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

by Paul Chadwick

  The frightened sheep at the altar let out one quavering baaa. In that high-ceilinged room echoes came back like a fiend’s insane laughter.

  Then suddenly the Malays commenced to chant. A strange, barbaric, age-old song of the jungle—a devil song that the high priests or bomors of Kelantan had handed down from father to son through the centuries. Brown arms and bodies swayed; the pulse-beat of savage rhythm rippled muscles like serpents’ coils.

  Agent “X,” drawing sparingly on the hashish cigarette that had been handed him, watched the ceremony tensely behind his mask. The Malays seemed to be working themselves up to a pitch of ecstasy. Their chant rose in volume. Suddenly, at its height, the gong sounded still again, and the chanting ended in a long-drawn sigh. Then they prostrated themselves, arms stretched out, heads on the floor, and “X” from the corner of his eye saw why.

  A trapdoor opened beside the idol. A tall figure appeared. A man with a weird headdress, ornamented with green plumes, and a robe of the same hue. A man with a mask more hideously wrought than any of the others.

  He mounted a flight of steps slowly, seeming to rise out of the very earth, and not until he had reached the altar before the idol, did the Malays lift their heads. They gazed raptly then. The masked bomor addressed the evil spirits, turning first to the hideous idol, then to the men before him, then to the tethered sheep. Again the animal bleated, pulling back with braced hoofs against the rope that held it.

  The bomor spoke in words that Agent “X” could understand.

  “You have done well, O men of Kelantan,” he intoned. “The great god, Tuan, is pleased. You have taken jewels from the white devils. You have laid them at the feet of Tuan. You have killed white devils, and this also pleases Tuan. Soon we shall take a boat across the water. Soon we shall return Tuan to his native land and he will reward you for the precious things you have so graciously laid at his feet.”

  The green-robed priest then walked slowly toward the idol, lifting a cloth pouch from his belt. He thrust his hand into this, drew forth a glittering collection of jewels, and solemnly dropped them at the idol’s feet. A few sparkling necklaces he slipped over the idol’s upraised arms.

  THE Malays around “X” chanted again, strange words that formed a jewel song. The eyes of Agent “X” gleamed behind his mask. Here, apparently, were the jewels stolen in Washington over a period of weeks.

  His eyes riveted once more on the high priest. The man’s mask hid his face, but Agent “X” was certain that this was the one who had ordered Saunders’ death, the man who had killed Peters—and captured Betty Dale.

  When the green-masked priest had finished decorating the idol, he turned and walked toward the tethered sheep. The creature was to be a living sacrifice. A strange chill of horror filled Agent “X” as the bomor stood above the animal, knife gleaming in his hand.

  The song of the Malays to their devil god rose again, pulsed in the incense-heavy air with the slow, insistent beat of jungle tom-toms. At intervals the bomor’s hollow voice gave answer to the chorus.

  The frightened sheep repeated its trembling cry, but was silenced by a thrust of the high priest’s knife. Briefly it struggled, then lay still. Crimson from its slashed throat stained the altar stone.

  The ghastly ceremony was completed. Leaving the idol still glittering with jewels, the green-masked bomor backed slowly away. As he did so he committed the slain sheep into the hands of the Malays. The earth seemed to open up and swallow him. He disappeared as he had come—through the hidden trapdoor. The hideous idol had taken the sheep’s soul. Its worshipers had been given the animal’s flesh.

  But the brown men were still under the influence of hashish. For nearly an hour they chanted. “X” had to remain. His thoughts were with Betty Dale—but to break that strange half-circle would have meant rousing suspicion.

  AT last the chanting ended. The Malays rose, “X” among them. Each went first to the idol, bowed down, fingered the jewels. Agent “X” followed the example of the others, but when his turn came to bow he stared keenly at the glittering heap before him. Then he caught his breath, bent forward sharply.

  These jewels were not real! They were cleverly made paste imitations. The green-masked high priest was tricking his followers, keeping the real gems himself.

