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

by Paul Chadwick

  The place was in good order, but something on the rug caught his eye. A dark, sinister spot that was crimson, and still damp.

  He examined the rug carefully, eyes brightly alert. Another spot of crimson showed near the hall entrance. He passed across it, opened the door of a guest room, entered.

  The bed there hadn’t been used, either. The room was spotlessly neat. But he noticed a slight roughed-up place on the carpet. Beyond this was the door of a clothes closet. The Agent moved forward, touching the knob. It was locked.

  With suddenly tense fingers, Agent “X” removed his compact tool kit again. He selected a steel implement to suit, forced the lock, and pulled the door open. Then he gave a sudden hissing exclamation.

  A huddled figure lay on the floor of the closet. A white face with glassy eyes stared up at him above a crimson-stained shirt front. The face was that of Karl Hummel, alias Otto von Helvig, ex-Prussian spy and embassy attaché. One glance at his still, marble-pale features showed Agent “X” that he was dead.

  Chapter XX

  A Live Corpse

  HERE was a turn of events as unexpected as a sudden blow in the dark. The Agent was staggered.

  For tense seconds he stared down at Karl Hummel. One of Europe’s most cunning spies lay at “X’s” feet—dead. A man who had served his country during four years of bloody strife, outwitting many opponents, winning many triumphs. A man who had played the desperate game of espionage with all the strength of mind and body. And now, in time of supposed peace, he had succumbed to a criminal too terrible for him to cope with.

  For a moment Agent “X” forgot Karl Hummel’s ruthless past—and saw him only as a victim of their common enemy. He felt a touch of sentiment for this brilliant old-time adversary of his, who had rolled the dice—and lost. Then he stooped and lifted Hummel up.

  Stretching the dead man on the floor, he went through his pockets with swift thoroughness. Careful examination of a wallet in Hummel’s pocket disclosed a sheaf of bills, a few calling cards. “X” tossed these impatiently aside, then felt through the dead man’s vest. He paused to scrutinize another card. This bore the name of an undertaking firm—David Daniels & Son. Unimportant, it seemed—or was it? The Agent stared at it for tense seconds.

  There was gruesome irony in finding a mortician’s card in a dead man’s pocket. But there was no amusement in the Agent’s keen eyes. The murder of Ferris Blackwell, the kidnapping of Suzanne, had sent his mind leaping to conclusions which had been right. Now a macabre hunch was building itself about this bit of pasteboard in his fingers.

  He left Hummel stretched out on the floor and went back into the hallway where a telephone stood on a small table. He dialed quickly, reading the undertaker’s number from the card. It was after two in the morning—but undertakers keep all-night phones. They expect calls at any hour. Death does not wait upon human convenience.

  A voice answered at once. Agent “X” spoke cautiously.

  “Von Helvig speaking. You delivered a casket this evening, I believe.”

  Silence for a moment, then: “Yes—the delivery was made about nine o’clock—a hurry call. But Von Helvig wasn’t the name. There must be some mistake.”

  “What was the name?”

  There was another silence before the voice spoke again: “Hummel.”

  The Agent’s body stiffened. His fingers gripped the receiver tightly. This must mean that Lili knew the spy by his real name.

  “Karl Hummel?”

  “Right.”

  “My mistake. The same party wants some flowers. There’s been a mix-up. Will you please give me the address?”

  “It’s out in the suburbs,” answered the voice. “But they’ve gone. They wanted to ship a body tonight. That’s why we had to rush the order through.”

  “You did the embalming, too, I suppose?”

  “No, another undertaker did that. We delivered the casket and called later to make shipment. They left by the Congressional Express.”

  “Thanks! I’ve got to catch them if I can.”

  The Agent’s voice was quiet. But his fingers trembled as they replaced the receiver of the phone.

  Karl Hummel, alias von Helvig—the man who lay dead in the next room! A casket quickly bought and shipped by train. The Congressional Express. These were new and sinister angles in a mystery already bafflingly black.

