Secret Agent X : The Complete Series Volume 3

by Emile C. Tepperman

  CRASH. Agent “X” stifled the anger he felt as one of Lo Mong Yung’s rare vases was knocked to the floor and smashed to bits. He heard the voice of the aged Chinaman rise calmly, “You do injustice to my feeble attempts to honor this visit. You humiliate me by breaking the lesser of my art pieces. That is only a poor offering of the great Chu Tse-min, who went to rest in the dragon’s horn during the Yuan Dynasty.”

  Listening at the microphone, “X” realized from Inspector Bower’s mumblings that the Chinaman had taken the wind out of the squad man’s sails.

  A bulldog sort like Bower wasn’t the kind to volunteer an honest apology, but shortly afterward, certain that Lo Mong Yung was alone, he did hustle his men out of the office, leaving Lo Mong Yung to contemplate the ruin of his ancient vase.

  Presently the Chinaman touched Pien Lan’s scroll again. The filing cabinet rolled forward, and Secret Agent “X” stepped into the room.

  “The bull has invaded the China shop, my son,” spoke Lo Mong Yung calmly. “But the scattered fragments of Chu Tse-min’s vase make me rejoice to think that we still are here to gaze upon them. I believe the honorable official is convinced that I had no strange visitor, that all I entertained were the sad memories of a life misspent in folly and indiscretion.”

  “I am forever in your debt, O father,” said Secret Agent “X,” “and I am sorry that I am the cause of this invasion of your sanctuary. But now I must say farewell and bid you long years of full rice bowls and warm coverings.”

  Lo Mong Yung looked startled for the first time.

  “You will stay surely!” he said. “In these poor quarters you have refuge at least. Outside you will be a hunted creature, doomed to become a prey in the ravening clutches of the law.”

  Agent “X” knew that Lo Mong Yung didn’t exaggerate the danger. But he knew, too, that no matter how long he waited in Ming Tong headquarters the police would not be recalled from Chinatown as long as Police Commissioner Foster was shouting for results. Meanwhile the drug evil was spreading. The duty of the Agent was plain. He must find out about this dope ring that was recruiting cannon, and see whether it was behind the mysterious spread of this sinister narcotic.

  When Lo Mong Yung understood that “X’s” mind was made up, he stopped his protests and gave “X” the address of an underworld dive and instructions that would enable him to reach the inner circle of the drug ring.

  Armed with information that gave him something to work on, “X” left the office of the Ming Tong. The corridor was clear, but he could hear footsteps on the floor below. There was no chance of getting out of the building by the front entrance, and cops were probably at the back door.

  At the end of the hallway was a small window. The Agent moved stealthily toward it. He shoved up on the frame. Moisture or paint made the window stick, but suddenly his efforts caused it to fly up with a bang. The noise wasn’t loud, but it was thunderous to “X” who wanted to go in silence.

  Some one shouted. Others took up the call of alarm. A man ran up the stairs, reaching the landing below as the Agent was going through the window. It was one of Bower’s men.

  The detective’s automatic roared, and the report echoed thunderously through the house. The bullet dug into the sill, but the Agent had catapulted through the window onto the slanting, corrugated terra-cotta roof of a Chinese restaurant designed after the pattern of an Oriental temple.

  He intended climbing over this to the flat roof of a Chinese hotel. But halfway up the slanting side he was spotted. Sub-machine guns were trained on him. Inspector Bower shouted for him to give up. The squad chief warned the Agent just once, then barked an order for his men to fire.

  The cops began shattering the terra-cotta on each side of “X.” It meant suicide to buck such odds. The Agent stopped climbing and slid, down to the eaves of the roof. Through the fog-laden darkness from the street, it appeared that he had been hit. His legs were hanging over the side. It seemed that his belt buckle, caught in the gutter, kept him from falling to the ground.

  “We got him,” said the inspector harshly. “Keep him covered and climb out there. See what’s happened to him. But watch out. We don’t know whether he’s dead or trying to pull a fast one.”

  AGENT “X” did intend to pull a fast one, but it had to be exceedingly fast—or fail entirely. He couldn’t afford the slightest misplay. Bower had sent two men out on the roof and cops were milling in the street. Others had been sent into the Chinese hotel.

