Secret Agent X : The Complete Series Volume 3 Read online

  Soon money would be pouring out of addicts’ pockets into the coffers of the dread gang. Money—thousands, perhaps millions of dollars would go to build up an organization which should be stamped out like a nest of poisonous, sinister vipers. But who was this man? “X” did not know. His voice had been too much disguised for “X” to penetrate it.

  There was a long silence after the master’s departure, broken finally by Karloff, who dismissed the meeting.

  KARLOFF disappeared into a room adjoining the council chamber. That was the Agent’s cue. He quietly slipped out of the big room, and hurried from the building. In the darkness, he changed to a stock disguise which his skillful fingers built up quickly. A little later, in one of his hideouts, he quickly molded the features of A. J. Martin and put on the sandy-haired wig.

  He got in his fast roadster and made a swift trip far beyond the city limits. Soon he left the main highway and headed west until he reached a lonely spot on Long Meadow Road.

  Stalling the car crosswise on the road about fifty yards around a bend, he waited tensely for the mobsters. A few minutes later he heard the rumble of a truck, the rattle of tin cans. His eyes blazed with excitement. His face grew grim and hard. He changed to a savage, relentless fighting man, fiercely intent on defeating the great evil that was gnawing into America.

  Would the truck be supplied with armed guards? Would the odds be too great for a lone man to surmount? “X” got out of his car. He was keyed up to a high nervous tension. Maybe he had but a few seconds to live. He remembered the last time he had faced a machine-load of Karloff mobsters. Would the hopheads throw phosphorus bombs again? “X” did not carry lethal weapons. They would be armed to destroy.

  The dope truck careened around the bend. Headlights glared on the stalled car. The driver uttered a profane shout of rage. He jammed on the brakes. The truck skidded half around and came to a screeching stop. The headlights had been gleaming full on the Agent. With the car turned side-wise, “X” was enveloped in darkness.

  A machine gun rapped out a wicked tattoo of death. Bullets whined around the Agent. Something pulled at his coat as he threw himself off the road into the bushes. A bullet. He had missed death by a hairbreadth. In the concealment of the underbrush, he plunged toward the dope truck.

  Two mobsters manned it, and they were armed with sub-machine guns. The Agent hurled a gas bomb at the driver’s face. It struck him on the forehead. The man’s wicked snarl was cut short as the potent vapors took instant effect. The second mobster dived from the car. He raked the side of the road near “X” with a fierce volley of lead! Knowing only the general direction of the Agent, he did not score.

  “X” flung another bomb. Then a third one. The mobster saw the motion of his hand. He spat out ugly oaths. Then he gasped, choked. A stream of fire and lead poured from the Tommy gun, but the missiles plowed into the dirt road. For the Agent’s bombs had struck the gangster. The hophead was already succumbing to the powerful fumes as he triggered the gun. Now he sprawled out on the road, senseless.

  Giving the gas time to waft away, “X” then hurried to the truck. On it were loaded a dozen ash cans, heaped up with ashes. The Agent rolled a can off the truck and dumped the contents on the road in front of the headlights. At the very bottom were several small packages. “X” picked the bundles up and hefted them. Probably ten pounds or a little more.

  In a few minutes he had the other cans emptied. Each had contained, under the ashes, the same amount of dope as the first. A hundred and twenty pounds, “X” estimated. He gave a shrill whistle of amazement. More than ninety-two thousand dollars’ worth of dope. The Big Boss certainly had a business that made the old-time bootlegging of liquor look like a catch-penny enterprise.

  While he was working on the cans, “X” had heard the low put-put of motorcycles. Now gleaming spotlights were trained on Long Meadow Road. The motorcycles were coming at racing speed. The Agent hurried to get the narcotics into his car.

  He glanced behind the truck. Four motorcycles plunged toward him. The drivers wore olive-drab uniforms, carried guns in holsters. Cops. They swerved around the truck just as “X” was shifting into high. The Agent’s car was constructed for a rapid pickup. The motorcycles were close when he jammed down on the accelerator. The car leaped ahead. The cops fired warning shots. The Agent gripped the wheel grimly, kept his gleaming eyes fixed on the road ahead. The officers opened up on the rear of the ear in deadly earnest. If they punctured “X’s” tires, he was through.

