Jim sometimes wondered if the orders he received from Mr. Martin had not originated with someone else who was using Martin as a go-between. If that was so, Jim had a good idea, or thought he had, who that “someone else” was. But he was thoroughly satisfied to continue, because he was in a position to know, the opinion of the police to the contrary, that the “someone else” was emphatically on the side of law and order.
Who could the “someone else” be but the Man of a Thousand faces himself? Perhaps this new treatment of Hobart signals a change in his relationship with the Agent. But alas, we will never know, given that this new Brant House scribbled only one more entry, “Talons of Terror,” for the magazine. Doctor Blood, its sinister mastermind, is as horrible a villain as “X” ever encountered, being a character from the weird menace tradition. And like the other three “X” stories by Tepperman, it deserves another reading.
Examined superficially, this final contribution might seem to have ended the influence of Emile Tepperman on Secret Agent “X.” It might even cause us to regard his labor on the magazine as an experiment that failed. Yet his tenure there was not futile. Quite the contrary, he penned some entertaining fiction for the Secret Agent; and he did so in many ways. Born from a willingness to take narrative risks, his new insights lent vitality to the characters. His leaner, innovative plots more effectively moved the stories forward. And his more realistic style brought dynamism to a series in danger of stagnation. Secret Agent “X” was primed to move into its next and greatest phase, the G. T. Fleming-Roberts era. Who would have thought four stories could do so much? Truly Secret Agent “X” remains the Man of a Thousand Faces, a Thousand Disguises — and a Thousand Surprises!
Servants of the Skull
From the macabre maze of a labyrinthian world, the Skull, master of murder, reached out and destroyed the brains of mighty financiers. Money kings were his meat. And the law could not protect them… Only one man could match brains with the sinister Skull — and that man was Secret Agent ”X.” But the Skull did not fear “X.” For “X”—the Man of a Thousand Faces, a thousand personalities, a thousand tricks — had one vulnerable spot. And the Skull knew where it lay.
Chapter I
THE thirty-odd men in the artificially lighted room looked up from their various occupations with tense expectancy when the heavy, iron-bound, door swung open. These men represented a strange conglomeration of criminal types; crafty, hard, ruthless, their predatory natures were reflected in the very manner in which they moved and talked. It would have seemed, at first glance, that there existed no power on earth that could control these men, no power to make them toe the mark. Yet, when that door opened they all, without exception, froze in their places. The eyes of many reflected a nameless fear; others exhibited a sort of sullen defiance. Not one of them smiled or laughed.
A distinct rustle of interest swept through the room as the opening door disclosed two figures standing in the corridor. One was a tall, slender man whose hair was graying slightly at the temples. This man had a blindfold over his eyes, and he was resting one hand, with long, tapering, sensitive fingers on the shoulder of the other man, who was guiding him.
The other man was far from a prepossessing sight. He was dressed in nondescript, soiled clothing. The sleeves were too short for the long arms, and the coat seemed too small for the barrel of a chest in the squat, powerful body. This man had been endowed with great physical strength, but there his endowment had stopped; for his face clearly indicated that he was lacking in mental balance. And in addition, that face was horribly scarred as if by a terrible disease.
They entered the room, and the one with the scarred face closed the door behind them, then turned to the other and said in a highpitched, cackling voice:
“All right, Fannon, you can take off the blindfold.” A black shock of wild, disordered hair falling low, almost obscured his scars as he faced the men in the room. “Well, boys, the boss is right on the job. Here’s another one to take Tyler’s place. An’ he’s the goods, too — Frank Fannon, the best safe man in the world.”
The newcomer removed the blindfold and stared coolly around the room. He returned the nods of several men who greeted him, surveyed the room with interest. His guide sidled close to him and said:
“The boss’s orders is, you wait here till he sends for you. He’ll tell you all the rules of the place. My name is Binks. Anything you want, you ask me for it. I’m the ‘Skull’s’ handy man.”
Fannon merely nodded, and watched Binks go out. The door snapped shut after him. Fannon noted that there was no handle on the inside of the door; it could only be opened from the corridor.
He frowned, cast an inquiring glance at the men in the room. One of them, a heavy-set man with thick, gnarled hands, burst into harsh laughter. “Whatsamatter, Fannon? Don’t you like the idea o’ bein’ a prisoner? You oughtta be used to it by now!”
Fannon, still frowning, crossed the room to the heavy-set man who was sitting at a table with four others where they had been playing stud poker when the door opened. Fannon looked down at him thoughtfully, remar-ked, “I seem to know you from somewhere.”
The heavy-set man guffawed heartily, turned to the others at the table. “Can you beat that? He seems to know me from somewhere! They used to call him ‘Dude’ Fannon where we came from. His manners is like the Prince o’ Wales!” He poked a finger up at Fannon. “Sure you know me from somewhere. Don’t you remember the stretch we did together at Folsom ten years ago? You oughtta remember me — Nate Frisch. We was together for five years.”
Fannon smiled. “Quite so. Now I remember perfectly.” He gazed around the room. “There seem to be quite a few other old friends of mine here.”
“Sure,” said Nate Frisch. “Let’s get intro—”
He stopped, looking fearfully toward the door. A sudden terror had come into his eyes.
The door had opened soundlessly again, and Binks stood there. “My, my,” he croaked, grinning at Frisch with his gruesomely mutilated face. “I see you been forgettin’ the rules, Nate.”
FRISCH was shivering violently, his face a pasty hue. “I–I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, Binks. Fannon is just an old friend o’ mine, an’ I was kinda recallin’ old times with him.” His voice was almost pleading now. “It ain’t nothin’ to report to the Skull, Binks. Sure I know the rules — no talkin’ to new men till they been passed by the Skull. But I just forgot it for a minute. You won’t mention it to him, will you? Be a regular guy for once.”
Binks resembled a gargoyle when he laughed. “I’ll think about it, Nate, I’ll think about it. Maybe I’ll toss a coin. Got a coin fer me to toss?”
“Sure, sure,” Frisch said eagerly. He took out a half dollar and flipped it to Binks who caught it dexterously. “Thanks, Nate. Maybe I’ll forget about it, like you said.” He motioned to Fannon. “Come on. The Skull will see you now.”
Fannon followed him out into the corridor, watched him swing the big door shut, heard it click. The corridor was long, dimly lit by a single weak bulb at the far end.