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

by Paul Chadwick

  The grinding continued. The sack swung from side to side in dizzy, breath-taking sweeps that told of the plane overhead rocking and dipping in a windy night sky. The side of the sack struck something with a cracking blow that almost knocked Agent “X” unconscious.

  He gasped, recoiled, felt the top of the sack flattened against a hard surface that pressed down on his neck and shoulders. His face was pushed forcibly into the canvas, but the grinding noise had ceased. There was only the steady vibrating roar of the plane’s motor. The sack no longer swung. It had been snugged fast under the belly of the ship.

  For almost a minute Agent “X” didn’t attempt to move. He rested in his cramped, contorted position, breathing in great lungfuls of musty air. The last few seconds had been the most desperate of his entire career. He was still in the shadow of destruction suspended in a canvas sack under the fuselage of a madly racing bandit plane, flying toward an unknown objective.

  But he was closer to the killers than he had been since their terrible raids started—closer perhaps to learning the secrets of their fiendish organization.

  He began slowly limbering his cramped muscles while the plane hurtled on. The sweeping rocking movement of the tightly clamped sack told him that the air was rough, stirred by stormy winds. Only the lure of gold would have influenced any pilot to make such a daring pickup on a night like this.

  THE Agent freed his left hand from the place where it was pinned under his own body. He worked it up toward the top of the sack.

  With both hands he tugged at the cord fastening. But it was impossible to undo it, useless even to try, with the top of the sack wedged against the underside of the plane.

  The Agent freed his right hand from its hold on the cord. He worked the fingers down to his pocket; fumbled for seconds in the numbing cold that was beginning to seep into the sack in the hundred-mile-an-hour slipstream.

  His fingers came out at last holding a jackknife. With infinite effort he succeeded in opening it. Cautiously he drew the blade up until it was on a level with his eyes. He turned it, edged it sidewise, cut deftly through the canvas, making a small peephole. But he could see nothing.

  A blast of wind struck his face with the force of some solid substance. He made the hole wider, edged the knife blade down. To stay in the sack in his present position until the plane landed would be suicidal. The killers who had snuffed out the lives of a dozen men would unhesitatingly butcher him.

  But he had no definite plan of action. His one thought had been to find where the plane was going, who was piloting it, and to what secret hideout the stolen money was being taken.

  He worked the slit in the sack until it was large enough for him to thrust an arm out. Feeling in the icy darkness and cutting blast of the slipstream, he verified what he had already guessed.

  The ship was a seaplane, equipped with twin pontoons. It was the same plane from which the bullets had been fired that had shot Rosa Carpita from the skies, killed her pilot. The sack was snugged between its pontoons. He reached up, felt the cable on top. It disappeared through an eyelet in the fuselage of the plane, connecting with a reel somewhere in the pilot’s cockpit.

  For seconds he deliberated. The wind blast was getting terrific. The air was growing more and more bumpy. Wisps of chill fog whipping past, beaded his face with icy moisture. What should he do?

  HE felt around the mouth of the sack with tense, groping fingers—felt for the rings that were sewed to the canvas. There were many of them; but if the stitching should become loosened, if the sack was gone when the plane landed, its loss would be attributed to the jerking, whipping lash of the wind. And the loss would cover his tracks. First, however, he must get out of the sack himself.

  With the blade of the knife he slit the sack from top to bottom, and, regardless of the tearing blast of the wind, slowly crawled out, wrapped his legs around pontoon struts. Minutes passed before he was entirely independent of the sack for support.

  Bracing himself in the full blast of the slipstream, with the hungry fingers of Death seeming to reach for him, he began systematically cutting the stitches around the metal rings.

  Not until they were free, with no trailing thread whose cut end would tell that a knife had been used, did he stop to rest.

  Not until he heard the empty sack whip back between the pontoons and go sailing off into the darkness behind the plane.