  Chapter XVI

  CLUES

  THE Agent had one thing in his favor. His car could travel at great speed more safely on a dirt road than the motorcycles. If one of the cops got in the way of a large stone, he likely would find himself in the brush the next second, with a few broken bones. But those men were dare-devils.

  On the next turn, “X” started down a steep slope. Every hundred yards or so, he careened around a sharp turn. Not once did he ease up on the gas. The motorcycles had to slow down. It would be suicidal for the cops to take those turns at the Agent’s speed.

  The firing was infrequent now, because the officers had to keep their hands on the bars. “X” swung recklessly around the curves. The terrific driving played havoc with his tires, but that did not matter. All he asked was that they would last until he got out of this danger.

  He reached the bottom of the hill. The cops were out of sight, but he could hear their machines. He struck a straightaway. The wheels hit a large plank in the road. The car leaped. It landed with the wheels turned, headed for a ditch. “X” clamped his jaws and fought for control of the car. One wheel went slightly over the edge. He swung hard to the left, brought the auto back into the road.

  The cops were just reaching the straightaway when the Agent swerved onto the paved highway. He traveled at roaring speed until he reached the suburbs. Then he slowed to the limit, and headed up a side street. He had thrown off pursuit.

  A few minutes later he was in the laboratory of Howard Fenwick, and the great chemist was working over the dope “X” had confiscated. At the Agent’s insistence, he was lavish with the narcotic, running a dozen tests in as many tubes simultaneously. When he finished, he was frowning and shaking his head.

  “It’s beyond me, Mr. Martin,” he said apologetically. “I’ve tried every known test, looked for all the known alkaloids. There seems to be only one explanation. It sounds nutty, but it must be true. The dope is synthetic, made by some method of which I’m ignorant.”

  “X” frowned, tensed. The chemist’s conclusion had almost the effect of a physical blow. Synthetic. No wonder the Federal narcotic men and detectives had failed. No wonder they could not check the poisonous flood of dope when they were looking into the wrong source. They were hunting for smugglers bringing it into the country, whereas the drug was a home product. The Agent spoke harshly, staring straight before him.

  “That means the stuff can be manufactured in tremendous quantities and at a low cost!” he said.

  Fenwick nodded. “Undoubtedly. The raw materials, whatever they are, likely cost far less than crude opium. The method of synthetic production probably requires much less labor. Besides, the risk of smuggling is eliminated, and also transportation expenses from the Orient.”

  The Agent was appalled by this astounding revelation. Compared to the man who controlled the synthetic manufacture of dope, the smugglers were dwarfed into mere public nuisances. With this weapon of synthetic narcotics, a person with a twisted, criminal mind could reduce the entire country to his will, unless his evil activities were stopped almost at the beginning. And the gang “X” was fighting was getting ready now to launch its tremendous sales campaign.

  FROM the laboratory the Agent hurried to the office he kept under the name of A. J. Martin. His desk was stacked with news stories of the drug menace that had been delivered by a clipping bureau. The story heads explained how the law forces were bungling, how the blight was spreading.

  BORDER PATROL CLASHES WITH DO
PE SMUGGLERS

  —

  FEDERAL MEN NAB CHINESE OPIUM CHIEF

  —

  MORPHINE BROUGHT IN VIA AIRPLANE

  —

  DOPE-CRAZED BANK PRESIDENT EMBEZZLES $150,000

  —

  NARCOTICS INVADE THE SOCIAL REGISTER

  —

  DRUG HABIT CAUSES DEBUTANTE SUICIDE

  —

  Smugglers, opium, airplanes. The whole detective force was wrong. There were smugglers, yes—and drugs brought across the border by airplane. But the dope plague was not the outgrowth of pioneer methods. The longer the federal men searched on the wrong trail, the stronger the Big Boss was becoming in his bid for despotic power in America.

