Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 4

by Emile C. Tepperman

  Betty, over the Eurasian’s shoulders, saw “X” as he stealthily approached. Perhaps China Bobby saw the anxiety in the girl’s eyes, for he immediately released her, turned, and snatched at the gun in his coat pocket. But as China Bobby turned, “X” leaped. All the strength of his lean, hard body was behind that long upper-cut that landed on the point of the Eurasian’s chin. China Bobby hardly had time to utter a groan as he fell to the floor.

  “X” seized him under the arms and dragged him to a little curtained closet. It would not do for the Ghoul to look through the peek-hole and see his chief lieutenant laid out on the floor. Then “X” joined Betty at the desk. With his finger, the Agent pressed the switch button marked “F.” This, he believed, was the switch operating the front door of the office. As the panel slid back, he saw that his conjecture had been correct; beyond was a beautiful yet terrible temple of the black smoke. Some of the silk-curtained bunks were still occupied by dreaming addicts. “X” led Betty across the room, into the entryway, and up the spiral staircase to the rear door of the restaurant.

  Looking out through the door of the restaurant, “X” saw that China Bobby’s legitimate employees were busily engaged in preparing the restaurant for the evening.

  “Go at once to the mayor and warn him,” the agent whispered in Betty’s ear. “But do not go to the police. A police raid at such a time would ruin all my plans. The Ghoul would escape.”

  “You’re not coming with me?” she said, a look of dismay passing over her ivory-tinted face.

  “X” shook his head. “My task has only begun.” And, as he watched Betty hurrying toward the door, he looked through the plate glass front of the building. It was evening. He had, then, spent over twelve hours in the catacombs beneath China Bobby’s restaurant.

  Chapter X

  THRONE OF THE GHOUL

  “X” HURRIEDLY retraced his steps to China Bobby’s office. Slipping into the closet where he had concealed the Eurasian, he stood his pocket mirror against the wall and began working on the most difficult disguise he had ever attempted. For a man of “X’s” ability, the features and flesh tints of China Bobby were not difficult to duplicate; but there were two physical defects in China Bobby’s appearance that it was almost impossible for anyone to imitate—the missing finger on his right hand, and the fact that some muscular trouble had turned one of his eyes far to the right.

  Yet, even as he worked, molding plastic material on his face to resemble the contours of the Eurasian’s face, a plan suggested itself to “X” by which he could overcome one of those difficulties. It would be painful, and perilous, but without attempting it, he could not hope to succeed in impersonating China Bobby.

  Having changed clothes with the Eurasian, “X” slicked down the hair of his black toupee so that it resembled the polished hair of the half-caste. Then he made an injection of a harmless narcotic in China Bobby’s arm—enough of the drug to keep the man unconscious for eight hours or more. He pocketed the Eurasian’s gun and immediately left the office.

  He had little fear of being apprehended in the dark passages that honeycombed the basement floor below. Instinctively, he groped his way through the gloom, returning to the second laboratory by the same route he and Drew Devon had used in leaving it. He found the laboratory empty. In fact, the entire building had sunk into a silence that somehow foreboded disaster.

  In the laboratory, he procured a length of thin, copper wire, a small dry cell, an induction coil, and a tiny push-button switch. He worked one wire lead under the plastic volatile material that covered his face. The end of the wire he fastened above an important nerve center near his right eye. Having completed the circuit, he concealed all wires under his coat and pocketed battery, induction coil, and switch. His right hand, thrust into his pocket, operated the little switch for making and breaking the circuit.

  He then approached a cabinet, the glass front of which would mirror his face. Pressing the switch, something happened that would have appeared nothing short of miraculous when observed by a person unaquainted with artificial stimulus of nerve centers of the body. “X’s” right eye jerked sharply to the right and remained fixed in that position as long as his finger depressed the switch. His left eye was free to move in any direction. It was extremely unpleasant and interfered with his vision, but he knew he had only to lift his finger from the switch and his eye would return to its normal position.

  He had scarcely completed his preparation before the whispering voice of the Ghoul sounded within the room. “All will come to my room at once. Important instructions.”

