Leaning far forward in his chair, his gray hair continually falling over his piercing eyes, Farington told his story:
“Recently, my head keeper, Samuels, has been attracted by strange bones in the cages of some of my most ferocious pets.”
“Bones!” exploded Mr. Bunn. “What do you expect, Farington? You don’t feed them on puppy biscuits, do you?”
“Mr. Farington was speaking,” said Burks quietly. “Just what about the bones, Mr. Farington?”
Henry Farington brushed hair from his eyes. “Queer bones. Bones of a human skeleton!” And when that was out, he sighed his relief.
Burks’ brow furrowed. “You found a whole skeleton in one cage, or were the bones distributed?”
“Distributed. Here a leg bone; there an arm.”
“Ghastly!” whispered Stuart Gray.
“Obviously,” Farington continued, “some one was trying to conceal a crime. Some one had been murdered and the dismembered body was brought here bit by bit by some of the visitors. And now, about this Felice Vincart, sometimes known as the Leopard Lady—”
Mr. Bunn popped from his chair. “And her leopards! I’ll pay you five thousand dollars for that pair of cats, Farington.”
Detective Keegan put two gaunt hands on Mr. Bunn’s shoulders, and forced him none too gently back into his chair.
“Sanders,” Mr. Farington called. And when the servant had appeared in the doorway, Farington said: “Bring that little box from my desk.” Turning once more to Burks, Farington went on: “Inspector, this ghastly business will be the death of me. I’m at my wits end.”
“Been that way for some time,” Mr. Bunn growled.
“Now, take it easy, Mr. Farington,” soothed Burks. “Murder happens every day. We make it our business to do the worrying for you. I’ve handled much worse cases than this, and I—”
The servant reappeared and handed a small box to Farington. Burks, Keegan, and Gray crowded around the zoologist. Bunn, having been forced into his chair, seemed content to stay there.
“Send Samuels here,” Farington directed the servant. “I want him to corroborate this strange story.”
IN his hiding place among the junipers, X tensed. Samuels was the man he was impersonating. It would be exceedingly dangerous to face Farington, but X felt that if the little box contained anything that concerned Felice Vincart, it was more important to him than to the police. He slipped quietly from his hiding place, rounded the house, and entered the front door just as the servant appeared.
“Boss is looking for you, Samuels,” said the servant. “Out on the terrace.”
X did not reply. He dared not. He hurried through hall and drawing room to join John Burks, his relentless enemy, on the terrace. No one seemed to be aware of his presence, and crowding close behind Gray, X was able to see the gruesome relic in Farington’s box. It was the clean-plucked joint from a human finger and beside it lay a large diamond solitaire.
“These,” explained Farington, “were found in one of the panther cages. Look inside the ring, Inspector Burks.”
Burks straightened up, looked at X, strangely, and returned to Farington. “So, the Leopard Lady got hers, did she? I can’t say that I’m sorry except that it will mean work for us to find out who killed her.”
“That isn’t all,” put in Farington. “I really think we need some police protection here. There have been all sorts of strange happenings and odd noises in the night. Tell the inspector about the thefts, Samuels.”
All eyes swung to Agent X. The Agent stared back at Farington and moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Sir?” he asked hoarsely.
“Tell about the thefts, man!” commanded Farington. “And what’s the matter with your voice. Sound like you’ve a frog in your throat.”
“Slight cold, sir,” explained X. “One of those colds that gets you in the summer and hangs on all winter.”
“Once more!” Farington stamped his foot. “You tell about the—”
X nodded his head. “Yes, sir, about the thefts.” Behind the mask of a face he wore, X’s brain was groping in utter blackness. What could have been stolen on the Farington estate? Anything. Then it suddenly occurred to him that Farington had a wife—a woman famous for her bad taste in the matter of wearing jewels.
“It was like this, inspector. Mrs. Farington had gone to bed that night, and she had placed her necklace on the dresser. The window was open—”
“Yes, yes,” Burks interrupted. “And in the morning it was gone—”
“Nothing of the sort!” cried Farington, springing to his feet. “Samuels, I’ve warned you a dozen times to give up drinking. You’re insanely drunk at this moment. Mrs. Farington has lost none of her jewels, unfortunately. And I’ve forbidden spirits of any sort on this property—”
A shrill cry sounded through the night—a human being in mortal agony. For a moment, time stood still while men stared at each other with starting eyes.
