The Agent kept talking and ignoring the DOAC’s protests. The man was convinced that “X” was a government detective who had mistaken him for a counterfeiter and confidence man. Outside, the Agent piled the representative into a taxi, and gave the driver the address of his hideout.
When the DOAC discovered that the car wasn’t heading for the city prison, he began to splutter again. “X” silenced him with the cold ring of his gas gun.
“Never mind where you’re going,” he said in a low voice. “Keep quiet. You’ll get your chance to talk later.”
The menace of the gun made the DOAC tractable. “X” got him into his apartment before the man spoke again. Then the startling truth dawned on him. Fear spread a sickly wash across his face. His eyes grew wide. He began to tremble.
“You — you’re Secret Agent ‘X’!” he cried in a sudden frenzy.
Chapter XVII
FOR a moment he stared aghast at the Agent. His eyes were glassy with fright. His jaw sagged, and the color drained from his fear-distorted face. He cowered against the wall, lips quivering and terror taking complete command. He started to plead with “X.” Then his swiveling eyes fixed on a slender bronze statue on the table.
He uttered a snarl like a trapped beast. His foot lashed out, dealing the Agent a painful kick in the shin. It diverted “X’s” attention long enough for the DOAC to grab the bronze figurine and hurl it.
The missile struck “X” in the stomach. The impact knocked him backwards. His gun slipped to the floor. Now the DOAC’s eyes glittered. Fright changed to savage triumph. To kill the Secret Agent would gain him a high post in the wicked organization. He grabbed a lamp from the table and hurled it. “X” saved himself by warding off the missile with his forearm. He got to his feet and lunged into the DOAC, his left fist ready for destruction.
Frantically the DOAC looked for another weapon within reach. Finding nothing that would inflict damage, he tried to fend “X” off with his foot.
The Agent sidestepped neatly, unleashing a dynamiting haymaker for his foe’s jaw. “X” pulled his punch a little, because he wanted only to daze the DOAC. The man’s legs failed him. He sprawled out, and before he could struggle up, the Agent had him pinned down and had snapped a pair of handcuff’s on his wrists.
“You’re through,” he informed the DOAC. “Accept defeat and do as I tell you! You’re luckier than you think. The DOACs are going to make their big push for power soon. But unless something happens to me, the leaders of your organization are going to find themselves in the death house, their mob of thugs scattered and broken. Now you’re going to tell me the means you have of identifying yourself at DOAC headquarters. Talk fast!”
The captive was sullenly silent. Yet his ugly manner was obviously a cloak of fear. The man’s hands were palsied. He had to lick his lips repeatedly. His face had the mottled whiteness of raw dough.
He showed a spark of defiance, but it died under “X’s” hypnotic glare. The DOAC seemed to shrivel under the Secret Agent’s burning eyes. It was will against will, and the prisoner’s sagged beneath the iron force of “X’s.”
The Agent didn’t speak for a moment. He was accomplishing his purpose without threats or rough tactics, crushing the DOAC’s spirit with his fierce gaze. Suddenly the captive wilted. He slumped in a chair. A sob escaped him. His defenses were broken. He was soft clay.
“All right,” said the Agent. “Give me the facts straight! I’m going to get into DOAC headquarters — and you’re going to help me! Give me the countersign, quick — and whatever else I need to know.”
“I can’t! I can’t!” The DOAC whimpered, fear making his teeth chatter. “They’ll kill me — fill me with hot lead — cook my insides. I can’t squeal — do you hear! I can’t!”
The prisoner broke into low moans. He rocked his head from side to side. His eyes were wild and staring. One of the Secret Agent’s most effective weapons was his reputation. His identity was unknown. But the startling, daring things he had done in his ceaseless warfare on crime had caused rumors to spread through the underworld. His enemies feared him as a mysterious, unknown quantity — the quantity “X,” which might appear and work havoc at the most unpredictable moment.
The universal fear in which he was held had often served the Agent as an asset. At the moment, however, he saw that it might prove a liability. For terror was unhinging the mind of the prisoner. Hysteria was getting possession of him. If he lapsed into raving madness, he’d be useless to “X.” The Agent gave him a reassuring tap on the shoulder.
“Snap out of it,” he said in a more kindly voice. “Give me the countersign. How do you get into the place? Tell me the procedure — and I’ll promise protection from the DOACs and leniency from the law.”
The man was whipped, ready to clutch at anything that promised him safety. He blurted out an address on the other side of town. Then he stopped as the significance of what he’d done stung into his consciousness. Cowardice had shattered his morale. He was nothing more than a blubbering mass of fear. The Agent spoke again encouragingly, nodding to the DOAC to continue.
“Ring the bell three times, then once, then seven,” whispered the prisoner in a croaking voice. “My number is C B Forty-two M. The countersign is, ‘I regret that I have but one life to give for my country!’ But don’t tell them, for God’s sake! Don’t let them know I squealed!”
The Agent knew his captive wasn’t putting on an act. He knew that the man was telling the truth. All the while he’d been intently studying the man’s features.
Suddenly he snatched up his gas gun and fired full into the man’s face, silencing the DOAC’s instant scream with a blast of anesthetizing but harmless vapor.
As the DOAC lay unconscious, Agent “X” went to work quickly before his three-sided mirror.
HE changed the pigments that covered his skin, built up the frontal bone above his eyes with plastic materials, broadened the bridge of his nose, and reshaped the contour of his face. When he had finished, he bore uncanny resemblance to the man lying on the floor. The Agent changed clothes quickly with the DOAC member, then stretched him out comfortably on a couch and administered a hypo injection that would keep him unconscious for at least twelve hours.
The Agent, dressed and made up as the DOAC operative, took a taxi to the Capitol grounds. His face buried in a newspaper, the DOAC’s chauffeur was waiting for his employer. “X” approached the car from the right as though he had just come from the rotunda.
He had the door open before the hard-faced driver turned. The man dropped his paper and touched the visor of his cap. “X” experienced a tense moment. Would some irregularity in his make-up betray him?
The chauffeur had a poker face and an unnaturally piercing gaze. The Agent eyed him severely. Immediately the driver became apologetic.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he spoke humbly. “You were away longer than I expected, and I took the liberty of glancing at the news. It won’t happen again, sir, while I’m on duty. Headquarters, sir?”
“X” grunted affirmation, and slumped on the cushions. He frowned with disapproval, but inwardly he was elated. His disguise was sufficient. The chauffeur’s attention was given to avoiding a rebuke for not opening the door for his employer.
The motor purred. The driver shifted gears, and the car rolled down the graveled path. What lay ahead? The Agent realized the grim possibilities. Suppose he made a slight misplay at headquarters? Suppose the DOACs discovered his identity and threw him to those evil old men?