Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 4 Page 43

THE Agent’s car followed that of Bernard unerringly through the streets. Steering with his left hand, his right worked miracles with the plastic material that covered his face. Wrinkles disappeared under his skilled fingers. Features took on an entirely different shape. A black toupee replaced the one which had been a part of his disguise as Elisha Pond.

  A few minutes later, “X” stopped his car a short distance behind the parked machine of Anthony Bernard. A glimpse of his face in the rear-vision mirror told “X” that his disguise was perfect. Bernard would never know that the man who was following him to his apartment was the same Elisha Pond who had experienced the Ghoul’s raid that night.

  Hurrying up the walk that approached the apartment building, “X” just managed to enter the same elevator with Bernard. The latter was obviously worried. His glance hurried around the walls of the ascending cage as though hunting for some avenue of escape in case the Ghoul put in another miraculous appearance.

  At the sixth floor, Bernard got out and “X” followed him closely. The Agent, aware that the Ghoul struck at the most surprising times, dared not let the millionaire out of his sight for a moment, even though his movements should arouse Bernard’s suspicion.

  It was not until Bernard was in the act of fitting his key into the lock of the door, that he seemed to notice “X.” He turned quickly, frightened eyes searching the Agent’s face. But “X” was not watching Bernard. His eyes were riveted on the brass doorknob of the apartment. Dull antique finish as was the knob there was a tiny spot of reflected light that gleamed like the eye of a snake at its very center. As Bernard started to reach for the knob, “X” sprang forward and knocked Bernard’s arm down to his side.

  “Be careful, Mr. Bernard!” the Agent cried. “Danger!”

  Startled almost beyond speech, Bernard shrank back against the wall. “Who—who are you?” he muttered feebly.

  “That is not important,” replied the Agent. “Simply rest assured that I have your interests at heart.” Standing to one side, “X” took hold of the doorknob between thumb and forefinger. He turned it slowly, his eye on the tiny hole that centered the knob. As the lock clicked, a needle stabbed halfway out of the knob, and discharged a stream of clear, yellow liquid on the floor.

  “Good Lord!” Bernard husked. “Poison! It would have been injected into the palm of my hand!”

  “X” knelt, touched a drop of the liquid with hisfinger, and conveyed it to his nose. He sniffed cautiously.

  “Not poison,” he corrected slowly. “The Amber Death. Some one in the Ghoul’s crowd substituted this trick doorknob for the one that was originally on here. Now, Mr. Bernard, I think you are comparatively safe.” The Agent stood up, flung open the door, and followed Bernard into the room. He locked the door from the inside.

  “Are you a detective?” asked Bernard.

  “X” smiled. “You can regard me as something of the sort.”

  Bernard dropped into a chair, for his legs seemed too shaky to support him. “The second attempt on my life tonight. Gage, Luigi and Calvert—all fell into the hands of the Ghoul.”

  “X” REGARDED Bernard critically for a moment. Then he went into the bathroom to return with a glass containing some colorless liquid. “Drink this, Mr. Bernard,” he ordered.

  Bernard seized the glass and drank half its contents. Almost at once, a marked change came over his face. His eyes, once wide with terror, began to look drowsy. He tried to stand up. “You—you tried to poison me! I—I—” And he collapsed, unconscious.

  The Agent was certain that the Ghoul’s next move would be to send somebody for Bernard, who by this time would have been under the influence of the Amber Death had not “X” acted quickly. Such had been the Ghoul’s method of procedure in the case of Gilbert Warnow, and others.

  “X” picked up Bernard bodily, carried the unconscious millionaire into the bedroom, and stretched him out on the bed. Then, having made sure that the blinds were drawn, he began working on Bernard’s face. From his pocket make-up kit, he took yellow pigment and plastic volatile material. He made no actual changes in Bernard’s features, but with his plastic material he built up muscles and added lines so as to achieve the appearance that Bernard was in great pain. Then with the yellow pigment he carefully colored Bernard’s face and hands.

  The result was that Bernard looked for all the world like a victim of the Ghoul’s Amber Death.

  “X” turned out all but a single lamp and walked quietly from the apartment.