  “X” thought of Twyning then, the chemist killed in Whitney Blake’s penthouse. Now that he knew the drug was synthetic, the Agent had a sudden idea of the motive for the homicide, a motive that had little to do with self-defense. Undoubtedly Twyning had been connected with the manufacture of the drug. Could it be that the man had actually discovered the formula?

  Suppose he had fought against the illegal use of the synthetic dope? The Big Boss might have made him a drug addict to break his will. “X” recalled that hectic night in the Blake penthouse. A moment before his sudden death, Twyning had headed directly for Silas Howe. That, in the light of his new knowledge, seemed to add weight to his suspicion that Howe might be a possible member of the drug ring.

  In any case, the dead Twyning was “X’s” next lead. He called Jim Hobart at once, ordering him to learn all he could of the slain chemist. He suggested that Hobart detail Walter Milburn and the nervy Allan Grant, formerly a newspaper legman, on the same lead.

  They were skilled operatives, relentless when trailing down information which their boss wanted. “X” ordered that Silas Howe, the reformer, be shadowed also. He set the grimly efficient Bates organization to watch Karloff’s headquarters. He was doing everything he could, throwing all his resources into this greatest fight of his career.

  Eighteen hours passed with no headway made. Then Jim Hobart strode into the office “X” maintained as Martin.

  “I talked to several employees at Paragon Chemicals, boss,” said Hobart. “This fellow, Twyning, seems to have been a pretty good scout. Could handle tough formulas as easy as a kid rattles off A, B, C. Used to work after hours. Sometimes he kept at it all night. Always experimenting. Not a sign of drug addiction. No mixer at all. Didn’t know much when it came to anything but chemistry. Some of the laboratory workers spoke of him as a genius.”

  “Did he talk about his work?” asked the Agent eagerly.

  “That’s just the point, boss,” replied Hobart. “He didn’t. He was always willing to discuss the latest discoveries, but not a peep about his own work except, of course, his routine duties. The fellow had been with Paragon Chemicals for years. High-salaried guy, too. Then four weeks ago he didn’t show up. That was the last they saw of him, until his body was identified in the morgue.”

  Hobart’s information backed up some of “X’s” conjectures. Twyning had been considered a genius, an indefatigable worker, a persistent experimenter. Such a man logically could have come upon the formula for synthetic dope.

  Later in the day, Hobart returned with another report.

  “I found a lodging house near the Paragon Chemicals plant where Twyning had rented a cheap dump of a bedroom under an assumed name and these were in it,” said the operative, handing the Agent a packet of letters. “He used the room, I guess, when he worked late and didn’t want to go to his apartment. His rent was paid six months in advance, and the landlady didn’t know he was dead. I found nothing about Twyning there, but there’s some information in these letters. Silas Howe, that reformer guy, holds majority stock in Paragon Chemicals. Maybe there’s something in it.”

  The Agent leaped to his feet. His eyes flashed. That was it. Hobart had brought in the missing part of the puzzle. Twyning, the chemical genius, the tireless experimenter, had worked for Paragon Chemicals. Silas Howe practically owned the company. Twyning had made this gigantic, revolutionary discovery. Silas Howe had stolen the formula. That certainly seemed logical. Hadn’t Twyning, his eyes blazing murderously, come at Howe with a knife?

  Chapter XVII

  A VIPERS NEST

  THE Agent was leaving his office when Jim Hobart rushed in for the third time, with Allan Grant close behind. Though the former detective was not the easily ruffled type, he was actually trembling with excitement,

  “We’ve found another gang headquarters, boss!” he exclaimed, “No dirty, abandoned old dump, no dopie hideout this time! We bumped into a ritzy office, full of swank and right up to the minute. I played a hunch and sent Grant to answer an ad in the Herald calling for young men and women of hoity-toity social connections. And what did they want! Young society folks to distribute a fancy brand of cigarette among their friends. A smooth-looking dame offered Grant a fat salary to give the stuff away. Grant palmed a couple of smokes. I tried one. Two puffs and you almost hit the ceiling. It wouldn’t take many of those cigarettes to make a fellow get a Napoleon hat and start out to conquer the world.”

