A few minutes later, “X” followed the young man’s example, pushed open the door at the rear, and entered a room into which no light penetrated. For a moment, he stood perfectly still, listening to the sound of approaching footsteps. Suddenly, an ornate, pierced brass lamp above his head was turned on. He found himself confronting the Latin-American who had met him at the door of the restaurant.
“X” uttered a cracked, drunken laugh and put his hand familiarly upon the shoulder of the Latin. “’S funny, everytime I open a door in thish place I find you. Your name’sh goin’ to be Albert. Now what I want, Albert, ish one lil old pipe and pill to put in it.”
The man frowned. “I am sorry, sir. You are laboring under a misapprehension.”
“X” WAGGED his head. “No such thing. Just laborin’ under a yen to twisht up a few.”
“I don’t understand you, sir. Perhaps you had better go back—”
“X” clapped the man on the shoulder. “Sure, you gotta be careful. But not with me, no shir! I’m a genuine, bonifie’ Yen Shee Kwoi,” he said using the term for opium smoker which, though Chinese, was familiar to nearly every addict. “Here, maybe, maybe thish lil old thing will put me right with you.” He fumbled in the pocket of his vest and brought out the tiny brass three-fingered hand which he had removed from the pocket of Jeff Lucko.
Recognition glimmered in the Latin’s eyes. He bowed his head. “Of course, any friend of China Bobby’s is welcome. Just follow me.”
The man led the way to a door at the end of the hall. He unlocked the door, and pointed to a flight of winding steps that extended down beneath the surface of the earth.
“Here,” the Agent thrust a five-dollar bill into the man’s hand, “just a lil token of my eshteem, Albert. Happy dreams!” And on seemingly unsteady legs, he began the descent of the stairs. Behind him, the door closed with an ominous clangor.
The circular staircase ended in a stone arched doorway. There “X” was met by an ivory-faced Chinese wearing American evening clothes. He looked “X” over from head to foot as if trying to determine his worth—in dollars. “X” would have passed the Chinese had not the latter stopped him.
“Just a minute, sir,” said the Chinese in perfect English. “You are of course not familiar with our methods. I have never seen you before. You will pay me before entering the dressing room. The price is sixty dollars.”
“Oh, sure,” replied “X” cheerfully. He pulled out a roll of bills large enough to make even the Chinaman blink. He peeled off the required amount, tossed the bills to the yellow man and stumbled through the door. There he found another Chinese attendant who offered to assist “X” in putting on a suit of embroidered silk pajamas.
“X” cursed the attendant from the room; then, as he staggered across the room, he purposely tripped over the cord of the only lamp in the small dressing-room. He knew that he would be expected to disrobe and put on the pajamas; for the true opium smoker usually spends at least twenty-four hours in his bunk after smoking his two pipes. “X” had feared that he would be watched through some secret opening while he was supposed to be in the act of undressing, and he had certain equipment in the pockets of his clothes that he dared not discard.
Under cover of darkness, he pulled the pajamas on over his clothes and buttoned them tightly around his neck. Since he had apparently entered the place somewhat the worse for drink, this action would not have aroused suspicion had it been discovered. With his knife, he slit the sides of his pajamas so that he could get his gun and other material at a moment’s notice.
He had scarcely completed this preparation, before the door of the dressing room opened and another attendant entered. This man was a Chinese and wore a plain silk, sack-like garment that reached nearly to his heels. He bowed low before “X”, and ushered him through a door into a large circular room.
Never before had Agent “X” seen such a place of beauty put to such a damnable purpose. The ceiling was a low dome formed by branches of a single carved tree, the trunk of which rose like a pillar from the center of the floor. Whether this tree was wrought of wood, metal, or of plaster composition, he could not tell. Bronzing metal in greens and golds tinted the profusion of artificial foliage that covered the ceiling.
And from the black, overhanging branches, tiny yellow lanterns shed light as pale moonbeams. Twined about the black trunk of the tree was a green dragon similarly wrought. From its nostrils and open mouth, wisps of incense smoke drifted lazily to mingle with the heady perfume of opium.