  A narrow alleyway separated the tong headquarters from this, but the drop would break every bone in the Agent’s body. He was covered from the street and not more than four feet away, a detective had a gun on him.

  Before Agent “X” had leaped from the Ming Tong house, however, his photographic brain had recorded that under the eaves right below him was an opened window to the third story of the restaurant. That window figured in his daring plan. But he hung limply until the detective with the gun sprang across to him.

  The dick got a footing in the rainwater gutter and a hand-hold on a half-circle of terra-cotta roofing. Agent “X” caught a glimpse of his face. It was Bartholdy, the man he had temporarily knocked out. The detective spoke savagely now.

  “Hell! There’s that dragon-head ring that crocked me cold as a cod. But you won’t trick me again, Chink, not by a damn sight!”

  “X” heard Bartholdy suck in a deep breath. The plainclothes cop didn’t intend to inhale any more sleep-producing gas tonight. But, to get the ring and prevent the supposed Chinaman from falling at the same time, the detective had to drop his automatic in his pocket.

  This he did, still holding his breath. Then he grabbed the Agent by the back of the coat and began slipping the large gold-wrought, rose onyx ring from “X’s” finger.

  Bartholdy wasn’t aware that his prisoner, whom he thought dead or unconscious, held a gun in his right hand which was wedged in the gutter under his body. The swirling, dank fog helped the Agent.

  He waited until Bartholdy had removed the ring and exhaled. Then “X” himself took a deep breath and held it. The next instant he whipped his gas gun out and fired at close range. Bartholdy caught the full effect of the anesthetic vapor as he inhaled.

  He uttered a faint sigh like a tired man and collapsed. His foot, jammed in the gutter, prevented him from going over the side. The Agent muscled up beside the unconscious detective. Death was close at his elbow. He must hurry if he expected to get away at all. But he wouldn’t leave Detective Bartoldy without first making certain that the man wouldn’t fall. He insured against this by thrusting the detective’s hands and arms under two half-circles of terra cotta. Bartholdy was safe now, far safer than Agent “X.”

  Men were bounding up the stairs of the Ming House. Bower shouted to Bartholdy and, getting no answer, began giving orders like a general planning an attack.

  Agent “X” lowered himself quickly until he was hanging below the eaves, many feet above the street, like a man suspended above the brink of doom. In spite of the curtain of fog the sharp eyes of Bower spotted him.

  “He’s getting away! Powell—Lorimer—get the lead out of your feet and nab that Chink!”

  Because of the danger of hitting Detective Bartholdy, Bower had the good sense not to order another burst of sub-machine gun fire. This was what “X” had counted on. He swung to the window ledge and was through the opening as Detectives Powell and Lorimer rushed to the window in the Ming house. They shouted commands for him to halt, threatened to drop him, but “X” ducked out of sight and ran into a room filled with frightened Chinese.

  None of the Orientals tried to stop him. They saw him as a Manchu, a Mingman, and a brother. He opened a door. Three plainclothes men and two uniformed cops had reached the head of the stairs. They hadn’t seen him before and weren’t sure of his identity. Their hesitation gave “X” a chance to slam the door shut and lock it. Instantly there was an uproar on the other side, pounding on the panels, then the crash and splinter of wood as the officer
s rammed shoulders against the door.

  A Chinaman directed “X” to another exit with a slight shift of his glance. The Agent streaked across the room and was through the door. He raced down three flights to the kitchen and got out the back way before the Chinese cooks recovered from their startled surprise.

  He plunged down a twisting alley, vaulted a fence, and sped along the narrow space between two brick buildings, entering the first back door he reached. Here he found himself in a second-hand clothing store. The proprietor jumped up, uttering a startled yell. He made a grab for a phone, thinking evidently that “X” was a hold-up man. The Agent gave him a quick shove into a pile of old suits and streaked past him.

  HE reached the street door and paused suddenly. For a moment his wild exertions over the past few minutes told upon him. An old wound in his side, received on a battlefield in France, and curiously enough drawn into a scar that was shaped like a crude “X,” gave him a twinge of pain. Surgeons at the time that wound had been made by a piece of whizzing shrapnel had predicted that he could not live. But the Agent’s amazing vitality and unconquerable will had won out. The X-shaped scar seemed symbolic of the qualities that made Secret Agent “X” a fighter who refused ever to quit.