  Then, braced and panting, he rested after his terrible exertions. Yet it was hardly a rest that a man would choose. For the force of the wind seemed bruising, and the numbing beat of the cold was making him ache all over. There were moments when the lulling voice of Death seemed bidding him to let go—find relief in a swift fall into the dizzy spaces below.

  Suddenly he felt the ship’s nose tilt downward. A sensation came like that of going earthward in a fast elevator. A cloud of mist beat up against his face. Holding tightly to the struts, he waited.

  Minutes seemed to pass as the plane lost altitude. Suddenly lights showed through the swirling masses of vapor beneath. They were lights stretching in a semicircular ring, lights that the Agent had seen before. This was the harbor over which Rosa Carpita had circled in her hired plane.

  The Agent’s pulses quickened. The plane was coming down for a landing. There was purposefulness in the way it was descending.

  It swung around in a great bank. The riding lights of ships, the lights strung along the shore, whirled in a strange kaleidoscope of luminescence. The hidden pilot above switched off the engine. For a moment he flicked on a searchlight—the same searchlight whose ruthless eye had picked out Rosa Carpita’s plane in those terrible seconds when her pilot had been killed.

  Looking down, Agent “X” saw storm-tossed water. Great swells were coming in from the open sea. The harbor seemed too rough for a landing. The pilot of the engine seemed to think so too. He hesitated, switched on his engine, came nearer shore. But, driven on by the lust for gold, men will do desperate things. The Agent knew this. It was evident that the pilot intended to land.

  The Agent held his breath. This killer above him possessed infinite skill. No doubt of that. He handled the little plane like a master. His flying spoke of long experience in the air.

  The plane circled again, descended till its long pontoons were almost touching the tops of the swells. The roar of breaking waves mingled with the beat of the throttled motor.

  The Agent wrapped arms and legs around struts. Then the plane came down, touched.

  To the Agent it seemed to crash with the force of a battering ram. The water seemed to have a rocklike hardness. An icy crest drenched him, battered him. But the plane was only on its first step. It settled still more, nosed into a breaking swell, driven by the gale. A half ton of water smacked against Agent “X.” No man living could withstand it. It tore at his arms and legs. He felt himself slipping. Frantically he clutched, but a second wave followed the first. With a smothered, choking cry the Agent was swept from his precarious hold, swept into the black water as the plane settled to its landing.

  Chapter XVI

  The Agent Investigates

  HIS head flicked a strut as he was swept by. For an instant he fought the blazing, whirling lights that flashed in his brain. Then he struggled with the mountainous seas that seemed to crash in on top of him in glittering cascades. He sank beneath the surface, bobbed up in the wake of a hissing swell.

  With numbed muscles and dazed brain he began the battle of his life. The sense that he was drowning spurred him on to fight with the water as though it were a living thing. He’d come too far to go under now, even though it would be easy to slip beneath the waves. Who would be the wiser? No one—but Agent “X” had work to do.

  On the crest of a wave he gazed shoreward. The seaplane had disappeared in the blackness, its motor sound sinking to a low rumbling mutter, then ceasing entirely. It was somewhere resting on the water, but he couldn’t see it.

  He could see lights along the beach, however, and here and there the riding lant
erns of vessels. Sensing the direction of the wind he allowed himself to go as the waves went, in toward the shore, husbanding his strength.

  The huge steel side of a yacht loomed out of the darkness, shutting off his view of the shore. It seemed endless as he slid along its length. A single red riding light winked down at him. He might have called for help, but he didn’t.

  The plane had landed in this small harbor. Here somewhere was the solution of the terrible mystery of the torch murderers. In this vicinity they had stored their loot. He would not risk his chances of finding them by calling anyone’s help now.

  But the last half-mile to shore was a nightmare. Part of the time Agent “X” was half unconscious. He was battered, bruised, swirled by the waves. He felt as though he were swimming along some limitless watery treadmill, climbing numberless swells, descending into the hollows, rising to the top again. The sting of salt spray in his eyes almost blinded him.