“The leopard pits!” whispered Farington. “Come on, inspector!” And leading the entire party at a vigorous pace, Henry Farington set off across the lawn. Agent X ran with them, conscious of the fact that Inspector Burks was giving him his undivided attention. Dodging around shrubbery beds and between rows of cages, Farington led the chase. Then the party came to a sudden stop as the night was riddled by another cry that seemed neither animal nor human. It was the weird wailing, the song of sudden death:
“Kwa-a-a-oo-wee!”
“What was that?” gasped Stuart Gray. He seized Mr. Bunn’s shoulder, but the smaller man seemed scarcely to notice it, so complete was the hold terror had upon him.
“Sounds like a banshee!” Detective Keegan whispered to his superior.
“Look!” Farington pointed at some low structure looming in the darkness. “The doors of the leopard pits are open.”
“Flashlight ahead, Keegan,” growled Burks. “There’s something else there. And I don’t like this a little bit!”
Keegan’s flashlight bit through the gloom as the party advanced cautiously toward the leopard pits. There, lying across open doors of iron, was the body of a man. And almost before he noticed the body itself, Agent X saw the green china cat. Four inches of sinister jade colored pottery, it stood near the outstretched hand of the corpse. And that extended hand was a mangled thing of blood and pulpy flesh.
They formed a semicircle about the still, bleeding form. Burks on one side of the Agent, and Stuart Gray on the other. In the center, Detective Keegan turned the body over with his foot. “Look at his throat. Ripped to pieces!”
“Look at his face, you mean!” roared Burks. With something less than the speed of light, he whipped out his revolver and jammed it into the side of Agent X. “You’re under arrest, Agent X! And the charge is murder!”
Agent X stared at the corpse in front of the cage. In spite of the blood from the hideous throat wound, the features were clearly those of Samuels, the head keeper.
Chapter IV
BOOK OF DOOM
IN a second story room in the house of Ho-Pin, two men were engaged in earnest conversation. They were the ancient Ho-Pin, and Wong Kee Lim, dissolute son of Wong Fun. Ho-Pin was seated on a stool near a dirty window and every now and then he turned his head to look out on the street. It was early in the evening and many yellow men walked the dingy streets. From where Ho-Pin sat, he could see the shop of Karahmud, its show window unlighted.
“Who’s next in the book, old man?” asked Wong Kee Lim insolently.
“Several are ripe for plucking,” replied Ho-Pin. His cold, reptilian eyes regarding Wong Kee Lim. “A Stuart Gray holds some of the stock and has collected his second dividend. We wait only for Achmet to state the time of death. Then there are others whose names are in the Book of Doom. But do not become impatient, Wong Kee Lim. It is best that you remain in hiding after what happened at the house of your father.”
Wong Kee Lim dropped a cigarette on the floor and ground out its spark with his heel. “Hell, the poli
ce can’t touch me for what happened to dad. I’ve answered all their questions. I didn’t have anything to do with his death. I didn’t even know that he had purchased any of our stock. You don’t think I’d have let him buy it if I’d known, do you?”
Ho-Pin showed yellow dog teeth in a ghastly grin. “Perhaps Wong Fun very rich. Now Wong Kee Lim very rich, also.”
Wong Kee Lim cursed softly. Ho-Pin had turned his turtle-like head and was once more looking out of the window. He raised a skeleton-like hand and pointed. “Is that the man of whom you spoke?”
The dissolute face of Wong Kee Lim joined the evil one of Ho-Pin in the window. “That’s the guy,” replied the younger man. “The big fellow slouching by Karahmud’s shop. See, he stops. Looks like he’s trying to get in. Now he’s going around the house. That’s no copper. I can smell them a block away. That man’s been prowling around here all evening.”
Ho-Pin slipped from his stool. “Come. We shall remove this meddler.”
A strange, craven expression crossed the face of Wong Kee Lim. “You mean the—Bast?”
