A dim, night light, burning at the rear of the shop, was sufficient illumination for the tall Chinese to find his way to the upstairs apartment. His slippered feet made no sound on the carpeted stairway. A rapier of light, from a tiny pocket torch, showed him the way and caught the gleam of gold-lettered red paper pasted along the frame of the apartment door to ward off evil spirits. The long, graceful fingers of the tall Chinese closed on the doorknob. He pressed the door open slowly.
Clouds of incense mingled its cloying odor with the perfume of sui-sin-fah lilies. Rice cakes and wine were untouched on the table. The room was empty, undisturbed. The tall Chinese entered. Two doors led from the chamber. The silk curtains of the door to the left had been pushed back. It was toward this door that the tall Chinese moved—softly, crouching low, with a catlike grace that told of supple muscles rippling beneath yellow satin skin. He stepped into the room, his flashlight suddenly spearing the gloom. Glass had been shattered from one of the windows.
Stretched flat on the floor, head twisted to one side, was the body of Wong Fun. The tall Chinese breathed deeply. Strong facial muscles tensed. Eyes became steel needle points. The corpse on the floor had been hideously mutilated. The right hand was a ragged thing like a brush dipped in crimson paint. Deep, bloody grooves had been dug from the one visible cheek. The throat had become an undefinable gory mass.
INSIDE the apartment, something crashed into tinkling fragments. The tall Chinese pivoted. Looking through the Hang-chiu curtains and across Wong Fun’s sanctum, he saw that light shone beneath the second door. The Chinese crossed the room, placed his hand upon the doorknob and turned it slowly. The door opened a crack. Beyond was a small room occupied by a modern walnut desk, swivel chair, steel files, and a large steel safe.
The door of the safe was open, and crouching in front of it was the figure of a man in evening clothes. His back was toward the door and the watchful eyes of a tall Chinese. On the floor beside the crouching man were fragments of a costly bit of Ming pottery. The watcher knew that the marauder was a man of the yellow race, for he could see his long yellow hands and polished fingernails as drawers within the safe were opened and expertly rifled. Green-backed stacks of bills were hastily wadded and stuffed into the prowler’s pockets.
Then suddenly he came upon something that evidently required more careful attention. It was a narrow folded piece of crisp paper elaborately engraved. The tall watcher knew that it was either a bond or stock certificate. Still crouching, the yellow prowler held the certificate beneath the rays of the desk lamp. Then he laid it flat on his knee while his fingers found and opened a small gold penknife.
With the certificate in his left hand, he inserted the knife beneath a red wax seal that kept it folded. There was an odd scratching sound, a sudden flare of brilliant white flame. A small startled cry escaped the lips of the prowler. He dropped the now flaming stock certificate and sprang back against the desk, watching the tiny conflagration with fearful eyes. He turned toward the door. Light fell full upon his young, smooth yellow face—the face of Lynn Wong. But before he could reach the door, it had opened.
There, like a guardian colossus, stood the tall Chinese, arms folded across his broad chest, somnolent eyes dissecting the very brain of Lynn Wong.
“So, Wong Kee Lim, you have stolen from the house of your venerable father,” whispered the tall Chinese in Cantonese.
Lynn Wong’s lips trembled. “Who—who are you?” he gasped in English. “You know me, but I have never seen you before.”
“None have seen me before,” whispered the tall Chinese, “yet I have watched you closely and dogged your steps. I know what iniquitous exploits are yours, inconsequential stain on honorable name of Wong.” He took a long, swift stride to Lynn Wong’s side. The slight shoulders of the young Chinese twisted. One yellow hand darted to his coat pocket A glossy black automatic nosed from the pocket flap.
“Don’t you touch me. I’ll kill you!”
“The voice of the smallest crawling creature may make a great noise,” the tall man whispered. And without a word of warning, his tall body rolled into motion. It was smooth, effortless action, so swiftly executed that the human eye could scarcely follow it. He sprang to one side, closed in quickly, right hand clamping over Lynn Wong’s wrist.
The automatic clattered to the floor at the same time that the fist of the tall man drove with paralyzing force to a spot just below Lynn Wong’s heart. The young Chinese stiffened. Scarcely a grunt passed his parted lips as he toppled backwards to the floor to lie unconscious near the safe he had rifled.
