Secret Agent X : The Complete Series Volume 3 Page 44

  The Agent said that for effect, knowing that the girl would be insistent. He wanted to be seen with her. And, if Karloff had any doubts about de Ronfort’s death, he would have spies watching the Blake penthouse. This would further the Agent’s desperate plan of using himself as human bait to get on Karloff’s trail again.

  Shortly he was entering the Blake apartment. The old financier was sitting in his wheel chair on the terrace. Whitney Blake had a guest, and the person was Silas Howe, the reformer.

  Howe was still ranting about the drug evil, which was spreading like a plague. Newspapers were filled with murders, riots, scandals laid to the deadly drug blight. Howe had a flare for publicity. Daily he appeared in the headlines with his latest outburst. A dark thought suddenly came to the Secret Agent’s mind. Could it possibly be that Howe’s vehemence was a beautiful pose, an almost perfect cover? Not one word of suspicion had “X” heard against Howe; but Howe had come carrying a gun on the night of the party. Was it solely fear of the drug ring that made him go about armed?

  The Agent watched the reformer closely while the girl blurted out the story of the terrorists. Howe’s reaction was one of shock. Either he was a marvelous actor or his manner was genuine, for “X” could detect nothing false in it. If he were connected with the gang that had killed de Ronfort, the long-nosed crusader would know about the shooting. Yet not by so much as the flicker of an eyelid did he betray that he might have such knowledge.

  Whitney Blake pounded his cane on the tile floor of the terrace and kept shaking his head while the girl talked.

  “Bad,” he muttered, “bad. You must stay here, Remy, I’ll hire detectives to watch the penthouse night and day. You must have an armed bodyguard.”

  “I couldn’t think of staying here, air,” answered the Agent quickly. “It’s my own battle. I don’t want you and Paula endangered, too. Why, those terrorists might even blow up this building.”

  Blake mulled over the prospect for a while.

  “I’ll have to take that risk,” he said grimly. “I’ll employ more watchmen, and take every precaution. But I insist that you stay. After what you’ve been through, you need rest and quiet and care.”

  But “X” refused. There was so much to be done. He wanted to find Karloff’s band again. He had proved to his own satisfaction that Paula Rockwell knew nothing of the dead Count’s criminal activities.

  WHEN the Secret Agent left the penthouse, to the protests of old Blake and his ward, Silas Howe went with him to the elevator.

  “Count de Ronfort,” said the reformer, “I think you are very unwise to go about in public, while these terrorists are at large. You are in danger of assassination. I beg you to come to my apartment right here in this building. There you will find refuge, and there you will be able to visit your fiancée whenever you like.”

  The Agent’s pulse quickened. He looked into Howe’s eyes,

  “I am deeply grateful for your offer,” he said politely, “but my nature forbids me from imperiling others. I will go to the French consul for advice. Perhaps I will leave the country with a bodyguard via airplane.”

  Howe’s eyebrows raised a little. “X” noticed a sudden flare of interest in the man’s eyes. He wished he knew what thoughts were running behind them.

  After “X” spoke of fleeing by airplane, Howe did not press him to stay at his apartment. The Agent took his leave quickly.

  On the street he got into a taxi. Midway up the block he drew a small mirror from his pocket and held it so that it reflected what was on the street behind him. Then his heart leaped.

  Not far behind was a car carrying two vicious-looking men. By their manner “X” knew they were following him! To make sure, he directed the cabman to drive around the block. The other car kept close in the rear all the way.

  The Agent’s lips tightened to a hard, thin line. A tingle of apprehension went through him. Those men might drive up alongside, and blast away with a machine gun. Then not only his own plans would be defeated, but an innocent cabman would meet death. Such an attack was easily possible. To their minds, they had failed once, and this time they would be out to do a thorough job. Yet he was pleased, too. His disguise had served its purpose. These men must be some of Karloff’s gang, set as spies to verify the Count’s death.

  A couple of blocks farther on, the cars stopped for a traffic light. One of the mobsters got out of the pursuing auto and ran toward a cigar store. The Agent believed he had gone to telephone other members of the mob.

