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

by Paul Chadwick

  Then he dropped his gun, clawed at his own throat. In a few seconds he had collapsed to the floor to join the body of the man he had just killed.

  Sam Dwyer himself came from the dining room. His immaculate clothes were in disorder now. His sleek hair was streaking down his face. He wrenched at his freshly starched collar as though that were the thing that was cutting his wind off. Then he gave a fearful scream and staggered against the wall. The livid, plum-colored hue of the strangling death spread over his face. His eyes started from their sockets, and he fell forward on the floor.

  It was like a glimpse into the mouth of some ghastly inferno. Agent “X” shuddered. The Black Master had struck his most hideously ironic blow.

  Chapter XVIII

  The Man Hunt Begins

  NEWSBOYS were shouting in the streets three hours later. They were peddling papers on which were spread headlines telling of the greatest underworld killing in the city’s history. Tense-faced men and women were reading the story. The police were staggered by the magnitude of the crime. The Baroni and Dwy-er gangs had been wiped out. The two gang leaders and all their followers but one, dining in state at the Mephistopheles Club, celebrating the end of their long feud, had been slain. Two score men had been killed by the horrible strangling death.

  Cordons of police still surrounded the Mephistopheles Club. Grim-faced detectives were viewing the scene of this most colossal of crimes.

  It was the one surviving member of the gangsters’ party that aroused the press and the police to a state of hysterical excitement. Employees of the Mephistopheles Club remembered having seen him coming from the corridor of the private dining room. He had left the building just before the terrible crime had been discovered. The manager of the club had seen him, too. He gave a description to the police.

  “Tall, well dressed, even featured—a typical playboy.” This was what the manager had said. He remembered having seen this man in the Club Mephistopheles before. He had been there two nights previous when the gangs of Baroni and Dwyer had had their bitter battle. No one knew his name. But dozens of detectives were detailed to comb all the underworld of the city. Descriptions of the man were sent out to every precinct. Every patrolman on the beat was on the watch for him.

  Inspector Burks of the homicide squad, called to the scene of wholesale murder, believed that he had seen the man also. He had his own opinion as to the man’s identity. He remembered that it was at Frenchy’s speak-easy on the night he had warned Baroni not to battle with Dwyer, that he had seen the mysterious stranger.

  Detectives were sent to question Frenchy. Trembling and white-faced, Frenchy babbled the truth. The playboy stranger was not a regular member of Baroni’s gang. He had helped Baroni in some way. Baroni had invited him to the fatal party. Frenchy had overheard Baroni and the stranger talking. The stranger’s name was James Porter.

  Armed with this information, the police increased their efforts. They even searched the membership lists of the exclusive clubs. Newspapers gave the man’s name to their readers with the request that any reader who heard of him, telephone police headquarters immediately.

  But no call came in. No one had heard of James Porter. The name was obviously an alias.

  Inspector Burks, hearing this, swore fiercely. The police commissioner of the city was beside him at the moment. The Inspector turned to him, spoke with the bitterness of a man who is baffled and distraught.

  “James Porter and Secret Agent ‘X’ are one and the same,” he said. “Secret Agent ‘X’ is the man behind all these crimes. He’s the murderer we want to get. I said so that night at Crandal’s home. I say so again now. This city will have no peace until he is behind bars waiting for the electric chair.”

  The police commissioner nodded gravely, convinced that Burks was right.

  And, sitting tensely in a restaurant in an entirely different disguise, Secret Agent “X” was studying the papers. There had been no time to make an investigation of the death room in the Mephistopheles Club. He had his own ideas about how the mass murders had been committed. He remembered that floral piece which had been presented to the gangsters with no name attached. The Black Master’s drug-crazed slave had brought it in. The Black Master was behind those terrible deaths. But, in his horror at seeing the shambles in the room, Agent “X” had lost sight of the hophead who had disappeared.

  HE knew at whom the hunt was being directed. Toward the man who called himself James Porter—toward himself. There was irony in that. He was fighting the Black Master, risking his life. So far he had come nearer to the truth than any one else; but the police were convinced that he was the murderer. The papers were calling him the Black Master.

  From the description that Frenchy of the speak-easy had given, several staff artists on several newspapers had drawn pictures of the disguise Agent “X” had worn.

  These were being run on the front pages of the paper as an aid in identifying him. He realized by what miracle he had escaped death in that room. But his own alert faculties were partly responsible; these and the fact that he had been suspicious of the hophead.

  A floral offering! “Like a funeral,” Nick Baroni had said, and the mass of gay flowers had masked a death more hideous than any one in the room had suspected. Why had the waiter kept looking at the clock? Why had he left like a frightened rat as the hands approached ten? The answer came forcibly to the Secret Agent’s astute mind.

  At the hour of ten, the Black Master had sent out the waves of radio impulse which had operated some hidden engine of death concealed in that mass of sweet-smelling flowers. The brain of a master criminal had conceived of the terrible plan.

  Agent “X” was waiting, reading the papers, wondering when the police would examine the floral offering. But even if they did, he hadn’t any hope that it would lead them in the right direction. The Black Master was too clever a man to leave clews that would point the way. The police might guess, as he did, how the murder had been committed, but they wouldn’t be any nearer knowing who the murderer was.