The eyes of the tall Chinese darted across the room. He stepped to the desk and tilted the shade of the lamp so that it fell upon the frail black ashes of the stock certificate that he had seen burst into flame in the hands of Lynn Wong. He stooped, one long yellow forefinger exploring the charred remains. Writing and printing were all undecipherable in the debris.
But one thing had not been obliterated by the fire. In the very center of the charred paper was a round, metallic-looking seal that seemed to have been an integral part of the certificate. It was in the form of a grinning death’s head.
The tall Chinese turned swiftly, opened the door, and stepped into the next room. The door of the study he carefully closed behind him. The front door of the apartment suddenly burst open. The tall Chinese whirled to confront the steady, steely eye of a .38 caliber police special backed by the equally steady eyes of Detective Sergeant Reardon in charge of the Chinatown squad.
Behind him were two policemen. The heart of the tall Chinese thudded against his ribs as he looked upon the trio, his unrelenting pursuers. For the inscrutable yellow face of the tall Chinese was but one of the thousand faces of Secret Agent X. And though he had aided the police and frequently befriended them in times of need, he had been falsely accused of every crime on the calendar.
AGENT X bowed calmly. “Deign to enter my humble abode,” he said in halting English.
“You’re damn right we’ll deign to enter,” growled Reardon. “And I’d like to know since when this became your humble abode.” He jerked his head at the two policemen who followed him. “Lay hands on this Chink, boys. There’s something funny going on around here. Neighbors said there was all kinds of a ruckus. We’ll look around. Where’s Wong Fun?” he flung the question at Agent X.
X did not answer. The two policemen seized him by the arms. One of them shook him. “Didn’t you hear the sergeant, Chink?”
“That’s no good,” said Reardon. “When these boys won’t talk, they just won’t talk.” His broad brogans clumped across the thick luxuriant rugs. He crossed to the doorway of the Hang-chiu curtains. The two officers, holding X between them, followed closely. Reardon took out a powerful flashlight and beamed it into the room. Its yellow platter of light fell upon the head and extended arms of the body of Wong Fun.
“Hold that Chink, boys! Wong Fun’s dead, and I don’t have to ask myself that twice!” The platter of light trembled, Reardon stooped over.
“Looks like he’s been chewed alive!” gasped one of the coppers.
“Chewed dead! Hold still, Chink!” the other policeman gave Agent X’s arm a painful wrench. The agent had seen something that he had overlooked when he had first entered the room of death—the green china cat. It lay on its side, four inches of sinister Jade pottery, only a foot from the ragged bleeding hand of Wong Fun. There was a smear of blood on one of its green haunches and blood tracked to the broken window.
But to Agent X the china cat was something more than a tiny figurine. The motionless, feline grace, the womanish face of the hybrid in clay, brought back hateful memories of cunning green eyes, a woman who walked like a cat and whose heart was as black as midnight. There on the floor near the mangled hand of the dead Chinaman was a clue vital to the unraveling of a web of mystery and murder.
The green china cat was a clue that was about to pass into the hands of the law. Even as Reardon’s eyes fell upon the cat, X made his decision. H
eld between two policemen with Reardon, veteran of a thousand Chinatown scraps, always on the alert, the risk was triple. But he felt he must have that cat.
The Agent’s knees seemed to collapse completely and without warning. His full weight depending suddenly upon the officers that held him, swung downward. The policemen were thrown off balance. Their heads came together with a crack. A twist, in unison, with both hands, and X broke free. He hurdled the sprawled form of Wong Fun. His right arm darted forward like a striking snake. His fingers closed over the cat. He straightened up.
But Reardon was already in motion. Crouching like a Chinese wrestler, Reardon shot his hammerlike fist up to the point of the Agent’s chin. It was a terrific blow, but one which X was in condition to take. But as the Agent back-stepped, the heel of his slipper, planted in a pool of blood, slipped and set his legs higher than his head. He had hardly struck the floor than the weight of three burly men was on top of him, holding him helpless beside the mangled corpse of Wong Fun.