  The second man drove on when the lights changed. At the next intersection, a big truck cut in ahead of the gangster car. “X” was quick to take advantage.

  He left a bill on the seat of the taxi, and with the truck cutting off the gangster’s view, the Agent quietly and dexterously opened the door and slipped out. He moved rapidly through the crowd on the sidewalk and entered a large drug store on the corner.

  In a telephone booth, he hurriedly changed to one of his stock disguises, put on a light-haired wig, and reshaped the hat. When he came out he was a blond, with none of the characteristics of a Frenchman.

  He rushed out an exit that led into the corridor of an office building. The entrance opened onto the sidewalk below the cigar store the gangster had entered. “X” stood inconspicuously in the doorway of the haberdashery until the mobster emerged from the cigar store.

  Then the Agent stepped out and followed the man. Once again he was on the trail of the Karloff gang. What would be at the end of that trail? The finish of the drug ring? Or a marble slab for the bullet-riddled corpse of Secret Agent “X”?

  Chapter XV

  THE BEAUTIFUL GREEN DEATH

  THE gunman started crosstown afoot. He was extremely nervous, furtive. One hand thrust into his coat pocket ominously. When he passed cops, he turned his head. He walked at a pace much faster than other pedestrians.

  “X” was tense, grim. The man ahead was tortured by nerves frayed from the lack of dope. He was wild-eyed, insane from his deprivation. It would not take much to make him draw his gun and start a massacre. Frequently he looked behind him. He paid no attention to “X” the first block. On the second he fixed him with a suspicious glare for a moment.

  The Agent had to walk fast to keep at an even distance behind the mobster, and that was what caused the evil-faced man to single him out. To throw off suspicion “X” stepped into a grocery store and bought a loaf of bread and a few bunches of vegetables. He carried the bread wrapped in its waxed paper, without a bag, and he fixed the other bag so the leaves and stalks of the vegetables stuck out.

  It was dark now. On the street he bought a newspaper. Now he looked like an office worker returning home. “X” walked briskly and got close to the gunman again. The gangster turned around, twisted his ugly face into a snarl. Then he noticed the bundles. His face relaxed to its ordinary viciousness, and he paid no more attention to “X.” The ruse was effective.

  Soon the drug addict reached a factory section. A few blocks beyond was a district of middle-class apartment houses. So “X’s” deception still was plausible. The man stopped before a shut-down factory, and waited outside, nervously puffing on a cigarette, until “X” passed by. The gunman eyed him closely. The Agent whistled and walked with the jaunty step of a man whose day’s work is over. He ignored the hophead.

  A block farther on, he turned the corner. He disposed of his packages, waited a few minutes, and then peered cautiously around the side of the building. The gunman had disappeared.

  Stealthily “X” crept back to the shut-down factory. He was alert in every fiber. Suppose the mobster still was suspicious? He might be lurking in the tomblike gloom, waiting to see if the Agent returned. “X” glanced around carefully. A fog was rolling in off the river, curling its spectral tentacles around the old building. Traffic noise, rising from the avenues, seemed remote, almost ghostly. There was a graveyard silence about this district.

  The Agent tried the front door. It was locked. He listened. No sound came from
within. Possibly this bleak old building was not the one the gunman had entered. “X” would soon find out. He moved silently to the rear. The back door was locked, too.

  “X” brought forth a small leather case that held his intricate tools of the highest grade chromium steel. He took out one that looked like a sail-maker’s needle, except that it had tiny pivotal extensions. This he inserted in the lock. He worked it around noiselessly, and then withdrew it to readjust the extensions. The next insertion brought a faint click. He opened the door.

  The interior was cold and musty and as black as a cavern. He walked forward, feeling his way like a blind man. He picked a route through a maze of machinery. Frequently he stopped. His keen ears were tuned to catch the slightest sound. Suddenly he heard a muffled scream, one that sent a chill up his spine, for the outcry suggested the agony of fiendish torture. “X” knew he had the right lead.

  The scream came again. “X” crept forward more rapidly. He dared not switch on a flashlight. Suddenly he tripped over a small box. His excellent sense of balance enabled him to prevent a fall, but he upset the box. A loud, metallic clangor rang out as iron washers spilled onto the floor.