  “X” swung into the hall. He had not the slightest idea where the Ghoul’s room was, and he feared that failing to find it, he would be apprehended at once. As he hurried along the corridor, he almost bumped into the sinister Chinese known as Yu’an. Instantly, “X” depressed the switch in his pocket that sent the artificial stimulus to his right eye. Imitating the metallic voice of China Bobby, he said in Cantonese: “The master summons us, Yu’an.”

  “And he is possessed by anger at the failure of his plan to take the spy,” replied Yu’an. “Many men have been tracked in the prison cells below.” He bowed slightly and stepped aside for the man whom he supposed to be China Bobby to go ahead. For a moment, “X” feared that he made a serious error. China Bobby was the Ghoul’s lieutenant. Perhaps China Bobby alone knew the exact location of the Ghoul’s chamber.

  “X” SHOOK his head and motioned Yu’an to go ahead. “This night it is I who am your humble servant, Yu’an. For have you not saved my unworthy flesh from the assassin’s knife in killing the vengeful Ah-Fang?”

  Yu’an bowed and to “X’s” immense relief, accepted the honor of leading the way to the Ghoul’s chamber.

  They entered the central office of China Bobby. One of the panels was wide open. They entered to find a company of perhaps a score of men already assembled. They were men of the East and West, dangerous men who had police records. Walls and ceiling of the room were covered with bright gilt. Gold-painted armchairs were arranged facing a golden dais. Kneeling motionless at the foot of the dais were two gorgeously robed Chinese girls, each holding a bowl of green Chinese porcelain from which wisps of fragrant incense mounted toward the ceiling. A veritable curtain of gray mist, probably produced by some chemical reaction taking place beneath the dais, partially concealed a golden throne-like chair on the dais.

  Somewhere, a gong sounded a low, vibrant note. The mist thickened, became almost impenetrable; but behind it, “X” noticed some slight movement waved the mist curtain. Perhaps a door had opened to admit the Ghoul.

  A white man next to “X” whispered an oath. “Look!”

  The mist cleared away, and seated on the golden chair was a man. A robe of yellow silk draped his shoulders and fell to his feet. A skull cap of the same material, topped with the coral bead of a mandarin, covered his head. The yellow veil that “X” had seen before dropped from the cap and covered his face.

  For a moment of awful silence, the hidden eyes behind the veil seemed to be upon the men at the foot of the dais. Then, from behind the veil came the whispering voice of the Ghoul: “China Bobby, stand up.”

  “X” calmly obeyed. He was confident of himself. He had purposely chosen to impersonate China Bobby because the Eurasian’s defective eye made such an impersonation seem nothing short of impossible.

  “Did anyone pass through your office after I sent the men down into the catacombs to look for a spy?”

  “No, master,” replied “X”.

  “Very well. Since there are only two ways to leave these headquarters and one of them is known only to me, the spy must still be here. It is of no matter. He shall not escape.”

  One of the white men, bolder than the others, spoke up. “If that spy you talk about was the guy known as Secret Agent ‘X’, there’ll be matter enough.”

  “Silence, Cramer!” commanded the Ghoul. “I have called you men here for final instructions. As you know, the hour of my master
stroke draws near. Tonight, you will proceed to the country home of the mayor. You will bring him alive to this place. Yu’an shall be in charge of the expedition. All arrangements have been made. Balloons have been moored at convenient spots. There will be fog, and positively no excuse for failure! You understand?”

  “Nope.” It was the man called Cramer who spoke. “I’ll be damned if I see how you’re goin’ to get at the mayor. He’s been scared to death somebody will bump him with the Amber Death. He’s got bodyguards and all sorts of ’lectrical stuff strung around his place. Too damned much risk.”

  “Cramer,” the Ghoul whispered, “I do not like your attitude.”

  “Nor me yours. This whole gang of yellow-bellies is scared of you and your fake tricks. It’s a neat little old racket for you, but where do we come in? Your pay’s too thin. You keep all the big sugar for yourself. We take all the risks. You sit there and push buttons. Never show your face.”

  The Ghoul waited until Cramer had finished. He leaned far forward in his chair. “Would you like to see my face, knowing that to look into my eyes means certain death?”