ABOUT the walls of the room were twenty or more bunks built into the walls. Some were closed off by filmy curtains of lustrous Oriental silk. Others were wide open, revealing the sprawled forms of their occupants. Some were wealthy men known to “X”. In a few of the bunks were women, once beautiful but now reduced to frowzy abandonment, twitching in dreams induced by the black smoke.
“X” was led to an open bunk upon which he dropped. The attendant departed. Somewhere in the apartment sounded the dreamy silvery tinkle of a bell. A panel, between two bunks directly opposite “X” slid open and closed again behind the svelte figure of a young Chinese girl. From across the room she appeared a creature of fragile, jewel-like beauty.
She busied herself for a moment over a tiny, teakwood table. This table she picked up and brought over to where “X” reclined. He watched her through somnolent eyelids. Hers was a flawless ivory complexion; yet, aside from her slanting eyelids, her features were more Caucasian than Chinese. A dark red poppy nestled in her dusky hair. As she raised her eyes to meet the Agent’s face, he noticed that her eyes, instead of the usual sloe-black eyes of her race, were deep blue.
She lighted the smoking-lamp, rolled a bit of opium gum from a box to the needle point of a yen hok. This she twirled in the flame of the lamp, watching the blue flame sputter. When the roasting was done, she deftly put the pill of opium into the brass bowl of an ivory-stemmed pipe.
“I have not come to smoke and dream, little flower of Chung Kwoh,” the Agent whispered to her in Cantonese.
The girl continued her occupation, paying no more attention to his whispered words than she did to the groans and nightmare mumblings that droned from the sleepers. But this fact only confirmed what “X” had suspected almost as soon as he had laid eyes on the girl. She was no more Chinese than he was.
He accepted the brass-bowled pipe from her slender fingers, set the bit in his mouth and puffed once or twice, taking care not to allow the poisonous smoke to enter his lungs. He watched the girl narrowly as she prepared the second pill of opium. His hand thrust in under his pajamas and took out the tiny brass hand from his pocket. In a slightly amused voice, he addressed the girl in English. “As I said some moments ago in what should have been your native tongue, I am not here to smoke opium.”
The girl jerked, nearly dropping the opium she had been roasting. Her violet eyes regarded “X” questioningly. He allowed opium smoke to dribble through his lips. “I have come with a message for China Bobby.”
A shadow of suspicion crossed the woman’s ivory face. “He is not in, sir,” she replied coldly. “If you do not desire to smoke, I advise you to go and make room for another.”
“I must see China Bobby. It is about the man who prevented the removal of Anthony Bernard from his apartment some hours ago.”
Cautiously, she said: “If you were one of us, what sign would you give?”
“X” OPENED his hand, disclosing the tiny replica of China Bobby’s maimed hand. “This,” he said, knowing full well the chances he took. For if this bit of brass was not the pass to China Bobby’s headquarters, he would undoubtedly be disclosed as a spy.
“Why did you not show me this in the first place?” she demanded. “Come then. China Bobby is waiting for you.”
“X” followed the graceful figure of the pseudo-Chinese girl across the floor of the opium palace to the ornate sliding panel through which she had entered. Pressing on the eye of a gilded dragon that centered the panel, the gi
rl gained admittance. She led “X” into a narrow corridor the walls of which were hung with heavy silken draperies.
At the end of the corridor, she pushed open a door and bade him enter. “X” walked into a room that was the exact opposite of the Oriental atmosphere which dominated the rest of the building. Here was the latest in modern office furnishings. Evidently, China Bobby took greater pride in his white blood than in his yellow.
The half-caste was seated behind the desk, busily scratching off a note with a modern fountain pen. He did not raise his sleek head at “X’s” entrance, but simply waved him to a chromium waiting-chair against the wall of the room. “X” saw that the girl in Chinese costume had not entered the half-caste’s office.
An electric signal, somewhere in China Bobby’s desk, burred. He extended his pointed forefinger to a small electric switchboard, and pressed a button. A panel in one side of the room opened and closed quickly as a thin, emaciated Chinese with long stringy mustaches entered. China Bobby turned his head.
“Greeting, Yu’an,” he said in Cantonese. “What is your business?”
“Master, I have had the privilege of saving thy worthy life this night.”