  “X” gritted his teeth. He fell into a tense crouch. A moment of deathly silence followed. Then a shaft of light shot ceilingward from the floor. A man emerged from a trapdoor. He gripped an automatic. The dazzling beam of a flash pierced through the heavy darkness.

  The light played on the spot where “X” had tripped. But he had leaped behind a machine. The bright ray focused on the overturned box of washers. The gunman rasped out a savage oath.

  The mobster crept forward. Evidently he had just been given a narcotic, else he would not have possessed this courage. The Agent began to circle noiselessly. His outthrust hands touched a board balanced precariously on top of a machine. It fell to the floor with a loud crack.

  A savage snarl came from the gunman. He swung around, but before he could shoot, “X” discharged his gas gun. “X” had several gas guns cached at his hideouts. One of them still lay where he had hid it when the federal men had caught him. Instantly there was a thud as the gangster’s automatic struck the floor. The man collapsed slowly, soundlessly.

  The Agent was at his side. He secured the man’s hands behind him, thrust a big gag into his mouth, and left the mobster hidden under a machine.

  At the trapdoor, he peered down cautiously. Stairs led into a dimly lighted corridor. Moans and screams and hysterical sobs issued from below. “X” reached the bottom of the stairs. Some one was running along the corridor. The Agent darted to the wall and crouched behind a barrel.

  Suddenly the mobster stopped. Every fiber of the Agent’s body tensed. Had the man seen him? “X” was too far away to use his gas gun.

  “Ain’t no use hidin’, fella!” snarled the killer. “Stand up and get your mitts in the air, or I’ll blast the roof off your skull. If your hands ain’t empty, you’ll sure die sudden.”

  SWIFTLY the Secret Agent stuck something in his mouth and closed his lips over it. He got up and walked toward his captor. A leer spread over the brutal face of the gunman. “X” approached him slowly, his hands stretched overhead.

  “Now turn around, and march to the council chamber, pally,” snarled the mobster. “Karloff is always glad to welcome any uninvited visitors. Guess you’ve never heard of the green death, buddy? It sure is a picture, watchin’ a guy squirm and crawl, while his whole body is turnin’ green. You don’t live long once it starts workin’, but you sure know you’re alive and sufferin’ while it lasts. Get going—”

  While the killer gloated, “X” had drawn in a deep breath. Now the end of a tiny rubber tube protruded from his lips. His cheek muscles contracted abruptly. A thin jet of colorless liquid spurted out of the tube’s mouth. The instant it contacted with the oxygen in the air, it vaporized. The mobster gave a startled gasp, clawed at space, and slumped to the floor.

  Still holding his breath, so he would not be overcome by the gas, “X” dragged the mobster to a room near by. In this room “X” rapidly disguised himself as his would-be captor. He thrust the man in a steel locker, went out. He did not know the gangster’s name, nor his duties. Suppose he should betray himself by a slip-up? Karloff would act on the slightest suspicion. The dreadful green death was an ever-present menace.

  Farther down the corridor he stopped before the cell from which the screams had come. He looked in, on a horrible sight. Karloff was dealing out more of his hideous discipline. Two raving hopheads were shackled in irons. In the center of the room stood a table. Chains secured the drug addicts so that they could get within a few inches of reaching a little glass case on the table. That case was filled with a white powder. Heroin. Enough to supply the most confirmed addict for a year. Yet these tortured men could not reach it.

  They could not be more abject, more pitiable if they were being burned at the stake. Their mouths foamed up the froth of the insane. One of them gnawed on his wrist. So intense was his agony that he was actually attempting to gnaw it off.

  While “X” watched, the madman crunched his teeth down on the bones. There was a sickening crack. Then nature rebelled. The maniac slumped in his chains, his head lolling forward and blood dripping from his mouth.

  The other victim of the sadistic Karloff kept swaying and bobbing like one in the wild ecstasy of a primitive religion. His eyes were like agate marbles. They looked as though they would pop from their sockets. His head was almost twice its normal size—from lumps caused by banging his skull against the stone wall. He stared at “X” and uttered a shrill, cackling laugh.

