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

by Paul Chadwick

  Burks shook his head vigorously, offering an objection.

  “What good would it have done, man, to take the cash to the bank vault? Answer me that?”

  The tall bank examiner was leisurely in his reply. He lit a cigarette, blew smoke through his nose.

  “It’s only a theory, of course,” he said. “But I overheard a few things. Osterhout and von Blund were former Prussian officers. One was a flyer. Both were men of action and daring. It is my belief that they transferred their loot to the roof of the bank building through a special shaftway leading from the vault. On the roof it was picked up by a plane and taken to the yacht.”

  “Impossible! Fantastic!” said Burks.

  “Perhaps—but I think subsequent investigation of the vault and the roof may prove that my theory is correct.”

  Burks was still pondering this amazing explanation when the boat docked. The bank examiner was fidgeting to be off.

  “I’ve a report to draw up and turn in,” he said. “You can call me later if you want me to testify.”

  Unmolested, he leaped to the pier and strode away into the darkness, while the cops began to unload the loot to waiting armored cars summoned by radio.

  For a moment Inspector Burks was preoccupied, then suddenly he stiffened and listened.

  A faint whistle, eerie yet melodious, floated back across the dock. It seemed to fill the whole air, seemed to have a strange, ventriloquistic note like the call of some wild bird.

  Inspector Burks’s eyes gleamed in quick understanding. He had heard that whistle before. He recognized it. It was the whistle of the “Man of a Thousand Faces,” the man whose identity was an eternal mystery.

  A small boy came dashing through the police lines that cut off the end of the dock. A cop tried to stop him, but he ran on, clutching something in his hand. He sped up and thrust the thing in his hand under Inspector Burks’s nose.

  “Here, mister,” he said. “A guy ast me to give it to you.”

  It was a note, and in the boy’s pocket was a bright half dollar. His eyes were shining with the excitement of so much sudden wealth. Inspector Burks’s eyes shone, too.

  The note was brief, explicit in some spots, mystifying in others.

  “Darlington was murdered,” it said. “He did not commit suicide. Ask Rosa Carpita about the plane she hired under the name of Rollins, two nights ago. Ask her why she took the flight and what happened on it. And search the ventilators on top of the bank.” The inspector bent closer, staring intently. A faint “X” was visible at the bottom of the note—its only signature.

  But the “X” and the writing above it, like the strange whistle sounding through the night streets, grew steadily fainter as Burks watched, and finally faded away, leaving only the blank paper in his trembling hand.

  Ambassador of Doom

  A monster of evil came to the nation’s capital. A green-masked ambassador from Hell’s own legation, followed by a horrible horde versed in the poison torments of the Far East! Even the police who sought to trap him did not guess the ghastliness of his real motive. That remained for Secret Agent “X” to discover as he prowled through a dark and sinister labyrinth of Washington espionage.

  Chapter I

  Terror’s Weapon

  DARKNESS lay over Washington. Darkness that was a smothering black blanket ripped apart by sinister knife blades of lightning. A jagged streak empurpled the sky. It bathed the dome of the Capitol at the end of Pennsylvania Avenue. It etched the classic columns of the White House in lurid silhouette.

  Thunder rolled in like a savage war drum. When it died away, echoes raced across the Mall toward the distant ghostly spire of the Monument. Trees moaned in the night wind. Rain lashed the empty streets in chill torrents.

  The city seemed deserted. Its residents had taken refuge in their snug homes. They were ignorant of the strange, secret conference in session at the State, War and Navy Building. They were unaware of the nerve-racking tension that filled a locked and windowless room where seven men sat.

  Five of these men were United States senators. One was a cabinet member close to the President. The seventh was an army officer attached to General Staff.

  The army officer was concluding an amazing speech. He stared from face to face of the tense circle around him.

  “Let me repeat,” he said, “that the discovery of Doctor Browning’s just before his death was quite accidental. His life was given to the study of radioactive substances. He was an authority on radium, thorium, and uranium. It was a radium-induced cancer that sent him to an early grave. But the destructive possibilities of radioactivity didn’t concern him. He was interested only in its therapeutic effects.”