  Agent “X” looked at his watch. Already that train was miles away, speeding northward over night-shrouded rails. There wasn’t time to catch it by car!

  “X” picked up the telephone again. The number he called this time was listed in no book, but at last a deep voice answered—the voice of the man known to the Agent as “K9.”

  Briefly Agent “X” made a strange request. Then he plunged to the street and sent his roadster leaping from the curb.

  Minutes later he braked savagely before the gates of Bolling Field. An air beacon still shone, but the field’s hangars were dark—all except one. Here sleepy-eyed mechanics were rolling out a ship. A two-place attack plane, high-powered, swift, dual-controlled. As mechanics whirled the prop a man slipped a flying helmet over his head—one of the army’s crack pilots.

  He peered curiously as the man called Captain Stewart Black approached. Respect showed in his eyes when he recognised the insignia of General Staff. He saluted.

  AGENT “X” scrutinized intently the man who was to fly his plane. “K9” had promised him a special pilot. This man who stood before him was Lieutenant Draper, an instructor in aerial acrobatics, a racer and dare-devil flyer. Here was a pilot as expert as the Agent himself.

  “X” touched his arm.

  “I’ve got to catch a train, lieutenant. The Congressional Express, on the Pennsylvania line. I want you to overtake her and land me.”

  “Where?”

  “On her.”

  Draper’s face expressed amazement.

  “You want me to land you—where?”

  “On the train, I said. When you spot her, nose down and straighten out. I’ll manage the rest”

  “You mean you’re going to transfer?”

  “Exactly!”

  Shaking his head doubtfully, but apparently realizing that it was no use opposing the will of his superior, the pilot climbed into the rear cockpit. He let the ship warm five minutes more. The life of a captain on General Staff might be on his hands tonight.

  The swift ship zoomed up off the field and climbed like a rocket. Agent “X” slipped goggles over his eyes. His pulses seemed to beat to the radial engine’s roar. He knew the pilot thought him insane. But Draper could be trusted to do his stuff.

  They wheeled over the city, headed northward, and picked up the line of the railroad within ten minutes. At twice the train’s speed the fast ship forged ahead. Mile after mile through the black night sky.

  It was Agent “X” who spotted the Congressional Express first. There was a cut through the hills. He caught the glint of lighted windows, like a string of brilliants snaking along the earth. He turned his head and signaled the pilot behind him, motioning downward with one hand.

  Draper’s face was white. But he obeyed instructions, diminishing altitude sharply and leveling.

  The Agent rose in the cockpit, the windblast striking his body with the slapping violence of a huge palm. He stood poised until he grew accustomed to its thrust, then threw one leg over the side and stepped out on a wing. A tense calmness directed his movements—the calmness of a man who knows the safety of his country depends upon the success of his desperate plan.

  He grasped the sharp struts firmly, slipped backwards and groped downward with his feet. His toes found the plane’s landing carriage. He climbed down, twisting his body around the strong steel rods. Six feet ahead the propeller cut like a gigantic scythe, death in its whirling blades.

  The wind blast tore at him as the plane nosed down again. The ground billowed up. Lieutenant Draper, wild though he considered the attempt, was doing his stuff. He would have something to tell his buddi
es about, though they would undoubtedly think he was lying. His face was white as he bent over the controls, brought the plane down slowly, throttled the engine.

  Plainly visible now, the train was almost directly below them. A rushing serpent in the darkness, with a brown top and a hundred fiery eyes glowing in its sides. It was toward that brown top that Lieutenant Draper flew, dropping the plane’s nose gradually, expertly.

  Agent “X” clung to the landing gear, waiting tensely. Not till the train had rounded the curve and was on a long straightaway did Draper try to get close. Then he dropped altitude swiftly, leveled out a hundred feet above the train. It was a roaring monster now, flashing through the darkness at eighty miles an hour. Draper cut his own speed to match it, held steady.

  Then, foot by foot, the plane seemed to drift down toward that gliding brown-backed serpent. Lieutenant Draper was peering over the side, goggled head thrust out, hands steady on the sensitively responsive controls. The train’s top crawled slowly back. A strong wind at their tail was making it difficult to synchronize speed.