  “I’m dying, Hazen!” he screamed at the Agent, naming the mobster who had served as the model for “X’s” disguise. “The maggots are finishing me! Look at them! Millions of them. Crawling, crawling, crawling!” The madman uttered a blood-curdling shriek, and his body shook under great sobs. “Bring Karloff here, Hazen! I want Karloff! I want the beautiful green death—the beautiful green death!”

  A WAVE of nausea surged through “X.” He was about to turn away when he was aware some one stood behind him. He swung around, and looked into the evil, funereal face of Karloff. Always that hideous man approached with the stealth of a stalking cat. His dark face showed no emotion.

  “Crofton wants the green death, Hazen,” he spoke in his soft, insinuating manner, “The beautiful green death! You are young, Hazen, a young, stupid rodman. You are a slug compared to Crofton. He used to be one of the most brilliant chemists in the world. But he wasn’t smart enough to know better than to work against our organization. Take a lesson, Hazen. Never be too ambitious. Come, Hazen, the master will soon be here!”

  A thrill went through “X.” The master. At last, he would see the man whose cunning was devoted to the destruction of human souls and bodies. He followed Karloff into the council chamber. A score of men were congregated there. The atmosphere was tense, electric with excitement. Killers spoke in awed, subdued voices.

  At the end of the room was a space partitioned off. Across the front was a sheet of thick glass, and behind the glass, a network of steel mesh such as is found in a bank.

  “That is shatter-proof glass, Hazen,” said Karloff. “The Big Boss doesn’t take chances. No dopies will ever take a pot-shot at him.”

  The Agent did no talking except to answer in monosyllables. During the wait, he moved quietly about the room, listening intently. He heard much talk that told him nothing of importance. Then he stood near Karloff again. The local chief was giving instructions to one of his mobsters.

  “I want you to leave right after the big boss finishes his talk,” Karloff was saying. “The stuff will be hidden in ash-cans. If you’re stopped, you merely say you’re taking ashes to a farm to be used as fertilizer.”

  The mob chief talked at considerable length. “X” learned that a consignment of dope was to be sent out of the city. Karloff ordered the man to take the load via the Long Meadow Road, a more devious route, but a less patrolled one.


  Then a sudden stillness prevailed in the room. Men grew tense. All eyes focused on the glass shield. Behind it, a door opened. A tall, erect man appeared. He walked with an arrogant stride. A heavy black mask covered his face. Draped around him was a black cape.

  For a while he stood back of the bullet-proof glass and surveyed his audience. Then he began speaking in a deep, rumbling voice.

  “My message tonight will be brief, gentlemen. I wish to commend the members of this organization, and particularly Karloff, for their splendid and loyal endeavors. We have instituted an advertising campaign that has been a drastic departure from the usual methods. By giving away our product, we have created a demand that will continue to grow to enormous proportions.”

  The Big Boss explained that the campaign was one hundred per cent successful. A huge market for the drugs had been built up among wealthy and influential people. Daily, police and high officials were being snared into the drug ring!

  “Those in this organization who have proved their faithfulness will be amply rewarded,” continued the master. “All of you are patrons of our excellent product. If you work heart and soul for the organization, the day will come when you will be pensioned with a fortune and an inexhaustible supply of drugs.” There was irony in the man’s voice which the Agent did not miss. Beneath suave woods he was showing his sneering contempt of these poor, broken wretches. He went on more harshly:

  “I need not tell you the fate of the disloyal. You have seen with your own eyes what happens to them. Remember that Karloff’s word is law. He alone is responsible to me for the actions of all the members of our local organization. And remember that you are to co-operate as never before for the big sales campaign which lies just ahead. So far, we have been giving the stuff away. Next we start selling it—and then the golden flood will come in. That is all, gentlemen.”

  The Big Boss backed out the door. He had not talked long, he had not revealed much that the mobsters did not know, but his presence had been spellbinding, and his words had shocked the Agent. Soon the sale of the drugs was to start. Soon the country would be inundated with a hateful tide of narcotics.