  The young officer paused, cleared his throat, and fingered the papers on the table before him.

  “When Doctor Browning sensed the sinister powers of the ray amplification mechanism he had built, he was profoundly shocked. To make sure that his fears had a basis in fact he tested the mechanism on animals. He found that it caused complete and permanent paralysis of all nerve centers. He found that it turned living things into horrible hulks with a bare spark of life still remaining. He found, moreover, that it was effective at a great distance. He was about to destroy it when he was stricken by death himself. Fortunately, the United States government saw fit to confiscate the mechanism and the blueprint plans.”

  The army officer sat down abruptly. In spite of the chill of the room, beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. He wiped them away and his hands shook nervously. A peal of thunder boomed far off on the horizon like deep-toned mocking laughter.

  The gray-haired cabinet member at the table’s head rose. For a moment he, too, stared at the five senators. Then he spoke in a voice that seemed unnaturally dry:

  “You’ve heard Captain Nelson’s testimony, gentlemen. You’ve heard reports and seen statistics showing what the mechanism of Browning’s can do. There’s no question, gentlemen, but that the United States has in its possession one of the most terrible offensive weapons on the face of the earth. A weapon, let me remind you, so ghastly, so inhuman, that it appears to be outside the pale of civilized warfare. The purpose of this meeting is to decide whether or not this weapon should be preserved or destroyed. What are your feelings in this matter, gentlemen?”

  FOR a moment there was silence punctuated only by the faint footfalls of the armed guard outside and the muffled rumble of the thunder. The senators were grappling mentally with the appalling horror of what they had heard. They were visioning armies going down under the force of an invisible ray. Visioning strong men being turned into paralyzed, corpselike wrecks; men speechless, motionless, yet still alive—legions of the living dead.

  White-haired, ruddy-faced Senator Blackwell, chairman of the committee, rose to his feet, fists clenched. He struck the table a terrific blow. His finely molded face was quivering with emotion.

  “It must be destroyed!” he cried. “Get rid of it for all time. Burn the plans, sink the machine into the deepest depths of the sea. I don’t care how you do it—but destroy it!”

  He sat down, breathing heavily. Three other senators—Dashman, Foulette, and Cobb, nodded instant agreement. But the fifth, Senator Haden Rathborne, a pale, saturnine man, shook his head. There was a fire in his eyes as he faced the others.

  “Gentlemen,” he said harshly, “I understand your feelings. But war is war—and the instruments of war must be effective. We have machine guns, explosives, poison gas. Why not a paralyzing ray?”

  Again Senator Blackwell became the spokesman for the others.

  “Why not?” he shouted. “Because, as we’ve just heard, it’s inhuman, ghastly. Because we know that paralysis is one of the most horrible things that can afflict a man. Because it is a fate we wouldn’t wish even upon our enemies.”

  Senator Rathborne jumped to his feet. The light in his eyes had become a living flame. He thrust his short-necked head forward, hunched his shoulders, and drew up his hands in a gesture of angry impatience.
His voice rose in sudden, fierce emphasis:

  “With war threatening in a dozen countries it is madness to destroy such a weapon. The interests of humanity? Very pretty, gentlemen—very pretty! But we have the interests of our own country to consider. If war should come we can’t afford to be white-livered and squeamish.”

  Senator Cobb entered the discussion now. A round-faced little man, immaculately dressed, he stabbed a shaking finger at Senator Rathborne.

  “Remember, sir,” he said hoarsely, “that civilian populations will suffer, too. You can’t prevent it. Do you care to contemplate women and aged non-combatants becoming paralytics? Do you care to picture thousands of innocent children made hopeless cripples for life?”

  Rathborne instantly gave answer, his whole lean body trembling with fanatical zest.