  He straightened now. Then strode calmly out into a street that during the daytime was a main business artery. Behind him lay Chinatown, swarming now with cops and detectives, searching through the chill fog for a mysterious Manchu.

  Because there was still a slight chance that someone was on his trail, Agent “X” took a devious route to his mid-town hideout, an apartment furnished with equipment and clothes for his numerous disguises.

  He rode a subway to an express stop, walked two blocks crosstown to an elevated, and rode the local a few stations downtown. After that he changed taxis three times, and finally paid off a cab driver a block from his apartment.

  Once in his hideout, he went to work swiftly to create a new disguise. He removed the black mohair suit that had fitted the role of a dignified Manchu tongman. In his undershirt and shorts Agent “X” showed a lean, supple, muscular body that had the condition and reflexes of a champion pugilist’s.

  Quickly he stripped off the makeup which had given him the appearance of an Oriental. Beneath it was a remarkable face that not even his few intimate associates had ever knowingly seen. Strong, distinguished features full of power and character were there. The slightly curving line of the nose marked hawklike stamina. The piercing, brilliant eyes were clear lenses that transferred sharply defined pictures to a highly geared brain mechanism.

  Not only was the identity of this man marked with mystery, but there was mystery even in these features. For different lights changed them almost as effectively as did his disguises. Looked at from the front they seemed remarkably youthful. But light falling on them from an oblique angle brought out the maturity of one who had been through a thousand strange and harrowing adventures. Sometimes in overhead rays Agent “X” seemed to have the long sensitive face of a scholar. With light coming up from below, his broad, fighting chin was most prominent.

  With dexterous, experienced fingers Agent “X” worked plastic, volatile make-up material over his face, covering the skin first with ingenious flesh-colored pigments. He got up from his triple-sided mirrors after a few minutes and put on a salt-and-pepper cheviot of shrieking design, such as one would expect a race-track tout to wear.

  He added patent-leather shoes and spats, and tipped a dove-gray hat on his head so that the rim came just to the hair-line. Over his head he slipped an ingeniously made toupee fashioned in a sporty sailor’s haircut, with the back of the neck shaved up to where the thick hair bulged out.

  When he walked from his hideout the “Man of a Thousand Faces” had achieved a new character. He was now “Spats” McGurn, professional mobster and gunman, eager to quote homicide rates to the highest bidder.

  At a casual glance he didn’t look tough. He had slightly thickened one ear and broadened the bridge of his nose to suggest that he had served an apprenticeship in the prize ring.

  THE Agent knew his characterization would be more effective if he didn’t give himself too tough an appearance. He looked like a person who spent his time in dance halls and pool rooms, one who prided himself on being a classy dresser. But “X” had changed the line of his mouth to suggest cruelty. He had molded his features so that he could if he chose register intense viciousness.

  Taking a taxi to the slum districts of the city he got off at a section that did its share in keeping the state penitentiary populated. The Agent’s destination was the address given him by Lo Mong Yung. This was a pool room on London Avenue called the “Big Kid’s,” known to the police as a hangout of small-time gamblers, petty racketeers, sneak-thieves, and loafers who were studying to be criminals. What the police didn’t know was that below the pool room, a dope ring was organizing and plotting activities.

  The Big Kid’s had a small bar, thirty pool and billiard tables, slot machines against the walls, and back rooms for card games where suckers could be cold-decked. The air was blue with tobacco smoke, loud with the click of pool balls and the profane talk of the players.

  “X” spotted the proprietor, Dan Sabelli, whose three hundred pounds of quivering blubber deserved the name “big,” but who was forty years from being a “kid.”

  He was a sweating, bleary-eyed, wheezing man, who controlled enough votes to swing the district to his advantage. His pouchy, flabby-jowled, veined face was familiar to police line-ups. He had been indicted sixteen times for crimes ranging from petty larceny to homicide, but had never been convicted. The Agent had business with him, but he took his time.

