He ran his hands over “X’s” clothing, frisking him for weapons. The Agent’s various implements were securely hidden, safe except from a thorough search, but the professor found the gas gun in “X’s” holster under his coat, drew it forth. He apparently thought it was an ordinary revolver, for he threw it carelessly on his desk.
Then he seized the Agent by the arm once more, led him out into the hall to a small door. The Agent could see that the door to the room next to this was open, revealing a complete laboratory.
The professor took a heavy key from his pocket, opened the small door before which they were standing, and thrust the Agent in. Then he slammed the door, locked it.
“X” was now in complete darkness. He listened closely for any sound from the hallway, but could hear nothing—not even the receding footsteps of the professor and Lola. This told him that the door of the room into which he had just been locked was not only heavy, but also sound-proof. The Agent waited quietly until his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and until he had become assured that there was no one else in this room with him.
He manipulated his wrists against the wire which bound them, loosening it slowly. It was a long, arduous task there in the darkness. Soon he had the wire loose enough for him to slip his hands through. His wrists were cut and bruised. In the darkness he set about the task of inspecting his prison.
He took his fountain pen flashlight from his pocket, and sprayed the beam around. He was in a small closetlike room, no more than four feet square. It was absolutely bare.
“X” approached the door, knelt before it and took from his pocket the small, compact leather kit which contained a complete set of chromium tools. He held the flashlight between his knees, and went to work on the lock. It was not long before he heard a click as the tumblers yielded to his coaxing. He laid down his chromium tools, turned the knob and pulled on the door. But it did not give. The professor must have shot home a bolt or another fastening of some sort on the outside. He had not placed all his reliance on the lock. The Agent tugged at the door, but to no avail. He was effectually imprisoned in that little room.
He took from his kit a small chisel and a small, collapsible iron bar about a half inch in thickness. This bar was hollow within and contained other sections so that it could be elongated in the same fashion as a collapsible drinking cup. The Agent opened this to its full length of ten inches, and attached to the top a small hammer-head. He now had a complete hammer and chisel. He set to work upon the door. But he made little impression upon it. The solid oak resisted his efforts.
“X” did not give up. He moved around to the wall, tapped upon it at various spots until he heard the hollow sound which indicated that there was no beam here. He had seen the open door of the laboratory in the next room, and his hope was to break through the wall into the laboratory.
He set to work upon the wall with his hammer and chisel. The plaster gave easily before his onslaught. He stopped every once in a while, wondering why the noise he made had not attracted anyone. If the professor and Lola had already gone, they might have left the man, Hans, on guard. Hans must surely have heard the sound of the blows upon the wall. He might even be waiting at the other side to trap the prisoner as he was coming through. But “X” continued with his work. If Hans were waiting on the other side, that problem would have to be faced when he had broken through the wall.
Chapter IX
DOCTOR BLOOD SCORES AGAIN
IT required an hour and a half of patient, backbreaking work there in the little room with the meagre illumination furnished by the fountain pen flashlight before the Agent had succeeded in cutting a hole through the plaster large enough for him to wriggle through. Several times while he had been working, he had thrown the beam of his flashlight into the other room through the slowly widening aperture. It was the laboratory which he had noted from the corridor. But he saw, also, that the door to the laboratory was closed now. Whether it was locked or not remained yet to be seen.
The Agent’s face, coat, trousers and hands were covered with plaster when he finished. He squirmed through the hole in the wall after collecting his tools. With the aid of his flashlight, he crossed quickly to the door, tried it.
The door was locked.
“X” found the electric lightswitch, snapped it on, and set to work upon the door. Once more he heard the tumblers click. He turned the knob, pulled. But the door was apparently fastened on the outside in the same fashion as the door to the closet which he had been thrust into. It did not give.
The Agent tapped the wall on either side of the door. If he could find a hollow spot here, he might be able to work through into the corridor. In the closet next door he had not been able to do this, as the whole closet was hardly more than the width of the door, with very little wall to spare on either side. Here, however, there was three or four feet of wall space. But the beams ran solidly. The wall gave forth no hollow sound. There would be no chance to cut through at any point in the wall to the corridor.
Somberly the Agent turned and surveyed the laboratory. On one wall there was a glass case with the shelves full of bottles of all sizes containing liquids of varied colors.
“X” approached this cabinet, thoughtfully studied the labels on the bottles. A smile appeared on his face.
He picked out several of the bottles, one after the other, and brought them to the work bench. Here he found a test tube, into which he proceeded to pour certain quantities from each bottle. He handled the chemicals as if he had been accustomed to using them all his life. And indeed, he had. For the solution he was preparing now was in accordance with a chemical formula which he had himself designed. That formula now reposed in the secret files of the War Department of the United States. It was another contribution of the Agent’s to the safety of his country.
When he had finished his task, the Agent sealed the test tube, made a hole in the stopper, and inserted into it a splinter of wood which he cut from the bench. The liquid within the test tube had now assumed a sort of reddish brown hue. He laid it on the floor close to the door, and lit the splinter of wood.