  Having located the stairway, “X” climbed to the top floor of the building and from there into the attic. There he found a ladder reaching up to a trapdoor in the roof. It was on the roof that he took up his vigil.

  It was nearly midnight. Far below, the late traffic was hushed beneath a blanket of fog. And above, night and the mist had created a dismal gray void. Neighboring buildings were tall, uncertain shadows. The breeze, “X” noted, blew seaward. It was from the west, then, that he could expect the danger. For Secret Agent “X” was probably the only man in the city who understood how the Ghoul and his gang managed their mysterious entrances and exits.

  “X” hid himself behind a fan-tailed ventilator and for perhaps fifteen minutes remained perfectly motionless. Then without a sound, a man dropped, apparently from the clouds, to land lightly on the flat roof of the building. Though “X” could not see very clearly through the gloom, he knew that a rope extended from the man up to a balloon.

  This balloon, “X” had deduced, was what had become known in the world of sports as a jumping-balloon. They had been introduced in Europe some time ago, were considerably smaller than an observation balloon, and were so inflated as to exert slightly less pounds lift than the weight of the persons who intended to travel with them. The balloon-jumper, hanging beneath the bag, had only to jump into the air and the buoyancy afforded by the balloon converted the jump into a gigantic stride that sometimes carried the balloonist a hundred feet in the air.

  It was by means of these small balloons that the Ghoul’s men had entered Warnow’s bedroom, and the conservatory of Gage’s house. The true purpose of these balloons, which had been moored throughout the city, was concealed by the fact that each balloon carried some sort of advertising matter.

  “X” had guessed from the first that the bags of shot dropped by the Ghoul’s balloon jumpers acted as ballast and were dropped whenever it became necessary for the balloon to gain additional lift. He could see similar ballast bags tied to the belt of the man who had just alighted on the roof. Probably, the man had leaped from the roof of a neighboring building.

  “X” watched the balloon-jumper fasten the mooring rope of the balloon to the edge of the eaves, saw him drop a coil of rope over the edge of the roof, and commence his descent. As soon as the man’s head had disappeared, “X” hurried over to where the balloon was moored. He saw that a special mooring clasp had been provided—one which resisted the upward pull of the balloon but one which could be released by the slightest horizontal pull on the line which had been dropped over the eaves. The operator had only to stand on the window sill, give his line a quick, outward jerk, and the balloon would be released. A powerful jump, and the man could soar high into the air and possibly cover the distance of a block or so to alight on some neighboring roof.

  “X” took a knife from his pocket and quickly sawed through the mooring rope. The line snapped and leaped into the air to disappear in the gray dome above. Then, having made sure that the line over the eaves was made fast, “X” began a hand over hand descent towards the window of Anthony Bernard’s apartment four stories below.

  HE had climbed down perhaps fifteen feet when he felt a sudden jerk at the line. Looking up, he saw the round silhouette of a man’s head leaning gargoyle-like over the eaves. A powerful beam of light drilled down through the darkness, and centered upon the upturned face of Agent “X.” A harsh laugh from the man on the roof.

  “X” saw the broad blade of a knife flash in the man’s hand. He knew that to
climb back that fifteen feet before the knife slashed through that line would be impossible. Already, as he swung there, eight or nine stories above the pavement, he could feel the rope vibrating like the strings of a violin beneath the sawing knife of the man on the roof.

  There was but one thing to do—and small chance of it succeeding. “X” loosened his grip on the line, dropped like a plummet, felt the rope burn through his fingers. Then came that instant of sickening sensation when the rope became a limp, snaky thing falling with him. The knife had won.

  Even in that moment when the primitive fear of falling would have paralyzed another man, “X” kept his head. At the moment that the rope broke, “X’s” right arm shot out. His fingers crooked to grasp the steel awning-support that extended out a little way from the wall directly over Bernard’s window. For a fraction of a second, he hung there, saw the masked man beside Bernard’s bed turn, draw a knife and spring toward the window. “X” swung up his legs, kicked forward with all his strength, and threw himself through the open window.