  He looked over the pool players for a while, took part in a couple of games, then deliberately picked a quarrel with a thick-necked giant of a man. “X,” as Spats McGurn, insulted the giant, provoked a fist fight and neatly knocked him out with a tricky left and two well-placed rights.

  Dan Sabelli, the Big Kid, lumbered over at once, wheezing, puffing, and growling orders to attendants to get the senseless man into a back room quickly. He stepped up to Agent “X” angrily.

  “Listen, guy! If you’re feelin’ tough tonight scram out ’o here! Do you want to have the cops droppin’ in and botherin’ the boys? That ain’t no way to help business! Start lammin’ if you know what’s good fer yer.”

  “Sorry, Dan,” the Agent apologized. “A mug insulted me and I had to let him have it. He was askin’ for it. They can’t get tough with Spats McGurn, see? An’ before I leave this lousy joint I got some business to transact. You’re makin’ a book, ain’t you? And while I’m here I’m gonna slap on a few bets fer tomorrow’s races. The ponies always act right when I’m wearing these rags.”

  He took the Big Kid by one blubbery arm and led him away from the others. His voice sank to a hoarse whisper.

  “I like Iron Man in the fifth at New Orleans tomorrow,” he said.

  The Big Kid gave a start and studied the Agent with a piercing gaze. “X’s” last comment had been the countersign which would admit him to the inner circle of the dope ring. It had been included in the instructions given him by Lo Mong Yung.

  “All right, fella,” said the Big Kid. “I get you. Take that back door on the right. Go into the fourth room on the left. Wait there.”

  “X” nodded casually. He lighted a cigarette, sauntered to the rear of the pool hall and wandered down the corridor to the designated room. It seemed to be an ordinary card room, garnished with a round table and a half dozen chairs. On the walls were photos of vaudeville queens and pugilists.

  BUT the moment the Agent was inside, the door closed, and there was an ominous click. He did not need to turn the knob. He knew he was locked in.

  His eyes glowed more brightly, but his features did not change. He puffed on his cigarette and seated himself at the table. An old pack of cards lay scattered on the circle of green felt; “X” gathered them in, shuffled them, and started a game of solitaire. He was certain
he was under close surveillance.

  On the back wall was secured a large full-length picture of John L. Sullivan. Suddenly some one spoke and “X” whirled. The voice came from the lips of Sullivan’s picture, and those lips moved. Also the eyes were gleaming at him, and they were alive. The Agent saw then that the eyes and mouth of the picture had been cut out. Yet they had been in place when he entered. Possibly they worked on hinges. Now some one was behind the picture, studying him and speaking.

  “Who got you interested in Iron Man?” demanded the voice behind John L. Sullivan’s picture.

  The Agent answered quickly. “Hoppy Joe said I could pick up some nice change if I had the right dope,” he said.

  The hidden questioner remained silent for a second, apparently deliberating. Hoppy Joe was a Mingman, one of the spies detailed by Lo Mong Yung to ferret out the secret of the dope blight that caused suspicion to be thrown upon the tong. The Chinaman had worked his way into a membership in this drug ring. That was how Lo Mong Yung knew the counter-sign which he passed on to the Agent. There was a chance of difficulties, however, for Hoppy Joe, instead of being a narcotic victim, was in reality a scholarly young Chinese named Shen-nang Ti.

  The Agent waited tensely for the man behind the picture to speak. Suppose the Chinaman’s identity had been discovered? What if it had been learned that Shen-nang Ti was a spy?

  No trace of out-of-character emotion showed in his face, or gestures, however. The hidden man was studying him intently. The Agent was careful to maintain his attitude of insolent confidence as the gangster, Spats McGurn. The cigarette hung loosely from his lip. He raised one eyebrow impudently. Finally the unseen man demanded his name and details of his career.

  “Pete McGurn,” said “X” at once. “They call me Spats out West. Chi’s my home town, but I rode the rails out when the goin’ got bad. Down along the Mex border I got to be quite a handy man. Ran snow, coke, a little poppy paste and some heroin. Never bothered with marahuana. That’s greaser stuff and not for smart guys like me. I played all the spots from Laredo to Nogales, till the Border got too hot for me. I came North with a nice stake, but blew it on a dame. That’s why I want to go to work.”