. His face was convulsed with the craving that possessed him. Here in this super-potent drug, an opium alkaloid that he could get nowhere else, was peace for his jumping, screaming nerves. It would produce visions that would wipe out the memory of murders he had committed, give him a few hours of rest—and steel him for other murders to come. The Black Master held him in bonds that were stronger than steel chains. He was one of several drug addicts who served the arch criminal. They were safe employees. They would not squeal. To do so would mean an end to their drug supply—with consequent torture to mind and body that would make death welcome.

  The Black Master’s hand withdrew. The metal plug inside the panel was shoved forward again. The hole was blocked up. The Black Master’s voice sounded.

  “Go now, Taub. Do as I have ordered. Report here tomorrow night. Baroni and Dwyer and their mobsters shall be destroyed like insects—when the time is ripe. Their deaths shall be a further warning that the power of the Black Master is invincible.”

  Chapter XVII

  Flowers of Death

  TWO days after his escape from Sam Dwyer’s death car, Secret Agent “X” received an invitation. It was handed to him by Frenchy, the owner of the speak-easy where Baroni had taken refuge following the battle in the Mephistopheles Club.

  The invitation was from Baroni himself. Secret Agent “X,” disguised again as James Porter, young man about town, had gone to Frenchy’s place seeking news of Baroni. Was there a chance, he wondered, that the two gangsters, Baroni and Dwyer, would forget their animosity and join forces in a new and more sinister racket, as Baroni had proposed?

  It seemed possible. The greed for gold was the motive that made gangs organize in the first place. It was stronger than hate—stronger even than the fear of death. And if these two men organized, Secret Agent “X” wanted to watch them. One or the other might conceivably be the terrible Black Master. Or, in contact with them, he might be led to the hideout of this greater criminal.

  Baroni’s message was short and to the point.

  “Porter,” it said, “come to my place at eight this evening and come dolled up. Big doings, and I can use guys like you. Frenchy will tell you where to come.”

  Agent “X” read the note with interest. What was Nick Baroni planning? He spoke to Frenchy, and the rat-eyed, spike-mustached proprietor of the speak-easy gave him Baroni’s address. It was in a flashy suburb built up with the gaudy mansions of the newly rich.

  Prepared for any emergency, Secret Agent “X” went there at the appointed hour. He had “dolled up” as Baroni had suggested. He was dressed immaculately, dressed in the height of fashion. No one could guess, looking at him, that in the linings of his tuxedo were many small, curious articles that would have no place on the person of the playboy that he seemed to be.

  Baroni, as “X” had suspected, lived in one of the most elaborate houses in that pretentious section of the city. It was ornate with bay windows, towers, and colonial columns. A long drive led up to it. Well-clipped shrubbery covered the lawn.

  A manservant who had the sneaky look of a gangster admitted him.

  The inside of the house was even more ornately elaborate than its exterior. Here the ex-beer-runner indulged his childish impulses and showed his shockingly bad taste. Pictures, art objects, tapestries, and indiscriminate pieces of furniture formed a confusing jumble. Thousands that he had made in illicit enterprises had been spent in decorating this house.

  The air was heavy with cigar smoke. There came the clink of glasses from a room opening off the front hall. The squint-eyed servant ushered Agent “X” into this.

  Baroni’s thick voice boomed out. Surrounded by a group of his underworld followers, gunmen, fences, paid torpedoes, the gang leader was in his glory. Arrayed again in an ill-fitting dress suit, he welcomed Secret Agent “X” boisterously.

  “Here’s the guy that I was telling you about,” he said. “Here’s the guy that’s gonna throw in with us—him an’ his firecrackers.”

  He was introduced to the circle of men whose bland faces masked depths of evil. The two surviving torpedoes of the night before were there. Four new ones had re-enforced them. In such hard times there were few crooks who were not glad to join in with Nick Baroni. The gangster loo
ked at his watch.

  “We’re gonna start in ten minutes,” he said.

  “Start where?” asked the Agent.

  Nick Baroni winked at him, broadly, mysteriously.

  “I got a little surprise for lots of you guys,” he said.

  The hired torpedoes hitched the guns in their pockets expectantly, thinking apparently that another battle was in store. Baroni turned on them suddenly. His face was serious now. He waved his cigar in pudgy fingers.

  “None o’ that,” he said. “You mugs are going to leave your rods behind tonight. They won’t be needed.”

