“X” shook his head violently as though to clear it. He had to get his thoughts into another channel. Imagination could play havoc with one’s nerves.
In a few minutes the chauffeur swung the car into a broad, maple-lined street of decaying grandeur. The imposing edifices on each side dated back to the glamorous Nineties. There were embassy buildings, homes of wealthy politicians. Once cabinet members had lived here, a vice-president. In former administrations much of the Washington social life had centered here. Now it was a quiet street, with “To Let” and “For Sale” signs on many of the houses.
The chauffeur drew up before a three-story building that had the forbidding aspect of a home that had been closed for the season. “No Trespassing” signs had been posted on the lawns. The windows were boarded up. The house seemed bleak and forlorn.
“X” waited until the driver got out and opened the door for him. Then he hurried to the house. He pressed the button three times, then once, then seven. He waited tensely. There was no response. He heard no sound of footsteps inside. But he felt that prying eyes were studying him. A wave of desperation swept over him.
Suppose his captive had lied after all? Suppose these were not the right signals? The Agent was shaken by the thought. Good Lord! Was he going to fail? He had surmounted all obstacles so far. Was he walking into a death trap now, a trap that would snuff out his life and Betty’s? He was chilled with foreboding.
Then his pulse beat quickened. The door was opening, silently, slowly, mysteriously, as though by a ghost hand. The house exhaled a gush of cold, musty air. Inside, the hallway was shrouded in deep gloom. “X’s” eyes probed the darkness. The furniture, draped with gray covers, appeared like wraiths.
“X” entered. The door closed softly. There was a sharp, ominous click of the lock. The Agent tingled with suspense, uncertainty, but he dared not show his concern. He walked slowly down the dark, tomblike hallway, not at all sure that he was following the customary procedure.
Another click. A slot opened in the wall. A brilliant rapier of light stabbed at the Agent. He stopped instantly, seized with misgiving, licking his lips nervously. A sharp voice cracked out one word.
“Number?”
“C B Forty-two M,” intoned the Agent.
The slot closed. “X” drew a sharp breath. He clenched his fists, moved on through the darkness, wondering, if the next moment he would be knocked senseless, carried to the death chamber.
He walked a few feet. Another slot opened. The Agent felt much relieved. Evidently he had done nothing so far to arouse suspicion.
“The countersign,” another voice demanded.
“I regret that I have but one life to give for my country,” said the Agent evenly.
“Proceed to the council hall and give your report,” was the response.
“X” GAVE an inward groan. The council hall. How would he find it in the dark maze of rooms in this house? The building was a closed-up embassy, constructed to accommodate many people. Besides the many rooms, there were probably secret chambers, specially built by the DOACs. But he had to do what he could — for Betty Dale’s sake.
He felt along the wall until he came to the first door. It was locked. The Agent quickly fitted a skeleton key and entered the pitch-dark room. He carried a flashlight, but he knew it would be hazardous to use it. Before he left the room, “X” donned the blue hood he had taken from the captured DOAC.
The Agent went from room to room, becoming more desperate as each door failed to open onto the council chamber. He had the feeling that he was spied upon. Certainly his actions would be questioned. How could he explain the delay? He crept up the winding staircase. He guided himself by the railing, which was as chill as a slab in a morgue. The oppressive silence was becoming an intolerable burden. If only he could hear footsteps, some one speaking. Even the scuffling sounds signaling an attack would be better than this dread, brooding quiet.
He reached the landing at the top of the flight. He paused, tensed, his brow knitting in a frown of attention. He heard a weird, melodious peal, muted by distance and sound barriers. It was a somber ring, struck in a minor chord, like the tolling of a bell for the dead.
The chiming of the bell came from below, far below. “X” raced down the stairs. He was grateful that the mournful ringing continued, for it gave him direction. At the rear of the hallway, he found a narrow door. It was unlocked. He opened it, and went down a long flight of steps. At the bottom was another door. This opened onto a long, dank, and winding tunnel.
The bell ceased its sonorous pealing. Voices sounded from the end of the twisting underground corridor. Presently “X” found himself in the council chamber. The hooded DOACs were there, ghastly and wraithlike in the phosphorescent glare from the ceiling. He heard the cackling old men behind the curtain.
The hooded leader rose and raised his hand in the DOAC salute. “X” repeated the gesture. He was told to take a chair before the assemblage.
“Where is the hated foe?” demanded the leader. “You have failed. Secret Agent ‘X’ is our greatest obstacle to power. He has ferreted out facts, spied upon us, dared to combat us. You, as a trusted member of the council, were sent to bring him here. You return alone! All DOACs are sworn to the code that death shall be dealt to those who fail. You understand, C B Forty-two M, that you must suffer the price of incompetence — unless you have some very adequate and satisfactory explanation as to why you have not fulfilled your duty.”
“X” stood rigid as the dread words fell on his ears. From behind the curtain came the demoniac laughter of the madmen, the DOAC executioners.
Chapter XVIII
THE Agent thought quickly. His explanation had to be convincing, or he’d become another victim on the gory death list of the DOACs. Also in voice and manner he must imitate the man he was impersonating.
“You condemn me for another man’s cowardice,” he said thickly. “I was at the rotunda at the appointed time. Secret Agent ‘X’ did not appear — but I was determined not to return without our hated enemy. I waited long and he didn’t come. By now he may be a thousand miles from here, traveling by fast plane. Is it fair that I should be put under fire and threatened with death because another man is afraid?”
A murmur passed through the council. It bore a triumphant note. The leader didn’t speak at once. Probably he was taking time to ponder the situation. Possibly he detected a suspicious inflection or pronunciation in “X’s” speech. The lead, boiling behind the curtain, and those slavering, giggling killers were still a threat. But the Agent maintained a respectful silence.
“Yes,” said the leader finally. “Yes — you are right, comrade. You have nothing to fear — for the DOACs stand for justice, kindness. You have worked well, comrade, and the Master will reward you handsomely. Seekers of liberty and right, we have reached the turning point in our fight for the DOAC cause. Secret Agent ‘X’ has retreated. His tricks and bravado were but a veneer, a mask to hide his cowardice.
“He will not jeopardize his own life to save the girl who is his devoted ally. We have whipped him, comrades. He is running, running. Our greatest human obstacle has been dissolved by fear. That is good news, comrades. We have triumphed over an enemy — but there is something even more thrilling. Our plans have been changed, speeded up. This very night the command will be issued which will make the DOACs rulers of America. We are approaching the zero hour!”
The leader stood up, staring with burning, fanatical eyes at those about him.