“So?” China Bobby scratched with his pen.
“I have killed Ah-Fang when he came seeking your blood.”
China Bobby whirled in his chair. “What the devil do you mean?” he broke out in English.
The man addressed as Yu’an replied in halting English. “He came with bared knife. He would have killed you.”
China Bobby glanced quickly at “X,” and reverted to speaking Cantonese, supposing that “X” would not understand. “I thought him with his ancestors some hours ago. Perhaps my bullet was not blessed with good fortune. Perhaps I only wounded him. What have you done with the carrion?”
Yu’an pointed significantly at the floor with a long forefinger.
China Bobby nodded his head. “You have done well, Yu’an,” he replied. He reached into the drawer of his desk, took out a soiled ten dollar bill, and handed it to the Chinese. The man bowed, and retired through the panel by which he had entered. The Eurasian put aside his pen and faced “X”. His sensitive nostrils dilated. Because of the fact that his right eye turned far to one side, “X” was scarcely aware that the man was looking at him.
“Who sent you here?” he demanded in his metallic voice.
“The man whose name I dare not speak,” replied “X” cryptically. He thrust his hand deep into the slit he had made in his pajamas and grasped the butt of his gas gun. They were alone in the room. Not more than ten feet separated him from the half-caste. It would be a simple matter to overcome the man, force a confession from him, learn the identity of the Ghoul, and quickly conclude the matter.
“And what message did he send?” asked China Bobby.
Without the slightest display of muscular effort, “X” tensed himself for a spring that would carry him to China Bobby’s desk.
“I was to tell you that Anthony Bernard was saved by the activity of Secret Agent ‘X’. ‘X’ must be sought out, and killed.”
“And the Ghoul said that?” a smile flickered across China Bobby’s effeminate lips. “How do you know that I am not the Ghoul?”
Now was the moment for action. China Bobby had detected falsehood. Perhaps the half-caste was the Ghoul, contrary as that might be to the conclusions “X” had already drawn. But at the very moment when “X” would have hurled himself upon the Eurasian, China Bobby’s hand shot out and touched one of the buttons on his switchboard. Instantly, the steely nerves of Agent “X” received a terrific shock.
The metal chair in which he was seated became literally alive with crackling electrical charges. And try as he might, “X” could not break the invisible bonds of current that held him to the chair. He was helpless, racked with pain that was like the thrusts of a thousand needle points. At any moment, the diabolical Eurasian might move the switch, increasing the amperage to a point where “X” would die—die like a common criminal in the death-cell of Sing Sing prison.
Chapter VIII
THE GRAVELESS DEAD
FOR a time, the Eurasian grinned with sadistic mirth. Then his voice rose above the hum of the electric current that had caught even the wily Secret Agent in its invisible web.
“These are Chinese police methods, Mr. Detective,” China Bobby said. “You must admit they are some improvement over your methods of truth learning. An extremely high voltage at relatively low amperage prevents the current from doing you any serious damage. But always, the current is variable. Will you taste a little more?” He touched the button on his switchboard and the current increased, shooting tingling splinters of fire through “X’s” entire body.
The Agent’s face was contorted as though the pain was almost unbearable. Actually, he was watching a narrow slot in the wall which had opened when China Bobby had turned on the current. Through the slot, dark eyes watched the captive in the electric chair.
“Now,” said China Bobby, “perhaps you will explain how you managed to enter here? Who sent you?”
“X” shook his head. “You’re wasting time.”
China Bobby laughed and stepped up the torture current another notch. “Now, your name!”
“X” writhed, unable to take his hands from the metal arms of the chair. “Martin Smith,” he groaned. “Good Lord, man! Stop it! You’re killing me!”
“And who is Martin Smith?” demanded China Bobby.
“Federal agent—narcotics.”
China Bobby nodded. “And what becomes of spies, Martin Smith?”
“Get shot,” the Agent gasped. “You couldn’t do that. Too merciful.”
“True,” said China Bobby slowly, as though he was considering what more terrible death his sadistic cunning might devise. “We have our stinging ants, always anxious to be put to work. Or perhaps you could be lashed with nettles. That’s rather unpleasant. Then, of course there’s the Amber Death in which men die to live a brief eternity of mental torment. Or again, I might burn you in that chair.” With an evil smile, China Bobby stepped up the current another notch.