  The Malays seized the dead sheep then. They carried it out of the chamber into another smaller room. Here they removed their masks. Their faces no longer showed the rapture of devil-worshiping fanatics. They looked with brutish appetite on the sheep, and drawing knives from the wall they began cutting it up.

  On a huge charcoal brazier they roasted the pieces and ate with savage gusto. Here were men who had been taught by their master to wear European clothes, but they were still savages at heart. There was something horrible about their ravenous, smacking greed as they fell upon the sheep. Again, as when they had snatched the jewels that evening, they reminded “X” of hungry vultures. But now the flesh they ate was real.

  One by one they began to nod drowsily after eating. The hashish was still heavy in their blood. Their heads nodded. Sleep overcame them, stretched them out on the floor.

  It was then that “X” rose and slipped from the room, ready to risk death to find Betty Dale. He knew that he hadn’t long. These men, closely resembling animals, would sleep like animals. In a short time they would waken. Any unusual sound would rouse them now.

  Agent “X” stole into the room where the idol was. He examined the jewels for a moment, verifying what he had glimpsed. They were every one paste. He found the trapdoor through which the bomor had disappeared, tried to lift it. It was fastened on the under side. It must lead to some secret passage. The followers of the green devil god had probably never seen their bomor’s face.

  Agent “X” hunted for another door. But there was none in this room. He went back into the smoky corridor where they had first entered. Here, a door led into another passageway.

  Silent, tense, he began systematically searching every room of the old warehouse. He came upon one filled with rusty machinery, relics of the World War. Then at last he saw a faint light ahead.

  He moved forward more stealthily still, pushed open a door, and caught his breath.

  The light came from a smoky lamp. In its gleam a girl sat upright in a rickety old desk chair, bound hand and foot. It was Betty Dale, and at the same moment he saw her, her eyes riveted upon him and dilated with fright. Before he could stop her, or indicate who he was, her lips opened and she gave a piercing scream that echoed startlingly through the whole great building.

  Chapter XVI

  The Idol’s Victim

  AGENT “X” leaped forward tensely, and as he did so he made motions in the air, indicating the letter X. He put a finger on his lips for silence.

  Betty Dale’s face turned white as death. A great trembling seized her. She stared at the man before her with amazement. Agent “X” had come to her in many disguises, but never one seemingly as impossible as this. Her lips framed words, words that were almost a moan.

  “My God—it can’t be! It can’t be!”

  “It is, Betty!” The Agent’s voice was low, vibrant. He knew what catastrophe that one scream of hers might cause. She, too, realized. Her eyes held infinite remorse.

  “I didn’t mean to—I was frightened. I thought—”

  “I understand, Betty!”

  The Agent drew a knife from his pocket, stepped forward, then paused. He was about to sever the ropes that held her. But quavers of her scream still echoed. A confused hubbub followed it. His worst fears had been realized.

  “They are coming,” Betty said hoarsely. “Go quickly—before they find you here.”

  The Agent meditated. He wasn’t afraid for himself. Long ago he had cast out fear. But Betty’s life depended on his own actions. If the green mask fiend discovered his real identity, Betty would pay for it in a way too ghastly to contemplate. If he freed her now there would be questions.

  His mind worked swiftly. The hu
bbub in the building had grown silent now. The silence was ominous. He knew that sinister forms were running through dark chambers and corridors toward them. He came close, spoke hoarsely.

  “They must not learn who I am, Betty. Everything depends on that. Scream! Scream again!”

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered brokenly.

  “You will. It is too late to try to escape now. Scream, Betty—now! It is the only way.”

  The Agent’s orders were as law to Betty Dale. She trusted him. He had never failed her yet. She didn’t know what desperate plan he contemplated. But she screamed again loudly. The Agent raised his hands above her as though to clamp strangling fingers around her white neck.

  “Again!” he commanded. “Scream!”

  A second piercing cry tore from her lips. The brown men heard it. They plunged through the door, knives gleaming in their hands. They paused, animal faces intent on Betty Dale, who crouched as though in fear of the man before her. The Agent lowered his clawlike hands, cringed back, and stared at them.

  The man who was their leader, next to the green-masked bomor, advanced.

