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

by Paul Chadwick

  A groan came from the Agent’s lips. Horror pressed upon him. But the note was the last thing needed to drive him to a frenzy. He had seen the green-masked man’s tactics. He knew that even if he did drop the case and leave, Betty Dale would not be safe.

  His other hand was moving now. His legs were beginning to obey. He was fighting the battle of his life. Even before he could stand, he crawled toward the door through which Betty had been taken. It opened on a tiled porch with the lawn beyond.

  HE reached the door, thrust his head into the darkness. The chill of the night air helped him. He felt new life coming into his veins. Clutching the side of the door, he drew himself to his feet, stumbled out onto the lawn. Once he fell on his face, striking his head on the ground, but he was up in an instant.

  Through shrubbery he saw a glint of water and then he understood. Beyond the lawn was the river, and it was toward this that the dark-skinned men had gone. It was from the river that they had come.

  He crept forward toward the spot where the senator had a boat wharf, and he saw skulking figures ahead. There was a dark shadow at the right of the wharf. The figures merged suddenly with this. Then came the sound of a muffled engine. The dark shadow moved out.

  It was a boat, long and low to the water. It backed away from the wharf, turning in a half-circle. White foam, appeared under its bow. A white wake showed behind it. And the sight of it moving away spurred Agent “X” to fresh action.

  At the left of the wharf was another shadow. Senator Foulette himself was a yachtsman. “X” leaped along the wharf, eyes stabbing the darkness. Water lapped against a polished hull. A runabout was moored to the wharf, securely fastened with ropes.

  The Agent drew a knife from his pocket. No time to untie lines now. He slashed, freed the moored craft, and jumped down into it.

  Familiar with all types of engines, he slid into the padded seat up front. Then a harsh exclamation came from his lips. A locked ignition switch met his groping fingers and each second of time was precious. Face set, eyes burning, he fumbled under the seat, drawing out an engine wrench. He leaned forward over the rounded wind glass and smashed at the plywood deck. He struck at it like a man in a frenzy till the thin boards gave way. Then he tore at the wood with his bare hands and reached inside.

  Under the decking, in front of the instrument board, he found what he sought—the wiring of the ignition. He pulled two flexible cables out, joined their ends together and completed the circuit. As he did so his eyes strained off across the water. He could still hear the engine of the boat ahead.

  Then he pressed the starter, heard its muffled whine. He moved the spark forward, drew the throttle back, and his own engine broke into life. Afraid that its starting roar might be heard, he let it idle for a moment, backing slowly from the wharf.

  He eased the runabout’s nose around toward the white wake that the other boat had left. His eyes burned with a hot, tense light. His fingers pushed the throttle forward, and the boat he was in moved ahead.

  He followed the white wake that showed on the water. His eyes sought each bit of foam, each breaking bubble. He could no longer see the other boat. It had no lights. But he was following it, following Betty Dale. He swept on to where the river widened and the shores became less populated. On by salt marshes and tiny islands.

  IT was toward one of these, grass-grown and covered with dense shrubbery, that the wake of the boat ahead led. “X” cut his speed and crept along. A minute after he had done so he heard the engine roar of the other boat diminish in volume.

  He kept out of its wake now, afraid that his own craft would be seen as a black shadow in the foam. With his engine barely turning over, he nosed in near enough to see the other boat thrust between shrubbery that grew close to the water’s edge.

  Five hundred feet distant he circled the island. Caution was all that would save Betty now. Beyond the island the mainland showed. A channel separated the two. The Agent crossed this and brought his boat among the trees. To one of them he tied it, and slipped out of his coat and shoes.

  If there were eyes watching, he dared not take the boat to the island. It would be too great a risk—for Betty Dale. Instead he dropped over-side, silently as an otter. In long swift strokes he swam ahead, slowing when at last the thick vegetation of the island loomed up.