Then he went to the hole which he had cut in the connecting wall, climbed back through it into the closet next door. From here he watched the improvised fuse burning down to the liquid within the test tube. When the fire reached the liquid, there came a blinding flash of light. There was the sound of tearing, splintering wood as the heavy door crashed outward. The entire building shook for a moment. A blinding cloud of smoke enveloped the room.
“X” waited a few moments longer until the smoke had drifted out into the corridor. Then he climbed through the hole and surveyed his handiwork.
The solution which he had placed within that test tube, was as potent as trinitrotoluene. It had torn the heavy door from its moorings, had slitted the wall, and had given the Agent his freedom.
“X” STEPPED over the debris into the corridor. He glanced swiftly from left to right, saw no one. If anyone had been in the house, he or she would certainly have started running at the sound of the splintering door. But everything was silent now.
Swiftly “X” went from room to room in the upper corridor, found them all emptied. He descended to the ground floor. Here it was dark. “X” used his flashlight again, entered the room at the front of the hall. He found the light switch, snapped it on, and stood still in the doorway, studying the thing he had suddenly perceived upon the floor. His face was etched into a grim mask as he approached and knelt beside the body which lay there.
It was Professor Hugo Langknecht. That is, it was what was left of Professor Hugo Langknecht. His white coat shone crimson under the light. He lay stretched out on his back, at full length, dead. His glasses had apparently been knocked off in the struggle which had resulted in his death, for they lay near him, the thick lenses still unshattered by their fall to the floor.
The professor’s throat was a raw, bloody, gaping wound. His jugular vein had been ripped open.
Secret Agent �
��X” cast a swift glance up and down the corridor, his keen ears listening for the slightest sound. There was no indication that anyone was in the house.
He dropped once more to examine Langknecht’s body. There was no question but that the professor had perished in the same way as Patterson and the other ten victims. His body was drained of blood. He seemed shriveled, shrunken, and the skin of his face appeared plastered to his cheek bones.
On the floor near him there were peculiar streaks—bloody streaks that might have been left by the claws of some monster of prey. All this must have happened while “X” was confined in that closet, while he was working his way out of the laboratory.
“X’s” eyes were bleak as be studied the cadaver of the psychiatrist. The Agent had suspected Langknecht of being the master of those human monsters which were committing the murders. But how to explain this he did not know.
The Agent left the body of Langknecht as it lay, and proceeded cautiously back into the hall. He encountered no one. The house was deserted now.
Outside, “X” surveyed the street, his keen eyes piercing into the shadows on all sides, making sure that the devilish cohorts of Doctor Blood had not remained behind to lay in wait for him as he emerged. The street was empty. He quickly climbed into his coupé.
Chapter X
BAIT FOR A TRAP
IT was almost eight o’clock when Secret Agent “X” arrived at the waterfront street on which stood the small house where he had left Laurento. He did not drive directly up to the building, but parked two blocks away, slid from his car, and approached cautiously, invisible in the shadows of the gloomy structures that lined the street. He stopped for a long time at the corner, standing motionless, with his coat collar turned up to hide the white gleam of his shirt front.
In a doorway opposite the house where he had left Laurento, he spotted the figure of a man. Some slight motion of that watcher had attracted “X’s” attention. Now the Agent’s eyes roved farther down the street, noted another doorway where there was also a dark blob of blackness like the figure of a man. His place was being watched.
He had expected this. Lola must have told Doctor Blood or his lieutenant of this place. Either she worked with Doctor Blood, or else pressure had been applied to her to make her talk. For some reason, however, she had omitted telling Doctor Blood that “X” was confined in the closet in Langknecht’s home.
“X” moved slowly, inches at a time, and rounded the corner. He worked his way halfway down the side street, and made sure that there were no watchers here. Then he sprinted across the street, and into a narrow alley between two tall warehouses. He made his way through this alley, hugged the rear wall of a garage until he had worked along close to the back of his own building.
Once more his figure became motionless as he studied the yard that he was in. Finally, assured that there were no watchers here, he opened the rear door of the garage with a pass key, slipped inside and felt his way along through the impenetrable darkness within. Working by his instinct alone, he found the trapdoor in the floor of the garage, which he knew would be there, lifted it up, and went down a short ladder after closing the door above him.
He swiftly traversed a narrow passage cut along the foundation wall of the garage until he came to another door, which he opened with his key. He was now in the basement of his own building. This was an emergency exit and entrance which no one knew about but himself.
He made no noise at all as he went upstairs, his keen ears attuned to the slightest sound which would show him that there were watchers within the house as well as those outside. But he heard nothing. He went through the entire house without finding anyone anywhere, he then approached the room where he had left Laurento.
He turned the knob slowly, silently, his long agile fingers moving it only a fraction of an inch at a time. He had put out the light in the hall, so that when he got the door opened just a crack, there would be nothing to indicate to anyone who might be waiting within that the door was being opened.
His eye, close to the crack, saw nothing but darkness within. He recalled distinctly having left a light on in that room.