  “I’ve never sought popularity, Cobb,” he snarled. “I’m not a vote-snatching, favor-currying politician like some gentlemen I could name. I’m a man who speaks his mind. I advocate retaining and developing the Browning ray machine into an efficient weapon of war. In the next world conflict, the nation which inspires the greatest terror will win—the nation that breaks its opponent’s morale.”

  Cobb stood speechless, confused. It was Blackwell who addressed the meeting for the third time. His face looked apoplectic. He struck the table, threw his shoulders back, and spoke in a voice that made the walls ring.

  “Rubbish, Rathborne—utter rubbish!” he shouted. “It was Germany’s terroristic tactics—her submarines, her Zeppelins, her poison gas—that made the nations of the earth rise up to crush her in the World War! Countries will always combine to defeat a common enemy. Even if this were not so, the proud history of these United States wouldn’t allow us to stoop to the use of such a weapon. I move, gentlemen, that the Browning ray mechanism be destroyed for all time.”

  Senators Dashman, Foulette, and Cobb leaped to their feet, cheering Blackwell. The cabinet man joined them. Captain Nelson, looking relieved, nodded his approval.

  Only Senator Rathborne remained silent. His face wore the obstinate, sullen expression of a man who cannot accept defeat gracefully. But the motion was carried over his head. It was agreed by the senatorial committee that Doctor Browning’s hideous ray mechanism be destroyed.

  RATHBORNE was the first to leave the conference room. He placed his broad-brimmed hat on his head with a vicious slap. He stalked angrily from the building. The others made their exits in pairs.

  Rain lashed their faces. Wind pressed their garments to their bodies. But they didn’t mind the fierceness of the weather. They felt they had done a good night’s work. They thought they had settled an unpleasant problem. None of them guessed how soon the unseen spirit of horror was to stalk through the dark, deserted streets of Washington. None of them sensed that the lightning was like a demon’s winking eye and the thunder that followed it a peal of devilish, sardonic mirth.

  But a few minutes after they had left the committee room a human cry stark with agony sounded in the night. It rose piercingly above the mutter of the thunder, died away into a weird echo that whispered along the now deserted street.

  A patrolling cop two blocks away heard it. He turned alertly, staring into the murky gloom from beneath the dripping visor of his rubber-covered cap. The glistening black rubber of his cape swished wetly as he ran toward the spot from which the sound had issued.

  There was no one on the sidewalk. His flash beam probed areaways; and suddenly he stooped down.

  A sprawled, inert figure lay at his feet—a man. Under the glare of the electric torch, livid rivulets of crimson showed. They streaked the man’s cheeks, mingling with the rain, coming from a hideous wound in the left temple. The cop’s fingers groped hastily for the man’s pulse. There was no heartbeat. The man was dead.

  One shrill blast on the cop’s whistle summoned the patrolman on the next beat. Then he ran to the phone box on the corner.

  His call was relayed over many wires. It caused consternation in high circles. Hardly had the five senators reached their homes when a strange message was flashed to each.

  “The Secretary of War requests your presence immediately!”

  Wondering, filled now with a deep sense of foreboding, the senators responded. One by one their fast cars sped back along their tracks, and at the State, War and Navy Building they entered the same windowless room they had so recently left.

  The secretary greeted them silently, his face grave and strained. There were odd, haunting shadows of uneasiness in his eyes. Not until they were all assembled did he speak. Then he stared fixedly into the faces of the five senators seated before him. He licked his lips, fumbled a moment with his watch chain, cleared his throat noisily.

  “Gentlemen,” he snapped. “I have terrible news for you. You heard tonight the report that Captain Nelson gave us on the Browning ray mechanism. You heard what a devastating weapon it could become. You were shown the unpleasant statistics of experiments made on animals. Gentlemen, Captain Nelson has been murdered—the plans of the ray machine have been stolen!”

  Chapter II

  Shadows in the Night

  AT the moment this terrible news was being spoken, a fast sport roadster came to a screeching stop before the Army Air Corps base at Mitchell Field, Long Island.

  A tall man muffled in a heavy overcoat leaped from the car. There was a suitcase in his hand. He walked with quick strides through the field gate toward a two-place army plane warming on the deadline.