  Then his feet touched; he moved up to a narrow sandy shore. Bushes higher than his head grew here. He skirted them, moving along the beach until they thinned.

  His eyes were growing used to the faint light of the stars. He could see more plainly now, and as he pushed forward toward the island’s center the dark bulk of a building rose. It seemed a huge old barn.

  Then Agent “X” stopped dead in his tracks. A shadow rose before him. Green Mask was behind all this and Green Mask did not do things by halves.

  A Malay word was grunted at him. He answered in the same language; but what he said did not seem to be the right thing, for the shadow moved toward him inquiringly and “X” backed away.

  His muscles were tense as coiled springs. He knew that death was close at hand. But for Betty Dale’s sake he must not die. Deliberately he drew the man away from the building. If there were other guards “X” did not want them to hear.

  The Malay spoke again. “X” was almost at the water. He crouched behind a bush, waited, and the brown-skinned man came up slowly. Then abruptly, as though his eyes could penetrate the dark, the Malay turned and leaped. As he did so, he pulled something from his belt. A curved knife glittered wickedly in his hand.

  Chapter XIV

  Island of Terror

  THE man’s attack was like the death lunge of a hooded cobra. He struck for the Agent’s heart, seeking to bury the knife blade to its hilt; struck with the quick ferocity of some jungle creature to whom killing is a natural act.

  The Agent’s sidewise lurch was all that saved him. He saw the knife flash by, clutched the wrist that held it, and with his free hand gripped the Malay’s face, pressing his palm across the brown-skinned killer’s mouth. There must be no outcry. Any disturbance would cause a murderous horde to descend upon him.

  But the Malay was a cyclone of destructive fury. He twisted like a snake, tried to bury his teeth in the Agent’s hand, tried to wrench his own fingers loose and slide the knife along “X’s” straining neck.

  The Secret Agent’s fingers clamped like steel over the man’s jaw. They dug into his cheek, bent his head forward. But bushes cracked and rustled beneath their moving bodies. This sound, too, would bring disaster.

  “X” drew the Malay toward the water then, down the small, sloping beach into the chill river. The man tried once to cry out. But only a hissing grunt came. The Agent let his body sink, pulling the man in after him. He kicked his legs in powerful scissors strokes, pushing violently away from shore.

  The current caught them. They began to drift downstream. But the Malay was like a squirming, thrashing fish. He reared up, bringing his full weight down on “X,” forcing his head under. They sank below the surface together, fighting furiously.

  With a sudden vicious thrust, the Malay caught “X” in the stomach with a knee. Racking pain shot through the Agent’s body. For an instant his grip weakened, and in that instant the Malay broke away.

  In the black water “X” felt a slithering foot slide past. The brown-skinned man was rising to the surface to call for help. “X” clutched again, warding off the knife blow that swung down at him. A grim foreboding told him that this was to be a battle to the death.

  He clutched the man’s arm again, struck with his fist under water, felt his knuckles hit yielding flesh. But the water deadened the force of his blow. The Malay suddenly wrapped muscular legs about him. It was like being caught in the tentacles of an octopus. Breath bubbled from the Agent’s compressed lungs. Nothing seemed able to break the brown man’s viselike grip.

  “X” drew the Malay’s knife arm downward and held it, twisting slowly, turning the knife blade inwards.

  The Malay
’s body stiffened suddenly. For seconds “X” could not understand it, could not understand the strange shrinking movement the man had made. For the knife blade had barely touched his flesh. Then he felt the brown-skinned killer’s muscles growing lax. Strangely the man’s struggles were beginning to cease.

  They rose to the surface slowly. Then the Agent understood and horror gripped him. The knife blade had been poisoned. The Malay had been struck with his own venomous steel.

  The man was floating on his back now. A hoarse breath came through clenched teeth. He squirmed like a wounded fish, lay still. The man was dead.

