“By means of it the femur can be separated from the tibia — the radius and ulna from the humerus — the clavicle from the scapula. I believe you follow me, Agent ‘X’—you who are so well versed in science! I am speaking of the bones of arms and legs. Our rack can pluck them out of their sockets as easily as a woman would pluck superfluous hair from her eyebrows.”
The Octopus’s chuckle was like some devil’s whisper from the black mouth of hell. He continued, showmanlike, gloating over his exhibits.
“The medieval inquisitors gave considerable time and thought to the art of torture; but they were handicapped by their crude knowledge of mechanics and human anatomy. We have done better, I think I can modestly say. Let us take another little device as an example. The handsome statue of the lady in the corner is a development of the famous Iron Virgin of Nuremberg.
“Victims, you remember, were put inside the hollow statue — and spikes were driven through the chest, back, and lastly the eyes and ears. In our lady the spikes, driven by electric gears, move with exquisite slowness. Blindness, deafness, and eventual death, come only after hours. The victim of our lady’s iron embrace longs for the cruder but speedier ways of the 9th century.
“You see now,” added the Octopus dryly, “why my suggestion that you talk was made advisedly. I give you one half minute to decide. You will either tell the board members your name and the entire history of your career, including the method used to learn Mr. Van Camp’s secrets — or you will be given into the hands of our official torturer to die slowly and fearfully.”
Chapter XVIII
THE Octopus’s words carried terrible finality. They seemed symbolic of all the threats the Agent had received during his perilous career — the logical end toward which his life had been drifting.
As he stood tense, waiting, eyes fixed on those ghastly instruments of torture, another figure shambled into the room. This was a small, skeleton-thin man with rheumy eyes and a sickly, parchmentlike skin. The man’s lean fingers curled, extended, fluttered senselessly. He tried to speak; but only an inane babble of gibberish came from his lips.
The Octopus spoke: “Fifteen seconds, Agent ‘X’ and Waldo makes his entrance into our little drama. He has been handicapped by nature, as you can see. But he has a taste for things mechanical. His hands can operate levers and switches with surprising dexterity. He has infinite patience and is docile to orders. As a boy he amused himself by plucking wings from flies and other insects. He is a congenital sadist. And as you have guessed, Waldo is our official torturer.”
The entrance of this fearful being, was the last touch of horror necessary, the final proof of the remorseless cruelty of this criminal group.
“The half minute is up, Agent ‘X.’ You have chosen your own fate. You refused to answer my questions. You refused to address the board as a gentleman. But now you will talk. My directors shall hear your groans, your babbled confession on the rack. Switch on the board-room microphone! Put this man to torture!”
The masked face of the Octopus disappeared from the screen in the torture room as his voice ceased speaking. Waldo, tittering and mumbling, went to the glittering machine in the center of the floor, the fearful rack. Agent “X’s” captors tightened the grip of the nippers on his wrists, pulled him forward toward the instrument of torture. He could feel the pressure of the black-clothed attendant’s gun against his spine.
Never had Secret Agent “X” seemed so utterly helpless. The Octopus had challenged him to use some of his strange defensive weapons. The Agent had come tonight armed with several new ones — but in his present situation they were powerless to aid him.
The Secret Agent’s shoulders drooped as he neared the rack. His head lolled. He seemed on the point of complete collapse, overcome with dread and horror.
Then, in a movement so breathtakingly quick that even his vigilant captors were not prepared, he flung himself straight forward on his face, risking a bullet in the back.
The nippers on his wrists cut cruelly. The Agent’s fingers curled up, wrapped themselves around the arms of the two who held the steel-jawed instruments. The forward lunge of his body carried his captors off their balance. Shrieking curses, they too fell. One of those with a drawn gun fired. The hot blast of that shot fanned the Agent’s neck. The bullet plucked at the wig he wore in his disguise of Van Camp.
Ignoring the grinding pain of the jawed nippers, the Agent twisted like a netted fish, drew his knees up, lashed out with his feet, catching one of the nipper men in the chest. The man gave a choking cry, let go his hold.
Agent “X,” action superbly timed to the fraction of a second, swung his wrist and flung the loosened nipper straight at the nearest gunman’s head.
THE metal crashed against the man’s chin. He dropped his automatic, fell back. The other man fired as Agent “X” seemed about to rise; but the Agent lashed sidewise instead. This second bullet brought a hideous scream from Waldo, the half-wit torturer, directly in front of the man who had fired.
Waldo clapped a hand over his thin stomach. Crimson spurted from between clawlike fingers. He tottered away from the horrible rack.
In that one reckless, breathtaking movement Agent “X” had flung the room into mad confusion. The other attendant with the nipper still clung desperately to the Agent. “X” struck him a savage blow in the face with his free hand. This man also released his hold on the nipper. It clattered to the floor.
The other gunman was crouched now. Appalled for the moment by the fact that he had shot Waldo, he swung his gun toward “X” again. The Secret Agent flopped over twice in a movement almost too quick to follow; a movement dependent on his amazing coordination of mind and muscle.
Bullets slapped against the concrete flooring, plucked at his clothing. His own hands swept up the pistol that the first gunman had dropped. With the same movement he fired; and a shot shattered the shoulder of the black-clothed man who was trying to slaughter him.
Rising to his feet, captured gun in hand, Agent “X” was for the moment master of that terrible room. The blazing, burning light in his eyes made the two unwounded men cower back. This human whirlwind was more than they could cope with. But they were small human cogs in the Octopus’s vast machine.
The sound amplifying extension into the board room had been turned on — the instrument that was supposed to carry “X’s” groans and pain-wrung words to the gloating ears of the directors. Instead it had carried the sounds of the amazing battle he had staged. But even as he fought, the Octopus’s ironic words seemed to ring in “X’s” ears. “I have certain small devices myself which could handle the situation…. A gas more deadly—”
Motioning the black-clothed men aside, Agent “X” crossed to the door of room 13. He flung it open, listened. He heard shouts, the thud of feet. Already reinforcements were coming.
He left room 13, headed straight toward the sounds of approaching men. He remembered the markings on another door he had seen. This was the door labeled No. 7 with the crimson words “danger” above and below the number. What danger the chamber held “X” did not know.
He flung down the corridor, almost to the elbow around which the others were coming. He checked himself before door No. 7, went through with a sidewise lunge, closed the door after him.
Expecting to find himself in another room like the torture chamber, he was fooled. A long dimly lit tunnel slanted down from this door. It was like a miniature subway. He plunged along, realizing that it was taking him to another part of the old factory block. It seemed to be the northwest corner.