  “What is this?” he demanded in Malay.

  The Agent did not answer. He made his body tremble. He did not meet the headman’s eye. Betty’s life depended on his acting now. He seemed a cringing Malay, caught where he should not have been found. When at last he spoke it was hoarsely, and Betty Dale started as the strange Malay words came from his lips—words unintelligible to her.

  “This girl is one of the white devils,” said Agent “X.” “I was going to kill her.”

  The headman looked at him sternly, doubtingly.

  “Did not the great bomor say she was to be left alone?”

  Agent “X” hung his head. The other continued.

  “It was because of her beauty that you came here. Do not lie. You have gone against the vows of Tuan. You have sought the company of a white devil woman. You have sought company of one who is taboo.”

  A fanatical light glittered in the headman’s eyes. He lifted bony hands toward the ceiling.

  “Tuan, here is one who has broken his word to thee. Here is a foolish one who must be punished.”

  BETTY DALE’S eyes sought those of the Agent. Words trembled on her lips. He silenced her with a movement of his hand behind his back. The Malay headman came forward, seizing Agent “X” by the arm.

  “Come,” he said. “Leave the chamber of this white devil woman. It is for our bomor to make the decision of what shall be done with her. When the time comes to dispose of her, he will so order it. She will suffer—but the hour is not come. It is you who must suffer now. It is you who must die first.”

  Die! The Agent was glad Betty could not understand. Her fear for him might have made her forget. She might have cried out. He walked quickly to the headman’s side. He bowed his face.

  “I come,” he said. “I yield to Tuan’s will.”

  He dared not give even a backward glance at Betty. His heart was pounding fast. He would rather die than have them learn he was not what he seemed. If that should happen, their fanatical, idol-worshiping fury would include the girl.

  They led him back along the way he had come. The Malays around him set up a slow and terrible chant.

  “The wrath of Tuan is mighty! O great is the strength of Tuan! Swift is the punishment of Tuan!”

  The light of fanaticism spread to their faces, also. Barbarians under the skin, emotion swayed them. This man had broken his vow to the hideous green idol. This man must die. Agent “X” sensed the cruelty of innate sadism in their voices and expressions.

  They drew the curtains aside, put on their masks again, and entered the chamber of Tuan. The great squat idol stared down, nostrils seeming to flare in derision. Its eyes glared as mercilessly as its human followers.

  The voice of the headman came again harshly.

  “Our bomor has gone back into the earth from whence he comes. We cannot summon him now. We cannot wait. It is the law that those who break their vows to Tuan shall meet swift punishment. The bomor would want it so if he were here. A faithful servant of Tuan shall see that the law is carried out.”

  There was human ardor in the headman’s voice now. Here was a chance to act with the bomor away. Here was a chance to assert his own authority over the followers of Tuan, and to placate the idol as well. He made a sudden, imperious gesture. Agent “X” was seized. Before he could resist he was thrown on his face by four of the green-masked men. He heard the headman’s voice again.

  “Bring cord, O followers of Tuan!”

  Tentatively, the Agent struggled. But he saw the hopelessness of that. Knives were pressed against his back. The headman’s voice addressed him harshly.

  “Act wisely and your death shall be slow. There will be time to make your peace with Tuan. Your cries will please him. But be a fool and you shall die by the knife swiftly, like a sheep that is slaughtered. You shall be cast among the lowest devils.”

  Agent “X” lay still. But he made his muscles expand rigidly as they bound him; and he held them so, even though the Malays tightened the cords until they bruised and broke the skin. He held them rigid until his body was cold with sweat which his captors took for the sweat of fear.

  Four of them lifted him to the altar stone before the grinning idol—the smeared slab on which the sheep had died. It was cold and wet with the animal’s blood. The Agent’s flesh recoiled from the contact. The headman’s next command came harsher still.

  “The claw,” he said. “Bring that and the dust of Kep-shak. It shall be spread thinly that the man may suffer long.”

  A Malay left the group. The others crowded closer. Brown hands ripped the clothes from Agent “X’s” chest and arms. His heart stood still. Would his dyed skin betray him? Would it stand the test? That for the moment worried him more than the threat of the terrible Kep-shak.