  For a moment only, the Agent hesitated, then his face grew grim. A swift plan came to his mind. Under the dim starlight, close to the water, he stared at the dead Malay’s features. Here perhaps was his one hope of saving Betty Dale. But it was a plan so desperate that it seemed like a challenge hurled into the very face of death.

  Turning suddenly he began towing the corpse of the Malay toward the mainland’s shore. It was slow work against the river’s current. The bobbing head of the dead man behind him touched gruesomely against his back. But fear for Betty Dale overbalanced all else. These were not ordinary criminals. They seemed the spawn of some wild nightmare—a horror horde under the control of a ruthless fiend. They could not be combated in any ordinary way. The police could not help him. To tell them where the island hideout was, would, he felt sure, bring hideous disaster on Betty Dale. The green-masked devil would vent his fury upon her.

  HE reached the shore five hundred feet below the spot where he had moored his boat. Lifting the lifeless Malay to his shoulder, he carried the man through the sparse woods, laying him at last in the bottom of the boat. Then “X” cut loose and let the current drift the craft downstream.

  Not until the island was a half mile behind did he start the motor. Then he headed for the opposite shore, giving the island hideout a wide berth. His eyes were gleaming now. The plan he had conceived was built on desperation. Showing no lights, he sped back along the course he had come. His eyes strained across the dark water until he saw a small river town ahead.

  He passed it, tied his boat under the black shadow of a sandy bank, and walked away from the river. He was fighting not only for Betty Dale’s life, he was fighting for the safety of his country. If he did not conquer now, this green-masked killer would beat him in the final show-down.

  Without compunction then, the Agent acted swiftly. He must get the Malay to his own hideout. Wet and hatless, still in evening clothes, he knew that if a policeman saw him he would be held as a suspicious character. There would be questions, explanations, and time was vital. He prowled till he saw an auto stop before a house, waited till the owner got out, leaving the engine still running. In a second Agent “X” was behind the wheel, gliding off up the dark street.

  He stopped by the river, transferred the body of the Malay to the car, leaving Foulette’s speed boat still tied among the trees. He was helping himself to other people’s property tonight. But there was justification for everything he did.

  He sped along a road that edged the river, came at last to the suburbs of Washington, then to the city itself. The Malay’s body was slumped on the floor of the car. It would not be seen unless a policeman stopped him. That was a chance, too, he must take.

  But he reached his hideout safely where Michael Renfew was still his prisoner. He doubled the Malay’s body up, wrapped it in a lap robe, and took the outside way to the hideout he had hired—the dark fire escape where none would see.

  Once inside he set feverishly to work. There was no time to lose—not with Betty in the hands of the green-masked killer’s horde.

  All the artistry of the Man of a Thousand Faces would be needed in the thing he planned to do. For long moments he studied the dead Malay’s face, studied its contours and its color, noticed the man’s clothes. The man was wearing a cheap cloth suit. Then “X” began one of the most difficult disguises of his life.

  The high cheek bones were not hard to simulate. Strips of transparent adhesive pulling his own flesh did that. But the strange pigmentation gave him trouble.

  Stripped to the waist he rubbed brown liquid into his skin, covering his whole torso. He had been in the water once. He might have to swim again. The coloring fluid he used was waterproof. But he carried a vial of liquid that would take it off.

  IT was nearly an hour before his task was done; nearly an hour before Secret Agent “X” had turned himself into a brown-skinned savage. He found a suit in his own wardrobe like that the Malay wore. When he left at last, using the fire escape again, one of the green-masked murderer’s own men seemed to be emerging from that house.

  Swiftly the Agent got into the car that he had taken in the river town, and went back along the route he had come. Not all the way, however. His eyes grew alert. He wore dry clothes now. They must remain so. If he arrived on the island wet it would mean suspicion, exposure, and the end of his desperate plan. But he could not go in the motor boat. He must have some silent craft.

  He stopped at a place along the road where low-roofed buildings rose close to the river. They were dark, deserted, but the Agent walked quickly to them. Once again that night he helped himself—this time to a light canoe.