  Sparks from the throttled motor issued like a swarm of fireflies from the end of the hot exhaust stack. The pilot turned his head, nodding, as the tall man came up. He watched as the tall man climbed into the gunner’s cockpit. He listened for the snap of the safety belt, then bent over his controls.

  The plane tore down the field, leaped into the night sky in a roaring zoom of power. It banked, straightened out, and began to climb. Its destination was Bolling Field, Anacostia, D.C.

  The pilot had no idea as to the identity of the man riding behind. He was only obeying orders which had instructed him to wait for and pick up a passenger. If he thought at all, he supposed that the man was an embassy attaché or an important witness in some fresh financial scandal the Government was investigating. The pilot’s one concern was to see that the trip was made safely. It was a wicked night for flying.

  Only one or two people in the world knew the identity of the plane’s mysterious passenger. These few were pledged to secrecy and silence.

  In the passenger’s pocket was a telegram couched in secret government code. It was addressed to Elisha Pond, care of a bank in New York. It summoned him to Washington. Arrangements for the army plane had been made at the order of a high Government official.

  Tonight the mysterious passenger in the gunner’s seat was a man of destiny. His movements in the next few hours might influence the lives of thousands of people. They might conceivably influence the future of a nation.

  In appearance there was nothing extraordinary about the man. He was youngish, well built. He sat erectly in his seat, staring ahead into the dark night. The only odd thing about him was the intent, burning light in his eyes. This light seemed to indicate depths of intelligence, magnetism, and power.

  Yet, inconspicuous as the man’s features appeared, they held infinite mystery. For the face that showed was not his real one. The man was disguised, so cunningly that not even the sharpest eye could have detected a flaw. The man was, in fact, a master of disguise—a master of a thousand faces. The man was Secret Agent “X.”

  Who was Secret Agent “X”? For months past people had been asking that question. Criminals along the black byways of the underworld had asked it. They had learned to fear his name. Rumors had even spread behind prison walls, spread to the darkest and most evil dives. Gangsters had heard of Secret Agent “X.” Murderers had trembled at mention of him.

  The police forces of a dozen cities had asked to know who he was. Detectives had suspected him. He had been hunted as a criminal
. Crimes that he had never committed had been pinned on him until subsequent facts proved him guiltless. Yet no one could give an accurate description of him, for he never appeared twice alike. He was a man of a thousand faces—a thousand disguises—a thousand surprises. A man who was feared, hated, suspected, hunted. A man who guarded his identity as a precious secret.

  There was the snapping of excitement in Agent “X’s” eyes tonight. Under the cognomen of Elisha Pond, in care of the First National Bank, he had received many telegrams from Washington. They came from a high Government official whose identity was also a secret.

  Sometimes they asked that strange facts be unearthed. Sometimes they asked him to investigate mysterious crimes. But never before, since his perilous career as Agent “X” had begun, had he been summoned to the capital. Something unusual was in the wind. Some case of greater import than any he had ever tackled impended.

  Blood raced through the Agent’s pulses as the swift plane tore through the sky. Its whirling propeller sliced the sheets of rain. Lurid flashes of lightning began to show on the horizon. They shed a ghostly light on the wings; made the pilot ahead look like some crouching, helmeted monster.

  And the Agent watched the ship’s course with the eye of an expert. If anything should happen to the army flyer up front, Agent “X” was capable of flying the ship himself.

  They were following the shining ribbon of a straight double-tracked railroad. A fast passenger train showed beneath them. It was forging ahead at seventy miles an hour. But it seemed like a crawling, phosphorescent caterpillar as the army plane overtook it, and left it far behind.

  In less than two hours a searchlight beacon showed on the horizon. It swung rhythmically across the heavens in conflict with the lightning. Peering over the plane’s cowling, minutes later, Agent “X” saw the flood lights of a Government field below. He saw the Washington Monument on his left, saw the gleaming surface of the Potomac River.