Ho-Pin shook his head. “Bast stalks to kill. We stalk to capture. Do you understand? Get your machine gun. We must see that this large and curious white man lives. Who knows but what he is the one we fear—the Man of a Thousand Faces? Or perhaps he is one of his agents. What he knows, we must know.” Ho-Pin leered. “In the basement, we have such a delightful little torture, you remember?”
Harvey Bates, for indeed it was he who was the foremost in Ho-Pin’s thoughts, was acting strictly upon his own judgment. The dark and deathly silence of the shop of Karahmud had interested him immensely since he had first taken up his vigil in the Chinatown street. Well acquainted with this sector to which Agent X had assigned him, he knew that the shop of Karahmud was usually the scene of considerable activity even in the evening. Now all who had tried the front door had found it locked.
Puffing his square-bowled pipe with the air of a man who has nothing to do and all night to do it in, Harvey Bates rounded the north side of the building, entered a filthy little yard at the back, and stumbled over packing boxes and trash that littered the place, until he came to two doors placed side by side. One of these, which led into the main floor of the building, was equipped with a skeleton lock that yielded to one of Bates’ master keys.
He entered a little room directly back of the shop and explored it with his flashlight. Shelves surrounded the room, but as there was no attempt to arrange the goods on them artistically, Bates concluded that this was some sort of a storeroom for surplus stock. His eyes wandered over the shelves—pottery pieces and brass work principally, nothing of particular interest except a strange looking ash-tray fashioned, from some silvery metal, into the form of a human skull. The only reason that it had attracted Bates was that it was the only thing of its kind in the room.
He stepped over to the shelf that held the ash-tray, his brow clouded and his square pipe sputtering like a volcano. He reached out a hand for the tray, tried to pick it up, and much to his surprise found that it resisted his strength. The thing was securely fastened to the shelf some way. He resorted to twisting it. To the left, it was absolutely immobile. But in another moment, it turned easily to the right.
Somewhere in the room, something snapped. Bates turned with unbelievable swiftness, dark eyes narrowing beneath shaggy black hair. His flashlight beam raked the room. Apparently, nothing had happened. Yet he had distinctly heard a metallic snap. He crossed the room quietly to a discarded wooden counter. He rounded the counter, flashlight beam on the floor. He stepped back suddenly. For on the floor, behind the counter, was a square opening large enough to admit a man. Steep wood steps led down into a basement room. Blood in Bates’ arteries pounded. Eagerly, he set foot on the stairs.
THE place was small and dirty, but exceedingly dry for a basement. Time-blackened boards formed floor and walls. A rickety table supported a test tube rack holding several test tubes which contained colorless fluid and were tightly sealed with wax at the top. Beside the rack was a burlap-wrapped box, addressed to the Karahmud Import Company and shipped from Cairo, Egypt.
Bates cautiously picked up one of the sealed test tubes, and holding his breath, knocked off the top. Being careful not to spill any of the liquid, he raised the tube to his nostrils and sniffed cautiously. The stuff had absolutely no odor that he could detect. He replaced the tube and returned to the box. With the same slow caution, he opened his pocket knife and ripped off the burlap.
Lifting the lid of the box, he removed a section of cotton batting. His jaw dropped. He caught his falling pipe just in time to prevent its smoldering coals from falling in the cotton batting. For arranged in two rows within the box were small, womanish-faced, green china cats.
“You find what you are looking for?” asked a thin, metallic voice.
Harvey Bates swung around, his right hand striking up toward his shoulder holster—and stopping midway. His feet shuffled nervously on the black floor of the room, and that annoying nail in the heel of his shoe scratched across the boards. He was confronted by two Chinese. The younger, who held a sub-machine gun, like one who knows how to use it, Bates had never seen before. The other Chinese, he recognized immediately as Ho-Pin, king of the Chinese lottery racket.
“You are interested in china cats?” asked Ho-Pin softly.
Bates didn’t answer. He looked down at his big shoes, moved his feet restlessly.
“Why have you entered this shop?” persisted Ho-Pin, advancing slowly.
“None of your business. Not your shop,” replied Bates coolly.
“A shop of a friend of mine who is absent,” continued Ho-Pin. “And do you know what happens to men like you?”
“Jail, eventually,” replied Bates.