For a long minute he kept his ear near that crack, but heard nothing. He took out his flashlight, held it ready, and kicked open the door. In his right hand, he held ready another gas gun, which he had supplied himself with from his reserve arsenal hidden in one of the other rooms. He snapped on his flashlight, swung it quickly over the room.
There was no one there.
The bed upon which he had left Laurento was empty. And at that moment he caught the sound of stealthy footsteps from the floor below.
Doctor Blood had laid a trap—but he had removed the bait. And now the trap was sprung.
THE Agent extinguished his flashlight, softly closed the door of the room and stole quietly to the head of the stairs. He sensed now that many men had entered the house. There was no sound, no shadow of movement, but his instincts told him that he was being hemmed in by adversaries.
The stillness in the house was ominous, pregnant with dreadful peril. Soon the Agent’s eyes detected a slight blur of movement in the darkness of the floor below. His stalkers were coming up.
He followed the shadowy movements of the men on the floor below, counted at least four of them. They must have been outside, watching the room from which they had removed Laurento, must have been watching for the light. They knew now that he was in the house.
The Agent was sure that Doctor Blood would have made certain to prepare an unbreakable trap—for he surely suspected now that the man he was trying to corner here must be Secret Agent “X”.
Even as he watched, the Agent understood what the attackers’ plans were. For he saw the figure of the first man who reached the foot of the stairs raising a hand as if to hurl something. They knew he was up here, and they apparently intended to hurl another of the gas bombs similar to the one that Laurento had used in the commissioner’s office.
“X” retreated swiftly from the head of the stairs, sought the ladder which led to the roof. He climbed it quickly, unlatched the skylight, and pushed upward. But it would not open. His mouth set in a grim line. He realized that Doctor Blood had not overlooked any tricks. The skylight had been nailed up from above. His escape was cut off in that direction.
Just as the Agent began to descend the ladder again, there was a tinkling crash on the floor of the landing. One of the men below had hurled up the gas bomb. Almost at once the entire corridor was suffused with a peculiar, cloying, bitter-sweet odor.
The Agent recognized it at once. It was the distinctive odor of hydrocyanic acid—quick acting, deadly. Doctor Blood was not taking any half measures with him.
“X” did not wait to descend rung by rung. He leaped from the topmost step to the floor, sped down the corridor away from the quickly spreading fumes. He tore open the door of the front room where he kept his paraphernalia and equipment, and slammed the door behind him. That would be only a feeble obstacle against the insidious gas. For the hydrocyanic would enter shortly through the crack under the door. But the Agent did not pause to worry about this.
He opened a closet, pressed a spot in the wainscoting, and a section of the wall in the closet opened outward. Behind this wall was a shallow cavity with rows of hooks upon which hung dozens of various ingenious objects. From among these the Agent selected a gas mask and respirator.
He closed the closet door, and with nimble fingers donned the gas mask. He took two or three breaths through the nozzle to be sure that the respirator was functioning properly, then he drew his gas gun and marched out into the corridor. He switched on the electric light, walked to the staircase and went down quickly. He was quite sure that he would encounter nobody now, for the men who had flung that bomb containing the hydrocyanic acid would certainly not have remained within the building.
On the ground floor he peered out through the front window, saw several dim shapes on the opposite side of the street. They were holding sub-machine gun
s.
Behind the mask, “X’s” lips spread in a thin grin. No effort was being spared to make sure that he perished. If by any chance he should succeed in coming out through that front door, in surviving the deadly gas which by now was filling the entire house, they were prepared to mow him down with those guns.
The Agent hesitated only an instant, then started back to the rear of the house, descended to the cellar and made his way out through the subterranean tunnel which led back to the garage. Once out in the open air of the backyard, he took off his gas mask, carried it under his arm, and stole swiftly along the alley to the street.
He moved like a shadow, slipping from one blob of darkness to another, watching keenly to make sure that no one was posted on this side street. Those men were concentrated on the front. Doubtless they had scouted the neighborhood before setting their trap, had been convinced that there was no rear exit from the building.
WHEN he was satisfied that the coast was clear, the Agent slipped across the street, faded into the darkness in the direction of his parked coupé. He had escaped from the jaws of the trap. But his work was yet to be done. His unknown enemy had placed him upon the defensive, had caused him to lose valuable time in this race with death—for the Agent still bore in mind that on the following day Norman Marsh was to die. And “X’s” clue had been wrested from him; all the leads which he had been attempting to work upon had been destroyed by the quick action of Doctor Blood. Langknecht was dead. Laurento had been spirited away.
There remained the woman, Lola, and Hans, if they could be found. There was also the possibility that Bates’ men might turn up something on Grover Wilkerson, the demented financier. Beyond that there was nothing.
As he drove along now, he was careful to watch in his rear vision mirror. But he was not being followed. Apparently he had successfully eluded the watchers outside his house.
He listened now to the routine police broadcast which came over the short wave radio receiver on the dashboard. Somehow, he was sure he detected an edge of nervousness in the voice of the police announcer. Many of the orders had to do with the precautions that were being taken by the police to protect the doomed men. They indicated that the police still believed that Doctor Blood was employing beasts of prey to do his vicious work. One of these orders in particular was interesting.
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