“He’s got something in his hand. Get it!” ordered Reardon. “A little green statue. I saw him pick it off the floor.”
The police looked at the Agent’s wide-spread yellow fingers and shot a glance of amazement at Reardon. For X’s hands were empty. The green china cat had vanished.
Chapter II
THE FRIGHTENED GIRL
IN a low-ceilinged, basement room in a Chinatown hovel were three persons so distinctly different in appearance and personality that it seemed impossible they should have anything in common. Perched on a tall stool, his thin, slippered feet twisted about the rounds and his dark, sack-like garment dropping from narrow, weary shoulders, was a Chinese of incredible age. His face was a meshwork of thousands of tiny wrinkles. Eyebrows and eyelashes were entirely lacking, and withered, scaly eyelids drooped over glittering, jetty eyes.
Except for a worn brush of chin whisker, head and face were void of hair, and their hairlessness, coupled with the fact that his neck was long and leathery, gave him something of the aspect of an ancient turtle. His lips were parted, and yellow dogteeth were clamped on the stained ivory bit of a brass-bowled pipe. The air of the room was heavy with a sickening sweetish odor, for Ho-Pin smoked opium as the white man smokes tobacco.
The dimensions of the room were dwarfed by the presence of the second man. Upon his head was a tall, conical tarboosh, and a full domino mask of black silk covered his features. He was tall and his chest and shoulders were bull-like breadth.
Behind a wooden counter upon which rested a few dusty baskets of tea was a curtained doorway. Clinging to the curtain with a narrow, tapering hand was a woman. She was dressed in a dark tailored jacket and riding breeches. Slim legs and feet were encased in polished leather boots. Her face was small, nearly round and very dark complexioned. Her slightly voluptuous lips were rouged the red of Chinese lacquer. Her nose was slightly tip-tilted and her eyes actually arresting. A true emerald green they were beneath long penciled brows that curved upwards at their outer extremities.
The man in the tarboosh moved back and forth in front of the counter like a caged animal. He slapped the palm of his left hand with the back of his right hand twice. From beneath his black mask came a deep, rumbling, “Ah,” of complete satisfaction.
The ancient Chinese took his pipe from his mouth. “The work progresses as you desire, honorable one?” he asked, clipping each syllable in a manner that lent a metallic, mechanical quality to his speech. “And what of Wong Fun?”
The man in the tarboosh nodded. “And Wong Fun is dead. Hand me the book, my flower.” This to the woman with the green eyes.
The woman moved to the counter. In spite of her severe masculine attire, there was exotic, even barbaric music in her every movement. From somewhere behind the counter, she took a black-bound ledger, which she opened on the counter. The man in the tarboosh moistened brownish-yellow fingers and leafed through the pages.
Again his prolonged: “Ah.” He took a pen from the pocket of his coat and scribbled something in the book. The woman watched him closely, and when he had finished brief calculations she asked in a low, husky, purring voice:
“How much, Achmet?”
The man in the tarboosh pounded his left palm with the back of his right hand. “My companions, tonight’s work netted us nearly twenty thousand dollars. I have deducted the amount of paid dividends, our decoy, eh, Ho-Pin?” The man’s bullock shoulder shook with silent laughter.
“And what of Wong Kee Lim, Wong Fun’s son?” asked the Chinese.
The man in the tarboosh did not answer.
The woman, who was methodically fitting a cigarette into a long ivory holder, frowned slightly. “Yes, what of Wong Kee Lim?” she repeated softly. “What do you think, Achmet? He was in the apartment. What if the police should come? If Wong Kee Lim should be captured, then where do we stand?”
The masked man in the tarboosh shrugged. “Wong Kee Lim is devoted to us. And what, pray, is there to connect the death of Wong Fun with his son? Even a policeman would know that no man could kill as the Bast killed tonight, eh, my blossom?” Eyes behind the mask flitted across the face of the woman. “We are in no danger from the police. But there is one—you know of whom I speak?”
The woman’s lacquered lips became suddenly bitter. “Yes—” slowly. “I know him better than you.”
“And did you see a tall Chinese enter the shop of Wong Fun even as I left?” asked the man in the tarboosh.
The woman shook her head.