  As the Agent read the stories of the crime, studying, pondering, a special delivery letter was received at the city headquarters of the U.S. Department of Justice.

  It was a letter that brought the chief of the office, working late, out of his chair. A letter that made him strike the desk with a clenched fist. It was a letter from the Black Master.

  There at the bottom of the page in typewritten capitals the arch murderer’s name was printed. There was nothing phony about it. The contents of the letter showed that it was genuine.

  “Gentlemen:” the letter said. “At this moment you are reading newspaper stories and listening to police reports of the murders that have taken place at the Mephistopheles Club. Look at the mailing date on this letter. It was dropped in a post office box at ten o’clock. That was the hour that the murders took place.

  “The writer of this letter has a weapon of such terrible strength that the Government cannot afford not to buy it. The Government has seen now what it can do. It has seen men stricken down at a precise hour in a terrible way. I am offering this weapon for sale. It is now on the market. Several countries are interested in it.

  “My price is high. But if my price is not paid, other atrocities will follow. I destroyed a nest of rats tonight. The Government, I know, will thank me for this. But, if my price is not paid, a reign of terror will follow in which people who are not rats will die. If that is not sufficient evidence that I mean business, I will move my base of operations to the nation’s capital.

  “Think well over this. Consult with your superiors. My theft of the Crandal jewels will give me sufficient funds to carry on. I am prepared to wage an indefinite campaign until my demands are met. If some other country buys my weapon first, that will be America’s loss.”

  The Department of Justice official read this letter again and again. He called his colleagues to his side. The city police heads were shown the letter. Messages flashed back and forth between them and Washington.
But if the Black Master meant what he said, if he were not a madman, it was a baffling, terrible problem. No civilized country would consider the use of such a terrible weapon even in the chemical warfare branch of its army. The Black Master must be caught, destroyed, before his terrible campaign had reached shocking heights.

  A day went by, and no progress was made. That evening, in his office, a public official received a threat. It was from the Black Master telling him that he had been marked for death.

  He called up police headquarters. Squads of detectives and Government operatives were sent to guard him. A cordon was thrown around his home to see that no stranger entered. Motorcycle cops rode beside him as he left his office in his own private sedan. The chauffeur was an old and trusted employee. But a detective rode beside him.

  When the official reached the safety of his home, he was prepared to stay under cover for days if necessary—for days till the Black Master had been caught. The block was cleared as the official’s car rolled up to his house. Detectives watched from all sides.

  Then, just before the car stopped, just before the door was opened, the official and the two men with him were seen to rise and clutch at their necks. As detectives rushed forward, they lurched from the car with purpling, hideous faces, clawing at their throats. They staggered, reeled, and fell dead on the sidewalk with their tongues protruding in the mocking, characteristic manner of the strangling death.

  A hasty search of the car’s interior revealed only one thing. The tiny electric bulb in its roof was broken. Bits of glass lay on the floor. The mystery of the Spectral Strangler was as black as ever.

  Chapter XIX

  The Spies’ Nest

  AGENT “X” read about this murder in the papers. That night he called on Betty Dale. It was late. She had just returned from the Herald office. Her eyes were wide with fright and excitement.

  “I was afraid,” she said. “Afraid something had happened to you.”

  The Secret Agent nodded.

  “The hounds are chasing a fox while a wolf runs free.”

  “The Black Master,” she said. “Do you know that he made a broadcast to the papers tonight? Do you know he threatened a campaign of terror if the Government does not meet his price?”

  The Agent shook his head.

  “You wouldn’t have heard about it,” said Betty Dale. “The broadcast came just before I left the office. It was on a special short wave. They haven’t been able to trace it.”

  “They won’t,” said the Agent harshly.

  She saw by the burning, intense look in his eyes how deeply the news affected him.

  “The whole city is hysterical over it,” she continued. “Rewards are being offered for the Black Master’s capture. My paper has offered ten thousand dollars. Colonel Crandal has offered another ten. The loss of his jewels—those murders at his home—have shaken him. He came to the office tonight. I talked to him. The police commissioner came, too. They all think it’s you. If I could only tell them that it isn’t!”

  “Let the hounds of the law chase the fox,” he said bitterly. “The fox will hunt the wolf.”

  Again fear sprang into her eyes.

  “I am terrified,” she said. “Terrified for you. He—the Black Master—seems able to strike anywhere. And you were there at the Mephistopheles Club when those awful murders took place, when all those gangsters were killed!”

  He nodded and for a moment patted her hand. There was a light in his eyes warmer than the burning glow of the man-hunter. He was human for a moment, glad that somewhere in all the world there was one person who knew he was not a murderer, glad of the friendship and abiding loyalty of this sweet girl.

  And the flood of color suffused Betty Dale’s cheeks again. The Agent’s fingers upon hers made her heart beat strangely. She wanted for an instant to have him put his arms around her, to melt into them and beg him for her sake not to risk his life. But this would be interfering, hindering the strange, important work to which he had dedicated his life. She spoke primly, almost casually, checking the flood of words that sought to pour from her lips.