  Astounded looks met this announcement. Baroni nodded.

  “Yeah, I mean it. Get un-heeled before you leave. If any guy has a gat when he steps out of this house, I’ll have him put on the spot.”

  Glumly the men about him rose and deposited their automatics on a sideboard in the big room, making the sideboard look like a young arsenal.

  “How about you, fella?” said Baroni, staring at the Agent. “Ain’t you heeled?”

  The Agent shook his head.

  “I’m not carrying a gun,” he said.

  Baroni looked sly.

  “Don’t set off any of them firecrackers, either. You got to act polite where we’re going.”

  Mysteriously he rose then and beckoned for the others to follow.

  THEY put on their coats and hats, and, when they reached the porch outside, a collection of limousines awaited them. Some were Baroni’s own cars. Others he had hired for the occasion. Their drivers seemed to know where they were going. No directions were given. The Secret Agent had a place of honor in the first car with Baroni. The fat gangster, full of zest tonight, joked and laughed as the cars rolled away.

  They headed back toward the city, drove in a procession through the night streets. Then the Secret Agent gave a start of surprise. The cars were drawing up before a familiar entranceway—the door of the Mephistopheles Club. Hadn’t Baroni had his fill of bloodshed and violence in this place?

  As nonchalantly as though no killings had ever taken place there, as though there had never been bleeding, bullet-riddled corpses on the floor, Baroni entered. His followers came behind him, gaping, wondering.

  The club’s manager came out to meet them. A few whispered words and he led Baroni across the main floor. They climbed a short flight of stairs, entered the club’s biggest private dining room. Then the Secret Agent started again.

  A huge table was set in the center of the room. Gleaming plates and silverware showed. Spotless napery spread like a field of snow under the lights. At the table, ranged around it, waiting, was a group of men. But it was the man at the table’s head that caught the Agent’s eye.

  Sam Dwyer!

  A sudden tenseness filled the room. Baroni’s torpedoes crouched in their tracks, their hands stiffening, forgetting that they had left their rods behind. Baroni waved a sudden affable hand. He spoke suavely.

  “This is the surprise I was talking about. Me and Sam here has buried the hatchet. We’re gonna behave ourselves now. There ain’t gonna be no more killings. All you mugs has gotta make friends and get acquainted. Ain’t that right, Sam?”

  The thin, dudish gangster at the head of the table rose.

  “Business before pleasure,” he said. “Maybe Nick Baroni and I would like to sling a little lead at each other, but it don’t pay. Times have changed, boys. Nick and I are going into business together. This is a dinner to celebrate our partnership. We both know our stuff. We oughta make good.”

  Dwyer’s eyes focused on Secret Agent “X” for a moment. Sudden malice sprang into them.

  “That guy!” he said. “You brought him along, too, Nick?”

  “Why not?” said Baroni. “What if he did pull a little stunt here the other night? We gotta forget all that.”

  “I wasn’t talking about that,” said Dwyer. “It’s something else. I don’t like him.”

  As though in bitter recollection, the thin gang leader rubbed his eyes for a moment. They were still slightly bloodshot from the traces of tear gas that Secret Agent “X” had flung.

  “Whadda yer mean?” asked Baroni.

  “Nothing,” said Dwyer. “But keep him away from me.”

  “He’s gonna sit at my end of the table,” said Baroni. “But you fellas has got to be friends, too. Everything’s gotta be peaceful from now on. We both gave Inspector Burks our word.”

  Baroni winked again leeringly. The two gangsters were keeping their word to the head of the homicide squad. They had buried the hatchet, made up with each other. But “X” knew what sinister ambitions filled the breasts of the two men. They hoped to flood the city with narcotics, fatten like vultures on the broken bodies and broken souls of drug addicts.

  The men of Baroni’s gang eased into their places. Waiters came in. Suddenly Secret Agent “X’s” eyes grew intent. Among them he saw the slim, cat-footed form of the dope fiend he had shadowed, the emissary of the Black Master.

  The hophead had evidently been detailed by the club manager to wait on the gangster’s tables. The rat-eyed man looked around for a second, then disappeared to return a moment later.

  In his arms this time he carried a huge floral piece. There was something funereal about it. Roses, carnations, and cornflowers were wired in a big frame. More wire was wrapped around the thick bundle that their stems formed. Maidenhair fern formed a mat around this. But, funereal as it was, it made a gay display.