THE man in the tarboosh was tapping his left palm with quick nervous movements of the fingers of his right hand. “He showed, I think, more curiosity than is native to his race,” he mused. “You understand what I mean, my flower? And you, Ho-Pin?”
The old Chinese’s lips scarcely moved as he answered: “You are thinking tall Chinese possible not what he seemed? You think that already keen nose of hound on tangling trail?”
“I think the tall Chinese was Secret Agent X. And it is from him that we may expect the most dangerous opposition.”
The lacquered lips of the woman puckered, whistled a thin string of cigarette smoke toward the ceiling. She moved, lithe as a panther, toward the door of the shop. There she stopped, her exquisite, small head turned toward the man in the tarboosh. “Leave Agent X to me, Achmet,” she purred. “To me and to Bast. The score is old, and the wound deep. Do you understand?” Her narrow hand went to the doorknob, turned it, and opened the door. Then she was gone.
The shoulders of the man in the tarboosh shook with silent laughter. “My little blossom. Little blossom of a poison orchid!”
Hooting down the dark streets of Chinatown came the sound of a police siren. In Ho-Pin’s shop, the wrinkled Chinese accepted the sound stoically, the man in the tarboosh listened a moment, head to one side, then vanished through the curtained doorway.
But in the apartment of Wong Fun, Secret Agent X heard the sound and knew that one of the most desperate straits of his long career was gradually narrowing. With mind and muscle, he battled against three of the most capable men on the police force who had pinned him to the floor. The arrival of the homicide squad would only imperil him the more.
Red-faced with fury, Detective Sergeant Reardon bent over the Agent and shook his ponderous fist at the inscrutable yellow face. “I tell you, I seen you snatch something off the floor. I’m getting that if I stand here till hell freezes over.”
“If police would permit this unworthy to regain normal posture on own feet,” said Agent X in halting English, “will exert humble efforts to obtain that which is desired.”
With a shrug of disgust, Reardon jammed his hands into his hip pockets. “Let him up, boys. Give him the frisk.”
AGENT X reached out a freed arm and grasped one of the policemen by the sleeve. The cop pulled X to his feet. At that moment, the Agent’s long yellow hand fanned the air directly beneath the policeman’s nose. It looked almost like a gentle slap, but a slap with most disastrous results. A look of surprise crossed t
he policeman’s face. His knees suddenly deserted him and he wilted to the floor.
Reardon uttered a shout of warning, sprang forward to catch the Agent’s extended arm. And in that he made his mistake. He found his own wrist locked in a grip of steel. X turned, bent double, and at the same time yanked Reardon’s arm over his left shoulder. Reardon was lifted from the floor and sent sprawling over the Agent’s back to tangle legs with the third policeman.
With swift, ducking movements, X gained the door and slammed it behind him. He had a carved onyx ring on one finger of his right hand to thank for the knockout of the first policeman and that had given him one moment of surprise in which to accomplish the impossible. For that ring was attached to a rubber bulb in his right palm, a bulb for projecting harmless but powerful anesthetizing vapor at close range.
X gained the shop of Wong Fun below in time to see the door crash open beneath the shoulders of the police. X sprang to the back of the shop, located the back door, found it locked. His specially made set of master keys came into good use. But as he clicked the lock, he heard somebody shout: “Chink sneakin’ out the back, inspector!”
X didn’t wait to measure the distance between himself and his pursuers. He darted into the dark alley, ran to the right, and cut back between two buildings to enter the street. He crossed diagonally, toward the yellow-lighted door of the Ming Tong headquarters. Once behind that portal, guarded by the jealous dragon of the Ming men, X knew that he would be comparatively safe. But it was more than sanctuary that he sought. He wanted the advice and help of venerable Lo Mong Yung, head of the tong.
Gaining the door of the tong building, he looked back. Was the swiftly moving shadow across the street one of Inspector Burks’ detectives, or simply a yellow man hurrying home for the night? No time to debate that. X quickly climbed a flight of dark steps to gain a doorway barred by a giant in a green silk robe. Sung, tireless guardian of the office of the tong, snatched a heavy blue steel automatic from his sleeve and jammed it into X’s chest.
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 6 Page 11