  “Be careful,” she said. “Don’t take any chances you don’t have to.”

  Secret Agent “X” left her with grim determination in his heart. Three times now he had moved in the wrong direction. Each time, however, he had drawn nearer his goal; yet each time the Black Master had won the point, while Death kept score. The man, whoever he might be, was a monster of cunning as well as cruelty. He was holding the whole detective force of the city at bay, fooling them utterly. And now he had even dared broadcast to the papers, telling them of the campaign of terror he planned.

  The Agent knew that the Black Master had a dual purpose in this. It was a free advertisement of the hideous thing he was trying to sell. He was letting the whole world know that the murder weapon he used was on the open market. He hoped by such means to start competitive bidding, to raise its price.

  And this made the Secret Agent think of Piere DuBrong and the blonde woman, Nina Rocazy. What were they doing?

  He made many discreet inquiries. Countess Rocazy had been staying at the Hotel Imperial for a few days. But she had checked out. It was believed she had gone South. Piere DuBrong had left for Washington. But a long-distance call to the embassy office elicited the fact that he was not expected back for several days.

  A grim light showed in Agent “X’s” eyes.

  He changed his disguise, got one of the cars he kept out of a garage, and silently drove through the night. In the mid-town section, he parked his car and walked along a quiet street. Then he stopped in front of a small apartment building.

  This was the place to which he had escorted the blonde after their memorable ride in the speeding taxi.

  Was she still here? Was this her hideout when she wasn’t playing the role of countess?

  HE looked in the mail boxes. The name of Rocazy was not there. Perhaps she had another name, or perhaps she had moved again, gone quietly to some hideout where she could consort with her own kind. He did not believe for an instant that she had left the city.

  The Agent remembered the location of her apartment. He stared up the side of the building. A fire escape moved past a window in one of the rooms she had had. The window was dark, curtainless. The apartment seemed empty.

  But the Agent moved along the side of the building and drew himself up on the fire escape. Muscles hidden under his well-tailored clothes worked with springlike quickness and precision. Noiselessly he climbed upward till he was on a level with the third-floor suite Nina had had.

  His observation from the street below had been correct. Nina’s apartment was empty. Not only that. Plasterers had been at work getting the place ready for a new tenant. Small drops of splashed calcimine showed on the inside of the window.

  Pressing his face close to the glass, he could see the workmen’s stepladders, pails, and brushes standing in the middle of the room. All the furniture had been moved out.

  It seemed futile to search for traces of Nina’s whereabouts inside. But the Agent hesitated only a moment. His quick mind was working. He never overlooked small bets. He remembered a thing which he had noticed in his one quick survey of the place. The room had an open fireplace. An ordinary detective would have passed this by. But Secret Agent “X” tried to pass nothing by.

  He drew his kit of chromium tools from his pocket, thrust the clawlike teeth of one under the window sash. The place was empty. He could risk a little noise now to gain entrance quickly. If there was nothing here, he did not want to waste time.

  He pressed down on a rod-like handle which he fitted into the tool. The sudden, tremendous leverage snapped the lock. In a moment he was inside, walking on quick, silent feet. There might be someone in the apartment below. Overhead footsteps would attract attention.

  Painters’ canvasses, spread over the parquet flooring, helped to deaden the sound. He drew out his tiny flash light, turned its beam on the fireplace. Then he moved forward eagerly. An old bro
om leaned against the bricks of the fireplace. The painters had carefully swept the floor before starting work.

  He had noticed that Nina hadn’t been a neat housekeeper. A woman in her dangerous line of work had no time to think of the little domestic niceties. There was a miniature mountain of gray dust and gray ashes on the cold hearth of the fireplace.

  The Agent had studied the habits of all types of people—careful people, slipshod people.

  Crouching before the fireplace with his small light turned on, he began raking through the ashes and dust with a splinter of wood that the painters had used for mixing plaster.

  He worked slowly, painstakingly, missing nothing that the fireplace contained. When he stopped at last, he held three objects in the palm of his hand—the stubs of two cigarettes with lipstick adhering to them, and the crumpled cardboard covering of a package of matches. He discarded the cigarette butts after a close examination of them. They had no name, but a sniff convinced him that they had been Russian.

  His eyes glowed when he stared at the match paper. “Café Levant” it said. A border of gold stars and scimitars on a blue background framed the words. The Agent turned back to the ashes and raked again. He unearthed several bits of charred cardboard. These, too, were blue.

  He had conclusive proof now that the woman, Nina, made a habit of going to the Café Levant. She bought her matches and cigarettes there. She flung her stubs and empty match papers in the fireplace. All this fitted in with his estimation of her character. She was exotic, slipshod. She might have changed her living quarters, but, if she were in the city, he doubted if she had changed her eating place.

  Agent “X” left the apartment quickly and stopped at the nearest telephone. But the Café Levant was not listed. Grimly, purposefully, he called up the service department of the city’s lighting company. He was a workman, he said, sent out on a job. Where was the Levant Café located? The girl on duty looked in her books, gave him the address.