“Turn off that current.”
A voice had whispered from the walls of the room in which they were seated. The half-caste turned pale, and jerked his head toward the slot in the wall which “X” had been watching. He murmured something and cut the switch. “X” felt muscles and nerves relax. He stared at the slot in the wall and the glittering eyes behind it. They were the eyes of the Ghoul.
AGAIN came the voice of the Ghoul, this time speaking in Cantonese, obviously with the intent that “X” should not understand.
“That man is lying to you. If he is not the one known as ‘The Man of a Thousand Faces’—then he is one of his servants. He would not speak the truth were he to be lashed with scorpions. But if he is the man I think he is, then there is one who can make him talk. We shall learn later on. If he were to see her in the ant pit, he would talk. But there are other matters that require my attention. Let him be held a prisoner in the cells below. I would have speech with you alone.”
“Yes, master,” said China Bobby. There was no mistaking the whipped-cur attitude with which he regarded the Ghoul. It seemed to “X” that each of the Ghoul’s words had been a leaden weight descending upon the Agent’s shoulders. The Ghoul’s insinuations had been unmistakable. By some ruse, he had managed to lure Betty Dale into this devil’s den.
Pressing the buttons on his switchboard, China Bobby summoned two men. One of them was the emaciated Yu’an; the other a broad-shouldered, black-haired Irishman addressed as Morgan.
“Take this man to the cells,” China Bobby ordered. “Search him first.”
Morgan prodded “X” to his feet with the muzzle of his automatic. “No funny business, now,” he cautioned.
Yu’an ripped off the pajamas “X” wore, then relieved him of his gas gun. Supposing, no doubt, that it was a regular automatic, the Chinese put the gas pistol in his own pocket. “X’s”
compact make-up kit, pocket tool-kit, master keys, medical kit and other special equipment were laid on top of China Bobby’s desk. Then, seizing “X” between them, they dragged him through a doorway and into a short hall that ended in a flight of stone steps descending to a sub-cellar. As they were going down the steps, “X” debated whether or not to try and jump Morgan’s gun. He had overpowered armed men many times before. But to hope to be able to quietly knock both Yu’an and Morgan unconscious before they could sound an alarm, was too much. He must not take unnecessary risks. There was more at stake now than before. For Betty Dale had fallen into the power of this master criminal.
The stone steps ended in a veritable catacomb of damp, brick-lined rooms. Iron gratings covered darkened cells—cells which at that moment might have been housing Calvert or some of the others who had been taken from Gage’s house that night.
Morgan threw open a door, flung “X” to the damp floor, and slammed the grating. There was the click of a lock and the sound of receding footsteps, as Yu’an and Morgan returned the way they had come.
Though Yu’an’s search had seemed thorough, “X” was not entirely stripped of his resources. The Chinese had left him such innocent little devices as a fountain pen and a cigar lighter. Then in the heels of his shoes were little compartments where he carried a tiny tube of make-up material, a vial of powerful narcotic, and a number of finely tempered tools. The lining of his coat had several accessories, that Yu’an had overlooked, sewed into it.
HIS first act was to take the fountain pen from his pocket. It resolved itself into a small but powerful flashlight. With this, he took stock of his surroundings. Cold brick walls and a floor through which moisture was seeping, a wooden bench, nothing more. He approached the door and turned his flashlight on the lock. For a moment, escape seemed impossible.
The lock on the door was a pattern he had seen but a few times in his life. It was an ancient Chinese pin-lock, entirely different from western locks and in some ways superior. It consisted of two separate parts—a socket, and a wedge-shaped piece of flexible steel that fitted into the socket. The shackle, which in this case passed through the iron grill and a ring welded to the door frame, was simply a straight pin. The keyhole was so shaped that only one key could fit it. The key would be so channeled as to pull the wedge-shaped members of the steel together and at the same time force the lock open. There were neither tumblers nor movable cylinders. It was a veritable Waterloo for even a professional lockpick. “X” knew that the tools he carried in the heel at his shoe would be absolutely worthless.
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 4 Page 44