  He landed on his heels, fell over backwards, with the masked assassin on top of him. The killer’s knife flashed silver fire in its descent, and was stopped by the Agent’s hand when its point was but a fraction of an inch from his throat. With a quick twist, “X” brought his left arm around over the man’s head and gave a jerk that threw the killer over on his back.

  “X” rolled, following his opponent, and landing with both knees on the man’s chest. His thumb pushed sharply between the center knuckles of the man’s knife hand. The killer’s fingers sprang apart and the knife clattered to the floor.

  A single blow from the Agent’s fist would have put the man out for a long time; but before he could deal that blow, the second balloon-jumper had dropped a rope, slid down it, and swung through the window. “X” sprang to his feet then dropped almost to his knees as the second man’s knife sang its death song over his head to bury its point three inches in the woodwork of the opposite wall.

  “X” snatched out his gas gun and, as the man leaped toward him, jerked the trigger. The gas pistol hissed. A cloud of the powerful anesthetizing vapor blotted across the assassin’s black mask. The man received the full concentrated force of the gas and lurched forward to fall a few feet from “X”.

  But in that brief moment when the gas gun had knocked the second man unconscious, his companion had bolted from the room. “X” could hear the sound of his feet padding down the hall outside the apartment. “X” did not pursue the escaping criminal. He had captured one of the Ghoul’s hirelings, and expected to be able to make that man talk.

  His first act was to remove the man’s mask. Beneath was a narrow, ratlike face with white skin blued about the chin by a stubble of black beard. He recognized the man as Jeff Lucko, who had cut his name in several crime records. He carefully searched the man’s pockets. He found a few coins, a deck of cocaine, and a small bit of cast brass. The last-named article interested him. It appeared to be a tiny hand not more than an inch in length, and he further noted that the little finger had been removed. This little brass hand “X” put into his pocket.

  FROM his pocket medical kit, “X” removed a powerful stimulant and a hypodermic syringe. He made an injection of the fluid into Lucko’s arm, and while waiting for the man to revive, he contemplated the possible value of the little brass hand. It was obviously a badge or a pass. “X” remembered that China Bobby had had only three fingers on his right hand. It was very probable that “X” would be able to make use of that bit of brass later on.

  Jeff Lucko stirred slightly, opened his eyes, and stared up into “X’s” face. Then his beady eyes wandered toward the bed. He licked dry lips. “Well?” he challenged.

  Agent “X” fixed the man with his strange, magnetic eyes. “Lucko,” he said softly, “you’re in a spot. I’m the only person who can help you out.”

  Lucko sat up. “Who the hell are you, mister?”

  “The man you tried to kill. My name is of no importance to you. The point is, do I turn you over to the police or will you answer my question?”

  Lucko didn’t answer. He looked past “X” and twisted a button on his coat.

  “You know, Lucko, there’s quite a price on the head of anyone associated with the Ghoul—dead or alive. You were caught with the goods. Your jumping-balloon must be moored up on the roof right now. I’ve only to give you a shot of an effective narcotic, and then call the police.”

  “You got me wrong, mister.” Lucko shook his head. “You’re off your nut if you think I killed this guy here.”

  “A lot of people are going to think you killed Bernard,” the Agent lied. “But if you tell me who the Ghoul is and where I can find him, you get an even break to skip the country, and pocket money besides.”

  “The Ghoul!” Lucko muttered fearfully. “Don’t try to get none of that stuff out of me. I don’t know nothin’!”

  “X” shrugged. “Maybe you don’t know who he is, but you can tell me where to find him.”

  A ghastly grin spread over Lucko’s face. “Nix. Get wise, guy. You couldn’t worm that dope out of anybody with a hot iron!”

  “X” slipped a small black leather case from his pocket and removed a small vial from it.

  Lucko, who had been watching every movement the Agent made, said: “Save that stuff. Mister. I’m fit for the slab right now!”

  A puzzled frown flashed across “X’s” forehead. His eyes skated down Lucko’s coat, and rested upon a telltale vacancy. The button with which Lucko had been toying, was missing. “X” seized Lucko by the shoulders and shook him. “That button! What did you do with that button?”