Ho-Pin shook his head significantly. “They are very lucky if they ever see inside a jail, my friend.” He took another gliding step toward Bates. His hands were hidden in the loose sleeves of his jacket. “We have a punishment of our own for meddlers.”
Bates shuffled his feet, studied his chances. Very slim. A man doesn’t try to jump a Tommy-gun without considerable thought as to consequences.
“I shall relieve you of your weapon,” explained Ho-Pin. But as his left hand reached out for the gun beneath Bates’ coat. Bates sidestepped, putting Ho-Pin between himself and the menacing machine gun. He brought his left fist up with bullet speed, landing the uppercut on the point of Ho-Pin’s fuzzy chin. As Ho-Pin doubled over backwards, Bates swung his left foot in a kick that lifted the rickety table off the floor and sent it flying across the room toward the younger Chinese.
Bates’ right hand shot to his shoulder holster, but as his fingers closed upon the butt of his gun, something with the sting of a viper pierced his ankle. His legs went limp, he half-turned around, saw the glittering tip of a hypodermic needle in the hand of the old Chinese on the floor. Then the earth seemed to be slipping from beneath him as he fell to the floor unconscious.
TO all appearances, Inspector Burks had completely surprised Agent X when the face of the real Samuels was revealed. X had been wondering why the arrest had not been attempted sooner. From the very moment that he had realized his failure in the impersonation of the head keeper, X had been prepared for Burks’ move.
Knowing that the best defense was a vigorous and surprising offense, X went into action immediately. His every movement was timed with split-second accuracy. As his hands came up in apparent surrender, his left hand bent backwards until it struck the winding-stem of his wrist watch. As soon as danger had threatened, he had set this stem so that the slightest jar released a tiny spring-propelled plunger which struck a small percussion cap inside the case.
There was a sharp explosion that shattered the face of the watch and a cloud of tear gas burst directly in front of Burks’ face. At the same time, X sprang to one side to escape the tear gas. Burks, he knew, was rendered instantly helpless. Getting rid of Keegan was simply the matter of a well placed kick that sent the det
ective’s flashlight flying from his hand, smashing the bulb.
Then X, certain of his directions, raced through the darkness, knowing well that Keegan dared not risk a shot in the dark with such excitable persons as Stuart Gray and Mr. Bunn around. By the time X heard Burks’ command to Keegan to cut X off at the main gate, the agent was already in the road and running for his car. A special starting switch, operated by the opening of the front door of the coupé, had the engine going automatically by the time X dropped behind the steering wheel.
As soon as reduced speed enabled him to do so, X opened a hidden compartment on the dash, revealing a complete radio receiver and transmitter keyed to an ultra short wave. He plugged in a headset and a small microphone.
“Calling station X, calling station X,” he spoke into the microphone. Almost at once, he got his reply, from the man at the switchboard in Bates’ office. X demanded a report on the activities of Harvey Bates.
“There has been no report from Bates in the last three quarters of an hour,” came the reply. “Have attempted to contact him several times and have failed. Standing by for instructions.”
Agent X scowled. “No instructions except keep trying for Bates. Signing off!” And with rapid movements, he disconnected the instrument, and closed the compartment. He had never known Bates to disobey instructions. There could be only one explanation. Bates had encountered danger, perhaps even death.
It was a long way between the estate of Henry Farington and the narrow streets of Chinatown, but the Agent’s super-charged car made it in record time. He stopped his car a block from Karahmud’s shop so as not to excite suspicion. Then he turned into an alley and ran at top speed to the back of the shop. The rear door yielded easily at a turn of one of his special master keys, and he entered the storage room. Then, following his flashlight beam, he saw the opening in the floor, and the steps. He hesitated for a moment, but drawing his powerful gas pistol, descended into the basement room.
The place was completely empty save for a badly broken table and a few slivers of broken glass on the floor, but they were sufficient clues for X to determine that there had been some sort of struggle. Examining the glass, he noticed a series of odd scratches on the floor, as though someone had tried to write something in the wood with the end of a nail. Dropping on his knees, X held the flashlight close to the floor. Crude letters, they were, hardly decipherable. As near as he could figure out there were but two words and they might mean much or little: “Hop in.”
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 6 Page 14