  The Agent’s face hardened, though an eager light shone in his eyes. More evidence of the master’s insidious cunning. Give the Big Boss a few more days—another week at the most—and his organization would be so firmly imbedded that the country’s entire law force would not be able to tear out its roots. The death thrust had to be made right away. Within the next few hours. With the drug so potent, with so many people falling prey to the habit, even another full day might mean victory for the Big Boss.

  “Splendid work, Hobart,” praised “X.” “But the real job is ahead if I want to get a scoop for the paper. You two come with me. Where is this office?”

  “In the Quinault Building,” said Hobart.

  The operative named a skyscraper near the center of the city. But it was to another building that the Agent went, one where Silas Howe kept an office for his vice-suppression activities. “X” learned from the elevator captain that the reformer wasn’t in. The three men waited. For once “X” felt that it was wise to have help. Too much was at stake tonight. The happiness, the very lives of thousands. He himself might be killed. There must be someone to carry on the work. But Jim and his aides still thought of him only as Martin, the newspaper man.

  Night had spread over the city when “X” saw Howe enter with a couple of prominent social workers. It was amazing how the self-styled reformer maintained his sanctimonious front. For years he had been the bane of theatrical producers and book publishers with his vitriolic attacks. He was in the vanguard of every reform, every crusade.

  The Agent waited for Howe to come out. That was two hours later. The reformer’s companions were still with him. “X” frowned and tightened his mouth grimly. Possibly Howe would devote this night to social work. The time would be lost, listening to him rage and declaim across the rostrum at a public assemblage. “X” had hoped to follow the man to a hideout where he would see him in his true character.

  For several blocks Howe walked with his associates. “X” was disturbed. He had hoped to bear down on this man tonight, but he had no direct evidence yet. Then the Agent’s face brightened; Howe’s companions left the reformer. The man turned a corner.

  A few minutes later Howe was entering the Quinault Building. Now was the time for careful maneuvering, for patience. “X” did not want to put the man on guard by a hasty move. Once more he waited. Soon Howe reappeared.

  The reformer’s next stop was his own apartment building, the same building where Blake lived. That caused “X” a few moments of concern. Howe had a suite there. Possibly he was retiring for the night.

  Then a thrill went through the Agent. Howe did not turn in the front way. He was using the servant’s entrance, slinking in furtively. “X” snapped quick orders to his operatives.

  “You two watch across the street! If I need you, I’ll signal to you somehow. Be on the looko
ut every instant!”

  Pressing himself against the wall, the Agent edged through the deep shadows. He paused in the darkness, watching and listening tensely. Then he darted through the door behind Howe. He made no noise, but he could hear Howe’s footsteps far down the corridor. “X” followed swiftly, silently.

  He took out something from his pocket as he moved along. It was a stick of radium paint, unlike any other in the world, and with it he left marks on the wall to guide his men in case he called them. He found himself in a maze of passageways, and there were many doors that could cause confusion.

  Howe was walking hurriedly, with the quickness of a man who has something to conceal. “X” sped down the winding corridor, raced into a dark passage, guided by the footsteps ahead. Behind him were the glowing marks of the radium paint, tiny lines and arrows. “X” was alert to his danger, to the possibility of rushing headlong into a trap. His tread on rubber-soled shoes was silent, yet there was a chance that guards were posted, that wicked eyes watched through hidden peepholes.

  A door slammed. “X” stopped, peered through the darkness. Was some one coming, or had that been Howe? The Agent went on slowly. He didn’t know what lay ahead. He thought of the horrible green death. With success so near, the Big Boss would strike swiftly. The slightest bungle meant annihilation for “X”! He felt his way down another corridor. At the far end, light gleamed faintly through a keyhole. He rushed to the door, listened tensely, then opened it.

  A GHASTLY purplish light struck his eyes. Standing in the shadows of an antechamber, he looked into a large room where at least a score of shambling, emaciated men, wearing goggles, were working at long, plate-glass tables under some sort of weird mercury-vapor lamps.

  The brilliant tubes glowed and sputtered. The wan and feeble men, moving like automatons, spread thin coatings of a viscid brownish substance over glass plates with long, pliant spatulas.