  Baroni and Dwyer turned their heads in surprise.

  “For the gentlemen,” the hophead waiter said politely.

  “Who’s it from?” barked Baroni.

  The waiter shook his head.

  “Bring it here—let’s look for a card,” Baroni demanded.

  The waiter picked the flowers up, brought them close. Baroni looked amid the gay blossoms, shook his head.

  “There ain’t no card,” he said. “It’s from the manager of this joint—or maybe the police commissioner himself. Set it down over there, you pasty-faced mug.”

  The waiter nodded and drew the mass of flowers into a position where all could see them.

  “They make me think of a funeral,” said Baroni. “But they smell good. Bring on the food and let’s eat.”

  SECRET AGENT “X,” watching the face of the waiter, had a sudden, tingling sense of danger that he couldn’t quite fathom. But there was a look in the hophead’s eyes that was hard to interpret—a look of uneasiness, of expectancy.

  It was the hophead who helped serve the soup course, and “X,” missing nothing, saw that the man’s hands were shaking. Something was wrong with him. Something was in the air. What?

  The courses of the dinner progressed. The gangsters ate their food, drank their liquor, and grew noisy. Baroni hurled jokes across the table at his former enemy, Dwyer. The hands of a clock at the end of the room moved toward ten. As the hour approached, Agent “X” noted that the hophead’s manner grew more mysterious.

  A dusty whiteness had come over the man’s already pale face. His small eyes rolled in his head. Twice they stabbed across the room, focusing on the clock. He almost spilled the coffee in serving it.

  At five minutes to ten, with the huge meal over, Nick Baroni rose to his feet and proposed a toast.

  “To the future of this gang,” he said. “To all the dough we’re gonna make an’ the good times we’re gonna have.”

  They drank gustily, emptying their glasses. Baroni ordered another round and spoke again.

  “This has been a swell meal,” he said. “I want the guys who cooked it and the guys who served it to come in and drink with us. I want the club manager, too.”

  The hands of the clock stood at two minutes to ten now. The Agent’s eyes were focused not on Baroni but on the rattish, evil features of the hophead waiter. He saw the man’s gaze move toward the clock for the dozenth time; then the fellow slipped furtively toward the door. His movements were quick, scared at the last. He seemed to want to get out of the room as though it
harbored some terrible evil—something that struck dread to his soul. Baroni saw the man’s movements.

  “Here,” he said: “You gotta drink a toast, too, you dope-eating mug.”

  The waiter shook his head and jerked open the door.

  “Get him—bring him back,” roared Baroni. “Just for that I’m gonna pour whisky down his throat till he can’t stand up. He ain’t no gentleman.”

  Secret Agent “X” leaped up. More than any one else in this room he was interested in the waiter. What could account for the man’s strange actions? He did not want him to get away. He flung out the door after the man, saw him darting down the hall. The hophead was running as though all the devils in hell were after him, running as though to escape death itself.

  Agent “X” pursued him as far as the end of the corridor. Then a sound made him turn his head and look back. The door that he had just left, the door of the dining room, had swung open. A man stood in it, a man clawing at his throat.

  The man was one of Baroni’s henchmen. As the Agent stared in horror, the gangster’s eyes bulged, his face grew purple, and, with a hoarse, terrible cry he pitched forward and lay writhing. Another figure followed him, a man who seemed to be fighting invisible terrible fingers encircling his neck.

  As he held the door open for a moment, Secret Agent “X” got a look into the room he had just left.

  A gasp of sheer horror came from his lips. For the room was a shambles. Men at the tables had risen to their feet. Chairs were being overturned by reeling, staggering figures. Purple faces showed.

  Then suddenly the bark of an automatic sounded. It was followed by another and another. Some of the mobsters who had come to the dinner “unheeled” had worn concealed weapons. They were using them now. Each gang held the other responsible for the thing that was happening. Leaden death slugs were being added to the horror of invisible murder.

  Two men, clawing fiercely, fighting like demons, lurched through the door. One was a Baroni man; the other a henchman of Dwyer. Tho latter held an automatic. The Baroni man was pinioning his wrist. But the man with the gun jerked free as a sinister purple hue spread over his enemy’s face. Before the unseen strangling death could do its work, he sent three bullets crashing into the head of the Baroni mobster.