  “Hooey!” Cramer turned around and looked at his companions. “Any of youse got the guts to oust this guy? He’s got most of the swag hid around here somewhere. Must be more’n a million bucks.”

  Not a man stirred.

  “Cramer!” commanded the Ghoul. “Look at me!”

  THE man turned his head and confronted the Ghoul boldly. From beneath the yellow robe, a thin, yellow hand moved. With tantalizing slowness, that hand crawled up toward the yellow veil. The members of the gang were breathless. Some of them turned their eyes away as if they believed that the Ghoul could really kill with a glance.

  Slowly, the thin fingers peeled back the veil. A gasp of stark terror breathed from the lips of every man in the room. For the face of the Ghoul was a yellow, dead thing with living eyes behind slanting lids. A round bullet hole had tunneled the creature’s forehead. It was unmistakably the face of Ah-Fang, Gilbert Warnow’s Chinese valet.

  A hoarse cry ripped from the throat of Cramer. He sprang half out of his chair, uttered a strangled oath, and pitched forward on the floor.

  The veil dropped over the hideous face of Ah-Fang. Yet “X” was not deceived. He had detected a movement of the Ghoul’s left hand beneath the silken robe. Almost at the same time, he had seen a hidden needle snap out of the arm of Cramer’s chair, and enter the gangman’s arm. Doubtless this needle had been poisoned. Probably a similar needle was in the arm of every chair in the room and each controlled by some sort of push button on the Ghoul’s chair.

  “Now,” said the Ghoul, and his whisper did not hide the note of triumph in his voice, “there will be no more disobedience. Go all of you. From now on, Yu’an, who thought he killed me, is in command.”

  The gong boomed hollowly again. Smoke fumed up from the dais and enveloped the form of the Ghoul. One by one the men filed from the room, and close behind Yu’an walked Secret Agent “X”.

  So Yu’an had thought he had killed Ah-Fang. Surely, thought “X”, the Chinese had more intelligence than to believe that Ah-Fang had come to life again. Was it possible that the Ghoul had made a death-mask from the flesh of All-Fang’s face and had actually worn it to further the horror-hold he had upon his men? If so, then the Ghoul had earned his name. “X” had seen the fleshy death-mask that had been sent to Warnow. It had been mummified, turned to solid synthetic amber by the Ghoul’s deadly chemical weapon. It was probable that he made the mask he wore in a similar manner from the flesh of Ah-Fang.

  But he had no time to cogitate on the subject at that moment. The Chinese, Yu’an, was in China Bobby’s office passing out weapons to the men who were to assist in kidnaping the mayor. As “X” entered the office, Yu’an approached him, handed him a knife, and whispered: “It is with great joy that I learn that you, my friend, are to accompany me on this expedition of great danger.”

  “X” bowed in silence, accepted the knife, and tucked it into his sleeve. He had already resolved that Yu’an’s joy should be short-lived indeed.

  Chapter XI

  THE MASTER STROKE

  FOG hung heavy over the suburban estate of Mayor Grauman. Its vaporous tentacles twined around the chimneys that stood up from the slate roof like so many little minarets. Behind the fifteen-foot wall that surrounded the house, the mayor had sought sanctuary after a week of tiresome official duties. That wall was topped with a complicated network of wires that were connected with burglar alarms. Yet he must have known that no wall, no alarm had yet been devised that was proof against the Ghoul.

  That night, there was no sense of security in the mayor’s heart. The Ghoul had promised to strike. Only once had he failed.

  On the last stroke of twelve, the iron gates that surrounded the mayor’s grounds swung open. A big car whisked through to the highway and the gates clanged shut behind it. The car had not proceeded along the road more than a quarter of a mile before its lone occupant saw a blur of headlights through the fog directly ahead. He touched his light switch once, twice—a little signal that had been worked out beforehand.

  Then he braked his car alongside of three others that were parked on the shoulder of the road. He got out. Headlights shone on the vizor of the man’s cap. He was the mayor’s own chauffeur.

  Behind the wheel of the foremost car, a thin, yellow face with long, drooping mustaches gleamed with faint ivory luminosity in the light from the car’s dashboard. It was the face of Yu’an, the Ghoul’s henchman.

