Something struck against his face with a ringing smack that nearly made him jump. Crack, crack! It was the leader, slapping him with flattened palm. Fury surged over the Agent, but he forced it back with iron will. The blows stung painfully, even through his flexible disguise.
He stiffened a little more, feigning the behavior of a man returning slowly to consciousness. The man who had slapped him laughed harshly. “Wait,” he said, “here’s something else. That ought to fix him.”
A pain like a knife thrust curled the nerves of “X’s” wrist, as a cigarette’s lighted end was pressed into his flesh. But the Agent had schooled himself to stand pain. Spartan courage had saved him in more than one perilous situation. Torture had been his lot before. He opened his mouth, emitting a sudden hoarse cry, exactly as a man resuming consciousness might be expected to do. He lashed out wildly with one arm, mumbling incoherently.
He was instantly pinioned on either side. The grim voice of his torturer spoke in front of him.
“So — you’re back with us again, Hearndon!”
Agent “X” let his mouth gape with mock surprise.
“Yes,” the other sneered, “we found your card. We brought you with us just for a friendly little visit. We think we’re going to find your conversation most entertaining.”
Agent “X” stiffened, lifted his head toward the speaker. The adhesive tape still covered his eyes and no move was made to tear it off.
“You’re going to talk, Hearndon,” the other continued. “Talk is cheap, and won’t cost you anything. But remember that silence comes dear! Now — what were you doing in the bank? Why did you give Banton a tip? And who sent you to meddle?”
The Agent kept silent a moment, marshaling his thoughts. There was some inconsistency here. They had found his car, addressed him as Hearndon — and yet wondered why he had warned Banton. Did they doubt his disguise as a Department of Justice man? He tried a quick rejoinder in his chosen role.
“You can’t do this! You can’t buck the government. We found the girl you murdered, Ellen Dowe. Not so smart — leaving her there! It wasn’t hard to figure out why she’d been tortured. You birds are washed up now. You’re in a tight spot!”
A harshly sneering laugh was his answer. Then the unseen questioner spoke again, gloating evil in his tone. “A good line, Hearndon! A nice bluff you’re putting up! But drop it now! Talk straight. You’re no D. J. man. You’ve been checked on that. You got away with it at the bank, but not with us. You’re a fake. But I want to know who sent you, and what’s behind it. Understand?”
A COLDNESS stole over Agent “X.” These men were clever as well as ruthless — super clever, keeping track of the Department of Justice lists, guessing so soon that he was a fraud. Had they penetrated his disguise, too? But no, the speech of his questioner had shown they had not done that.
He growled a sullen curse, squared his shoulders, thrust out his jaw. Let them think, if they wanted to, that he was a hard-headed dick from some private agency, posing as a government man.
“All right, Hearndon,” said the mocking voice. “You found the girl we murdered, you say. Ellen Dowe. But you aren’t a dick. You didn’t bring any cops to the bank with you. How was that?”
Agent “X” remained stubbornly silent. A note of icy anger crept into the other’s voice. He thrust his head so close that “X” could feel the man’s warm breath against his face.
“You’ll talk, damn you! We’ll have no snoopers getting in the way. You were at the bank. You heard those cattle screaming under our whips. You found Ellen Dowe — and know what happened to her. Well! Now you’re going to talk.”
The man paused abruptly in the midst of his furious shouting, and when he resumed his threatening of Agent “X” his voice was an insinuating purr, more deadly than the bellowing rage that had preceded it.
“You were a kid once, weren’t you, Hearndon? Maybe your parents whipped you sometimes, too. But not the way we do it. Oh, no! Not with our kind of whips. No man can stay silent under the lashing we give them. Ellen Dowe couldn’t. She told us all we wanted to know. We whipped the truth out of her. Unfortunately our man got over-enthusiastic. Maybe he liked the way she screamed! When I talked to her she was all through screaming. She couldn’t even stand. I promised not to whip her any more if she talked — and she did. It wasn’t our fault if she decided to talk — too late! So you see, it may be too late for you — if you don’t talk now!”
Secret Agent “X” maintained his stubborn silence. He knew, too, that nothing he could say would appease them. Unless he told the truth. And that would mean death — the end of his campaign. They wouldn’t let the Secret Agent go. Even by men like these he would be feared. And what men fear, they kill.
“All right — you asked for it! Let’s see if you can stand as much as Ellen Dowe!”
Two men sprang forward and jerked “X” from his chair. His feet were still tightly bound. No move was made to untie them. They dragged him by the arms across the floor and spread-eagled him on a narrow cot. The two men pulled his arms in opposite directions, almost yanking the bones from their sockets. A cold something was pressed against his scalp by a man at the head of the cot.
“The same way we handled Ellen Dowe,” the cold voice said mockingly. “Except for the gun. You ought to be flattered, Hearndon. I’ve given instructions to shoot you through the brain if the whipping makes you too violent. Now, boys — go to it! Let’s see you tear his coat to pieces!”
The snaky head of the whip was like miniature lightning in the air. The metal tip struck with a vicious crack. Its nipping bite, directly between “X’s” shoulders, proved that the whipman was an expert — as sure of his aim as those professional performers who can snap a cigarette from between human lips on the stage.
Crack! The whip landed again, and the cloth beneath it ripped. In a moment it would be gnawing at the Agent’s quivering flesh. They could not make him talk — but slow, torturing death faced him on that cot.
Chapter VI
NEVER had Agent “X” been closer to complete disaster. Never had the hand of Fate seemed so set against him as now. With his ankles tightly bound he would be helpless as a cripple, even if he could break away. Before he could hop ten paces, he would be shot.
The third blow of the whip sank through his coat and undershirt, breaking the flesh of his back over a bulging muscle. Clothing, skin and living tissue would be churned to a bloody, pain-racked froth if this continued. He did not doubt his ability to steel himself against the torment. But in this case, resistance would accomplish nothing.
As the fourth stroke fell, he let a groan burst from his lips. His body twisted, then sagged. “Stop — stop! Oh, God — I can’t—”
His acting was superb, the whimpering complaint of a wretched, weak-willed man whose spirit had broken. Insensibly the two clutching his arms relaxed their hold. And in that instant the Agent’s muscles, unmarred as yet by the scourging whip, contracted like released springs.
He flung his head sidewise. His right arm wrenched free, tumbling the man who held it off his feet. The arm swept outward, forward, clamped over the wrist of the man holding the gun. The Agent twisted, squeezed until bone grated on bone.
But as Agent “X” struggled to seize the gun, the guard’s finger contracted, and a bullet passed screamingly close to “X’s” chest. He wrenched his left arm free at the same instant, made a furious lunge, and tore the weapon from the other’s fingers.