  When at last his feet touched bottom and he reached the shore, he could only crawl up it on hands and knees. He fell forward on his face, lay still, then heaved himself up again. This wouldn’t do! He mustn’t be discovered here. He struggled to his feet, stumbled up the beach. Then his knees bumped something. He groped blindly until, through smarting lids, he saw the dim bulk of a big shed against a background of light beyond.

  He moved along it until his fingers found a door. It seemed loose, and, tugging against it, he found that it slid back on rollers. The air inside was warmer. It was heavy and musty with the scent of twine and tar. He sank again to his hands and knees, groped, and his fingers encountered a pile of old sails. On the rough canvas, with the wind shut out, he sank into exhausted slumber.

  THE cold, gray light of dawn was filtering into cracks in the sail shed when Agent “X” awoke. He had the remarkable faculty of sleeping as soundly as a child when he slept at all, and of restoring weary nerves and muscles. In spite of his wet clothing and the exhaustion of a few hours before he stretched, rose, and felt fit again.

  With quick, cautious steps he strode to the wall of the old sail shed and looked through a crack. A stretch of cold, gray harbor with boats floating on it met his eye. But the seaplane was nowhere in sight. For a moment he stood debating.

  He knew that, wearing the disguise of Andrew Balfour, he must be an incongruous sight. The salt water had ruined the shape of his suit. Wet and wrinkled it was draped around his body. But, so perfect was the material used in his facial make-up that even the submersion hadn’t washed it off.

  He was still Andrew Balfour, still the middle-aged business man—but a man in appearance very much the worse for wear. If he were seen around here it might arouse the suspicion of the very people he didn’t want it to. He couldn’t say who they were. But he was certain now that the hiding place of the stolen jewels and currency that the torch robbers were taking in their wholesale banditry was somewhere around here—perhaps on one of the yachts.

  That was the most logical place for it, and it instantly gave him an idea, a plan of action. But first he must get away and change his disguise.

  He walked to another wall of the shed, looked along the shore. There were many bungalows and cottages, closed because of the earliness of the season. Smoke rose from the chimneys of a few built for all-year-round use. But no one was in sight. He judged it was still very early in the morning. His watch had stopped.

  He opened the door of the shed, slipped around its side, and, keeping it between himself and the harbor, walked inland as fast as he could. Not until he got five hundred feet away from the water did he spy anyone. Then he saw a sleepy-looking milkman making his rounds. He ducked out of sight till the man and his horse and wagon passed by. There was a trolley track, but no trolley seemed to be running. The Agent wanted to get away from here as quickly as possible. But how?

  There was no way out except to borrow someone’s car. It could be returned later. He saw several parked before houses along side streets. One was in front of a hedge, hidden from the windows of the house. It was a touring car with the side curtains down. The ignition was locked, but Agent “X” quickly raised the engine hood, found the ignition wires, broke them off, joined their ends together, and established a circuit.

  While the people in the house still slept he got into the car and drove off rapidly. He could leave it anywhere, and the police, through the Motor Vehicle Registry, would see that it was returned to its owner. To catch the band who had taken the lives of over a dozen men, Agent “X” felt he was justified in commandeering this car.

  Back in the city, in one of his own hideouts, he changed his disguise to that of Elisha Pond, the mythical character in whose name a vast sum of money was on deposit in the First National Bank.

  When the bank’s doors opened at nine Agent “X” presented himself at the paying teller’s window and drew out ten thousand dollars, asking mainly for bills of large denomination. The bank was accustomed to the eccentricities of “Mr. Pond.” His account was of such size that all employees had been instructed to be especially respectful.

  With the money in his possession, Agent “X” made another quick change. He put on a suit of expensive, sports tweeds, molded the lines of his face into the appearance of a well-groomed, well-fed, prosperous-looking bachelor in his late thirties. He placed a handkerchief in his upper coat pocket, the corner showing jauntily, put a huge solitaire diamond ring on his finger, and selected a Malacca walking stick. Attired thus, he set out again.