  The chauffeur saluted. “The mayor has been warned. A guard of state police is on its way. Within fifteen minutes they will be on hand to take him back to the city where he will be kept in the prison for safety’s sake.”

  Yu’an’s eyes became mere slits. “Who warned him?” he asked.

  “A Chinese woman,” replied the chauffeur. “She came here wearing a pair of embroidered pajamas. She delivered the warning to the mayor’s two bodyguards.”

  An almost imperceptible smile flitted across the yellow face of the man beside Yu’an—the man who looked like China Bobby. Betty Dale had succeeded in warning the mayor. “X” could only hope that this warning would prevent the Ghoul’s plan from being put into effect. But in another moment, he was disappointed. Yu’an told the chauffeur that they would strike at once.

  The men got from the car, and Yu’an divided them into four parties—three groups of three men and the fourth group composed of the remaining members of the gang. This fourth group was detailed to waylay the police. The other three groups were to go at once to three strategic points where jumping-balloons had been brought and moored under cover of darkness.

  Agent “X”, in the disguise of China Bobby, was one of the three in the group led by Yu’an. Beside the thin-faced Chinese, “X” trotted toward the knoll at the east side of the wall surrounding the mayor’s grounds. There, faintly visible in the gray sky, a dark, round shape tugged at its moorings and swayed in the night breeze. It was a jumping-balloon.

  “As soon as I have landed on the other side of the wall,” Yu’an said to “X” and the third man, “you will both be ready to meet me at the other side of the estate. Because of the strong wind, I will be able to jump only in one direction.” Yu’an was fastening the line from the jumping-balloon to the leather harness about his waist. To this harness were fastened canvas bags of shot which would be dropped when Yu’an laid hands on the mayor. These bags compensated for the weight of the second man when the jump was being made.

  “When I return with the mayor,” Yu’an explained to the Secret Agent, “you, my friend, will fire this flare pistol.” He thrust into “X’s” hands a pistol with a hard rubber butt and a thin metal barrel. “It will be a signal for the car to drive to the spot of my landing.”

  “X” was standing close to the Chinese. His right hand gripped the knife that was thrust up inside his sleeve. His nerves and muscles were tense, ready for the instant when everything depended upon his quick a
nd accurate movements. Yu’an flexed his knees, testing the buoyancy of the balloon. A strange, eerie note, like the cry of an owl, tocsined across the sky.

  “The signal,” whispered the Chinese. “The other balloons are ready.” He answered the signal with a similar cry. His knees flexed until he was almost squatting on the ground.

  SUDDENLY, he sprang into the air. And at exactly the same moment, Agent “X’s” knife flicked across the cord that held the ballast bags. As Yu’an shot into the air, “X” dropped his knife and seized the Chinaman’s harness. Adding the force of his own leap to that of Yu’an, the balloon shot up through the damp, swirling gray fog.

  “X” saw Yu’an’s thin fingers whip out a knife. He saw the keen blade flash downward. “X” let go with his right hand and caught Yu’an’s knife wrist firmly in his own grasp. The Chinese wriggled like an eel, trying to break that hold, trying to shake the Agent off. Sixty feet below, as the balloon gained the peak of the parabola which it traveled, the roof of the mayor’s house bulked darkly against the mist-enshrouded earth. And at the end of the rope of the now descending balloon, “X” and the Chinese fought their silent battle. “X’s” legs scissored about the knees of Yu’an. His ankles crossed, locked into place.

  For a split second, he released his grip on the man’s harness to swing his left arm up around Yu’an’s neck. He strained upward until his full weight was upon the Chinaman’s shoulders. He wrenched the knife from Yu’an’s hand, only to have the Chinese yank an automatic from his pocket. The gun came up quickly. “X” drove a short hard blow at the side of the Chinaman’s head—a blow that did not land. The gun in Yu’an’s hand—was it an automatic, or the Agent’s own gas gun? If it was the former, he could not hope to escape the shot; for the barrel was pointed straight at his head.

  Suddenly, the slanting roof house became something more than a mere dark blot. “X” was evidently of much lighter build than the mayor, and the lack of ballast had permitted the balloon to travel farther than had been planned.