  A GRIM smile twisted the Agent’s lips. One slip—and it would mean death and the end. He must not fail now. He must wait till that backward motion of the train ceased. Fields, trees, dark houses fled beneath them. Draper came lower still until the ship’s air wheels seemed almost to touch a car’s top. And now the train appeared to be standing still. Its speed and the plane’s were matched. The moment had arrived.

  Eyes steely bright, the Agent opened his fingers and dropped. For a second he seemed to hang in space between the roar above and below him. Then, on hands and knees he struck the roof of a car. He slid. The rushing wind pushed at him with hostile strength. For an instant he was helpless in its grip, nearly swept from the surface of the speeding train. Then his fingers caught in a ventilator opening, curled in a viselike grip. He was safe.

  He crouched, looked up at the climbing plane. Lieutenant Draper’s goggled head peered over the side. His hand lifted in salute. Then the ship soared upward like a bird and vanished into the aerial blackness.

  Secure, steady now, Agent “X” crawled forward along the top of the swaying car. He covered two Pullmans, a string of day coaches, came at last to the baggage car which was coupled to the tender. Steam and smoke from the big locomotive belched in his face, raining gritty cinders.

  Thankful for the night darkness that hid him from the engineer up front, Agent “X” prepared for the dangerous maneuver that faced him. He must get from the roof of the baggage car to its forward end. Here was his only means of entering the car. Its rear was coupled with a closed-in hood to the express car behind.

  He steadied himself for an instant on the swaying roof, near the front then sprang to the tender, grasping the ladder attached to its end. His pulses were hammering fast. This mad evening’s work was drawing to a climax. The jar and rattle of the plunging train made opening the locked door of the baggage car difficult. But finally he accomplished it, and a moment later was inside.

  In the comparative quiet within the baggage car, a dim light burned. Trunks and suitcases were stacked along its sides. The Agent’s keen eyes probed. Then he started. A chill prickled along his spine. He had found the thing he sought—a coffin. But there was more than one. There were four!

  “X” walked to them. Long, low, the four pine boxes held their cargo of the dead. Four bodies being shipped back to their homes. The Agent did a strange thing. Stepping back, he reached into his pocket. Certain things were always on his person—implements that aided him in his arduous work as hunter of criminals. Now he drew forth what seemed to be a small pocket camera.

  HIS mind was working swiftly now. A wild theory had evolved in his brain. The coffin ordered by von Helvig, under the name of Karl Hummel, lay at his feet. One of the four pine boxes held that coffin. But which one?

  Everything depended upon his find-out. If his theories were right, the coffin held a key to the whole mystery. He fingered the thing in his hands, drew a black cord from it with a circular disc at the end. This contrivance was not a camera, but one of the smallest, most sensitive sound amplifiers in the world. The disc at the end of the cord was a tiny microphone.

  The instrument had aided him many times, but never had he put it to such a strange use.

  Kneeling on the car’s floor. Agent “X” placed the amplifier’s disc on the nearest coffin top. The box containing the small dry batteries and the receiver was against his ear. He crouched like a ghoul, listening—listening for the heartbeats of the dead.

  The roar of the train was a Niagara of sound. “X” turned the delicate rheostat dials, adjusting for selectivity. He heard the rumble of the wheels, the couplings scrape, but no other sound. The occupant of that coffin would be forever still.

  Sweat beaded the Agent’s forehead. This was gruesome work, and fear gnawed at his heart—fear that he was perhaps too late—or that he had been wrong in his deductions. He passed to the next coffin. But his listening brought the same result.

  His hands trembled slightly as he approached the third. He lowered the disc of his microphone, moved the dials. His amplifier was like a stethoscope now, and a sudden intense light brightened the Agent’s eyes.

  Out of this wrapping of the dead came a living sound—the slow, regular beat of a human heart! A live person was in that gruesome box.