  IT was nearly ten. He called Betty Dale and asked her as a favor to him to keep an eye on a certain Marie Rosa, registered in a down town hotel, the address of which he gave.

  He next called up the offices of “Andrew Balfour” and told his office managers that he expected to be out of town for part of the day. He considered dropping in on Banton, but gave up the idea as profitless. First of all he wanted to establish a base at the yacht harbor from which he could operate without arousing anyone’s suspicion. To do that he was prepared to splurge on a grandiose scale.

  Under the name of K. K. Parker, one of many aliases he was accustomed to using, he hired a large limousine and chauffeur for a week, to be at his beck and call whenever he might want them.

  In this handsome vehicle, reclining on the soft cushions, Agent “X” drove back along the suburban roads to the yacht harbor where he had so nearly met death a few nights before. His eyes were hard and bright as he stared through the speeding limousine’s crystal-clear windows. A glow of excitement filled him as the harbor came into view.

  Sunlight was breaking through the clouds now. The water was blue and sparkling. The storm winds were subsiding, but, to Agent “X,” that bright expanse of water held sinister significance. There somewhere, killers lurked. There loot that had been paid for in men’s blood was hidden.

  As K. K. Parker he had his limousine draw up before the office of the town’s boat works. A sign in the window read: “Reconditioned Yachts For Sale.”

  Smoking a cork-tipped cigarette, Secret Agent “X” strolled into the office and presented his card. “I’d like to look over some of your boats,” he said.

  His name obviously meant nothing to the manager of the shipyard, but the limousine standing outside, the cut of Mr. Parker’s clothes, his appearance and commanding air were impressive.

  The manager nodded, spoke deferentially. “Come this way, sir, I’ll show you what we have.”

  On this lengthy tour of inspection the Agent asked endless questions. What was the seaworthiness of this boat, the speed of that, the fuel oil consumption of such and such an engine.

  At last he located a craft that seemed to please him. This was a large cabin cruiser that had formerly belonged to a millionaire shoe manufacturer. The Agent paid a five-hundred-dollar option on the vessel, announcing that he intended to arrange for certain alterations and redecorations. The manager didn’t know that the man who called himself Parker was interested in the cruiser solely because of its position.

  From its portholes Agent “X�
� could command a view of the harbor in both directions. With a pair of compact, high-power prism binoculars he read the name on every yacht within sight. There were nearly a dozen drawn up beside piers, covered over as this one had been. These drew his particular attention.

  Having established a base to which he could come unmolested and without rousing anyone’s suspicions, Agent “X” started back for the city early in the afternoon. First he put in a long-distance call to Betty Dale.

  Her answer wasn’t too satisfactory. The girl, “Marie Rosa,” or Rosa Carpita, was still registered at the hotel where Agent “X” had seen her, but she had slipped out before Betty had got there and had not been back as yet. Her luggage, Betty had ascertained, was still in her room.

  Frowning, Agent “X” went back to his parked limousine. The patient chauffeur backed the car around, headed for the road that led to the city. But he had gone only a mile when Agent “X” barked abruptly into the speaking tube. His eyes, looking out of the car, were suddenly steely with alertness.

  “Stop,” he said. “Turn around and go back.”

  The chauffeur nodded glumly. The whims of rich men were never very understandable.

  But it wasn’t a whim that had prompted Agent “X’s” sudden change of plan. A small flivver was parked in a side street. Agent “X,” who missed nothing down to the smallest detail, had got a glimpse of the car’s license plate. It was the flivver belonging to Private Detective George Banton.

  Chapter XVII

  Death Clue!

  AGENT “X” spoke to his chauffeur as the car approached the harbor town’s central parking space.

  “Stop here,” he said.

  At a swift stride he struck off along the street. But, once out of sight of his chauffeur, he went back toward the spot where he had seen Banton’s car. The car was empty. The side curtains were down. Agent “X” touched the motor hood. It was cold. This meant that the flivver had been parked there for some time.