  He broke into a boat shed, took the frail craft out, launched it. He was no more than a mile from the island now. The river current was with him. It would be better this way than going in the stolen car. Motorcycle police were probably looking for its license plates even now.

  His pulses raced as the island loomed ahead. He sent the canoe forward under the swift thrust of his paddle. At the last he let it drift with the current.

  Silently as a shadow it bore him forward. The dark vegetation of the island loomed before his bow. He brought the canoe in, waited breathlessly, ready to leap at the slightest sound. But none came, except for the faint stir of branches in the night wind and the lapping of the water.

  The Agent was trembling as he set foot on land; trembling not for himself, but from the fear that filled him for Betty Dale. He drew the canoe up, turned his face toward the center of the island.

  Each foot he moved he half expected to feel the prick of a death dart, or see a man with a knife leap toward him. Would his desperate disguise work?

  The starlight shone through the branches on his brown-skinned face, revealing its Malaysian contours. His eyes probed the darkness ahead. Then he made a discovery. The building in the island’s center was no barn. It was an old storage warehouse, built at the time of the war, taken over now by a man who was a vicious enemy of society.

  A dark figure moved suddenly at “X’s” left. He waited, pulses hammering, felt eyes upon him. One of the Malay killers came slowly up. Then he saw others, coming in from different angles. And suddenly his body grew rigid. For out of the darkness ahead came the faint, mysterious note of a deep-toned gong. It seemed to be a signal, summoning the dread clan together, and Agent “X” moved forward—into the very citadel of terror.

  Chapter XV

  Green God of Death

  HIS pulses raced as he crept close to that great gloomy building. His daring disguise had worked so far. He had not been questioned. He had been accepted as one of this poisonous Malay horde. But what of the gong? What did it signify? And where was Betty Dale?

  There was one small door in the building ahead. Agent “X” entered this along with other of the brown-skinned men. A dim oil lamp burned at the end of a long passage. Boarding clattered underfoot, rousing ghostly echoes in this shadowed corridor. The odor of some strange incense deepened in the air as he neared the light ahead. Then the gong’s note sounded once more, closer this time, and the faces of the Malays around him seemed to change. They contracted into masklike immobility, eyes glittering strangely, heads stiffly held.

  There was a doorway to the right of the dim lamp. One of the brown men opened this. A heavy curtain showed, with the glint of more light beyond.

  Before entering this curtained chamber the
Malay lifted a mask of carved wood from a peg and placed it over his features. These were the masks the torturers had worn when Saunders had been slain. They hung like grinning skulls upon the wall. Agent “X” took his.

  Then the man ahead thrust the curtain aside. Agent “X” followed him, and felt a sudden pulse-beat of excitement.

  In those few steps along that dark corridor and through this curtained doorway, he seemed to have been transported to a world fantastic as a nightmare. It seemed impossible that he was within a few miles of Washington, D.C., America’s capital.

  For the scene before him was barbaric, amazing. The room, one of the ground-floor chambers of the old warehouse, was hung with the skins of animals and bright, Oriental tapestries.

  Oil lights flamed and flickered around the walls. At the end of the big room, on some sort of wooden base, a hideous idol rose grotesquely. From its flaring nostrils streams of incense vapor rolled in slow spirals to the ceiling, as though the idol were breathing fire. It had huge, batlike ears, a long nose, wide-open, staring eyes.

  Before it was an altar made of a slab of stone, and upon this a live sheep was tied. The note of the gong sounded again, muffled, mysterious, seeming to come from the idol’s very mouth.

  The Malays, moving forward in the manner of sleepwalkers now, arranged themselves before the idol in a worshipful semicircle. There was a pungent odor mixed with the incense. Agent “X” recognized it as Bhang, or hashish. The leader of the Malay group passed cigarettes filled with the same drug. The men began to smoke, their eyes glazing as they puffed.