  Swiftly the Agent straightened, thrust his instrument away. He walked to the front of the car. No one in sight. But the coffin was marked for unloading at Baltimore. And Baltimore was only a few minutes away! He must work quickly!

  His tool kit disgorged a hacksaw of thinnest razor steel. With this he cut the nailheads in the outer box. He lifted the board free. Screws in the coffin’s top came next. Then he raised the lid and in the dim light stared down tensely.

  A girl lay inside the coffin. She was inert, colorless. But her features did not show the marble rigidity of death. Her breath came with slow regularity. It was the unconscious form of Suzanne Blackwell.

  QUICKLY Agent “X” lifted her from the coffin. He shook her gently, but she did not rouse. She was like a person under the influence of an anesthetic. Obviously she had been drugged. “X” rubbed her wrists and hands; he took a tiny hypo needle from his pocket and plunged it into her white arm. It contained a powerful stimulant—one of the Agent’s many secrets.

  A minute passed—two. Then faint color began to show in Suzanne Blackwell’s cheeks. Agent “X’s” probing finger detected a quickening of her pulse. It was as though he had worked a miracle in the dimly lighted baggage car; brought a corpse back to life.

  At last Suzanne opened her eyes, as “X” held her in his arms. He spoke gently, reassuringly, but the girl opened her mouth to scream. Awakened from her deep drugged slumber, she was like one roused from a nightmare.

  “Don’t,” he said. “Be quiet, Miss Blackwell. You are safe.”

  His hand covered her soft lips momentarily. Then he saw intelligence dawn in her dilated eyes. She stared up at him.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “It’s all right now.”

  “Who are you?”

  “A friend—a friend of Betty Dale’s. You’ve had a terrible experience, but you’re all right now.”

  “Where am I? What has happened?”

  “You’re on a train. You were—in this.”

  Suzanne followed his gesture, gasped shudderingly.

  “A coffin! Oh—”

  “Listen!” “X” said tensely. “Criminals did this. They must be caught and punished. You can help me. Will you?”

  She eyed him doubtfully, terror still in her eyes.

  “Yes—if you are a friend of Betty’s—”

  She could stand now, and her mind was fully awake. But she recoiled as her eyes discovered the other coffins.

  “This is horrible,” she whispered. “It will haunt me—always.”

  “It is horrible,” “X” said quietly. “But you will forget.”

  He got into the empty coffin himself, und
er the girl’s amazed eyes. The train would soon be coming into Baltimore. There the coffin would be unloaded—and Agent “X” wanted to go with it. He must find out its destination. The fact that Suzanne had not been killed proved that she was being held as hostage in case of police pursuit.

  He gave her quick instructions.

  “Close the coffin. Then stay out of sight. Wait here in the baggage car or hide outside the end door if necessary. Get off when the train stops and run forward beyond the engine. Don’t let anyone see you. You might be taken prisoner again. Is it clear?”

  “Yes,” the frightened girl whispered. “It is clear.”

  The coffin’s lid came slowly down over Agent “X.” It was a big casket, meant for a larger person than Suzanne. “X” had plenty of room. And he would not have long to wait. Baltimore was only fifteen minutes away.

  In the close darkness, vibrating with the rumble of the train, the Agent lay, his brain racing. If Suzanne did her part, all would be well. If not—but that possibility he refused even to consider. This last move had been a desperate one. But he could get out of the coffin whenever he wanted to. He had made sure of that. Only a few of the coffin’s screws had been replaced. They were sawed nearly through. The boarding of the pine box would be easy to lift.

  But the air inside was strangely close. A faint odor came from the lining pressed against his face. He turned his head sidewise, breathing lightly in order to conserve the oxygen.

  Minutes dragged by. The air grew more and more oppressive. It made him giddy. He fought against it, but he seemed to be back on Lieutenant Draper’s plane. He seemed to feel its lurch and sway.

  Five minutes passed. Ten. The train was slowing down. Agent “X” felt drowsy now. He shook himself sharply, then tensed as air brakes hissed and a shudder jarred the train. He listened, identifying each sound.