  A sickly grin spread across Lucko’s face. “That button? You won’t see that again. It was one of the Ghoul’s pet tricks. Loaded with enough cyanide to knock over a horse. Don’t fool with me. I’m—I’m—” Muscles of the hood’s face tightened, drawing his features into a mask of pain. “I failed…. The Ghoul knows everything… He’d have—got me…. The Amber Death—livin’ hell—”

  A convulsive tremor shook his entire body. A sigh rattled in his throat. The man was dead.

  More than ever before “X” realized the power of the criminal with whom he battled. It was the power of fear. Lucko had preferred certain doom to living torment of the Amber Death.

  So the Ghoul had won another hand. The single trick that “X” had taken had been the saving of Bernard’s life—a valuable trick, to be sure, but it took “X” no nearer his goal.

  “X” turned to the telephone, picked it up and called police headquarters. In a flawless imitation of Bernard’s voice, he said: “Quick! Send somebody to my apartment. There’s a man here. He’s killed himself…. This is Anthony Bernard speaking. I’ve got to have—” A gurgling sound that to the desk sergeant must have sounded as though Anthony Bernard’s conversation had been interrupted by the clutching fingers of a strangler. “X” dropped the phone on the table, confident that his message would bring quick results.

  With sure, deft movements, he removed the make-up material from the face of the unconscious Bernard. Then he dragged the millionaire from the bed to the table where the phone had stood, and dropped him on the floor. When the police arrived, it would appear that Bernard had been attacked by some one when he was in the act of phoning the police.

  Chapter VII

  HOUSE OF BLACK SMOKE

  SOME time later, in Chinatown, a white man was seen to leave the door of a three-story brick house which contained the offices of the powerful Chinese society, the Ming Tong. This young white man was dressed in the height of fashion. His pale face bore the unmistakable marks of mild dissipation. But those weak, pale features served only to hide the true face of Secret Agent “X”.

  “X” because of a great service he had once rendered the Mingmen, was the only white man ever to be admitted into their society. That night he had sought Lo Mong Yung, venerable father of the Tong. He had asked questions and learned something concerning the Eurasian, China
Bobby, which would have caused considerable alarm had the same information reached the ears of the city’s vice and narcotic squads.

  Beneath China Bobby’s respectable restaurant, “X” had learned, the Eurasian carried on a flourishing opium traffic, making use of strange underground rooms that many years ago had been closed and sealed by the police.

  Was China Bobby a member of the Ghoul’s gang, or simply a human spider spinning a web to snare the rich and unwary? It was very probable that he was both. Ah-Fang had accused him of serving the Ghoul. Betty Dale had told “X” of the man who had aided Drew Devon in her attempt to kidnap Betty; undoubtedly he was China Bobby. The Eurasian’s opium den might well serve as a catch-pool for the Ghoul’s prospective victims.

  Agent “X” proceeded down the street from Ming headquarters to an ornately fronted building, brilliantly lighted even at this late hour. From its plate-glass doors, framed in gilt and gleaming lacquer, came the thin and tinkling strains of flute and moon-lute. An emblazoned sign proclaimed that this was the Chinese-American restaurant operated by China Bobby, late of Limehouse, London. There wealthy, sensation-seeking patrons, and sightseeing tourists gather at all hours of the night to sip tea and scented wines and partake of foods more American than Chinese.

  Through these gaudy doors passed Agent “X” to deposit his hat and stick with a smiling Chinese girl who had forsaken the dress and mannerisms of her ancestors for those of her Occidental sisters. A swarthy-faced person with features that were unmistakably Latin, led “X” to a small gilded table at one side of the room.

  There, “X” ordered wine more to be rid of the waiter than for any other reason. He relaxed in his chair and languidly puffed on a cigarette. Outwardly, he appeared the very picture of boredom; but beneath drooping lids, his eyes missed nothing of what went on about him. He scrutinized every one of the restaurant’s habitues.

  While he was making a pretense at sipping his wine, he saw a young, nervous-acting man push back from his table, whisper a word in the ear of the waiter, then walk toward a door at the rear of the room.