  He did not wince when the claw-like implement was drawn across his skin, leaving its long crimson scratches. The Malays began to chant again. Weirdly their voices rose into the high-ceiled room. The headman led the macabre chorus, lifting arms toward the idol that stared down with glassy eyes.

  “O Tuan, Great One. One who has broken faith with thee is now to die. Let his screams fall upon your ears. Let his groans make penance for the wrong he has done. Do not blame his sin upon those who have kept the faith.”

  The headman himself took the metal box that contained the Kep-shak. He reached with clawlike fingers into it, withdrew a pinch of the grayish powder. There was a gloating light in his eyes, the lust of one to whom cruelty is natural. The other Malays stood tensely watching. Then the headman reached forward, raised his hands.

  “Behold, O Mighty Tuan—the pollen of the flower of pain now falls upon the guilty.”

  He opened wide his fingers, let the gray powder drift down onto Agent “X’s” skin and rubbed it into the scratches with a sudden vicious sweep of his hand.

  Chapter XVII

  The Idol’s Wrath

  THE tiny abrasions became like raw and throbbing wounds. A burning brand seemed to have been laid on them. Pain leaped along the Agent’s nerves. Pain reached into his body with twisting fingers of red torment.

  As through a haze he saw the hideous idol and the faces of the Malays gathered round. The men set up a low chant. Their voices rose and fell, seeming to blend with the pulsing waves of agony that made a cold sweat bathe the Agent’s face.

  He clenched his teeth, determined to stay silent. Then suddenly he changed his mind. They wanted him to suffer. They wanted him to suffer visibly. If he did not it would only bring more of the dread powder, diminishing his chances of escape.

  He let a groan roll from his lips. The headman’s eyes glowed evilly. The Malay’s chant rose higher.

  “Tuan, O Mighty One! Just punishment has come to him who wronged thee. Behold how he cries out in pain!”

  The Agent groaned again, writhing in his bonds, gambling with hideous death, suffering agony that th
ey might not learn who he was.

  For seconds, while the grayish powder burned into his flesh, he turned and twisted, acting as he thought a Malay would. These brown men didn’t know with whom they dealt. They didn’t realize the Spartan courage of their victim.

  At last “X” lay still; breath whistled between clenched teeth. The brown men nodded, as though pleased. The headman again addressed the idol.

  “He is weak, O Tuan. It will not be long before the Kep-shak has done its work. It will not be long before thou art avenged.”

  Agent “X” remained as if nearly dead, as if the astringent poison had already conquered his will. He let his mouth hang open, rolled his eyes.

  Then his pulses leaped. The brown-faced men were moving toward the door. They thought him far gone now. They were going to leave him to suffer his last agonies alone, let the Kep-shak finish its deadly work. It was on this he had gambled. On it he had built a desperate hope. It was why he had chosen torture rather than death by the knife.

  He watched the brown-skinned men withdraw. Pain racked his body. The sweat on his forehead was real enough. Blood beat in his temples like cruel hammer blows. The Kep-shak was seeping slowly into his bloodstream. A few minutes more and it would be too late. The powder had been sprinkled thinly, his torture slow, but human flesh and human will could not endure it long. He thought of Saunders, fettered and dying; of Peters, stretched dead on the floor of his cottage. Soon his own face would be like theirs.

  But the Malays were going back to their sleep, back to their savage hashish dreams. “X” waited until their low-voiced chanting faded away.

  Then he moved again. Not in pain-constricted jerkings such as he had allowed himself for the benefit of his torturers, but purposefully. Slowly he drew his right hand from the rope that seemed to press tightly into his flesh. The Agent had used a well-known trick.

  By stiffening his muscles, holding them rigid when they bound him, he had increased the diameter of arms and legs. Now, as he relaxed them, they slipped back to normal size. But escaping from his bonds was not the most desperate part of his battle. That was the battle between the poison and his own iron will. A battle once more of flesh against spirit. For his limbs were growing numb. Pain wrenched his muscles.