“Watch the stairs,” X whispered. “We’re on the second floor of Ho-Pin’s place. Now, here’s where we go down.”
“Thought you were shot, chief. Guess I went crazy!”
X laughed. “Bullet-proof vest. Stops the bullet, but you feel the kick just the same.”
They were plunging down a flight of steps. The Agent kicked open a door, led across a short hall, and out into the street.
The streets were empty and gray with the light of the new morning. Again X set a pace that even Bates had trouble in keeping up with. At the end of the block, they turned the corner and saw the Agent’s black car.
“Jump in,” ordered X as he slid in under the wheel.
BATES rounded the nose of the car and got beside X. “Then you got my message? I tried to scratch something on the floor of Karahmud’s basement tonight, or last night, or yesterday. I’m a little mixed up, myself.” He started at the Agent’s brown, ugly face. It was unbelievable.
X nodded. “I got it, all right. Sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner, but I was taking a bath.”
“A—what?” gasped Bates.
And Agent X started from the beginning, explaining his entrance into Ho-Pin’s, his encounter with the Leopard Lady, and his fall into the cistern. “I’m really supposed to be dead,” he concluded. “A gentleman who wears a tarboosh is probably still waiting for my remains to come to the surface of the water. When he started to shoot, I dove under water.
“I have a contrivance that resembles a fountain pen. When you press the filler plunger it discharges a red dye that closely resembles blood. Under water, I discovered that a pipe joined the cistern with a second cistern. I managed to get through this pipe into the second. There, I could swim to the top and get a little air. Another pipe, leading to a pump above, gave me a means of crawling to the top.”
“Don’t see how you got like that.” Bates’ eyes were pointing at the Agent’s brown face.
The Agent said quietly: “A certain Burmese named Cecil got in my way. I’ve been to Burma. I thought I could try to impersonate this one. I was delegated to superintend your torture, managed to cut the cords that bound you, and—well, here we are. Did you learn anything at Karahmud’s?”
Bates shook his head. “Afraid not. There’s a secret room in the basement. And there’s a box—but I suppose you saw all that.”
“What about the box?”
“Well, in the box were a lot of green china cats. Beside it were a number of sealed test tubes.”
“And in the tubes?”
Again Bates shook his head. “Might have been distilled water for all I know.”
THE following evening, Agent X appeared at the door of Betty Dale’s apartment. He appeared to be a man of middle age with sandy complexion and very ordinary features. He had put on a medium gray suit to complete one of his favorite disguises, that of A.J. Martin, newspaperman. It was the only disguise in which Betty Dale would recognize him without the aid of special signals.
As soon as Betty admitted him, X placed both hands on her slim shoulders. Looking into her deep blue eyes, he smiled. Betty Dale didn’t smile. She hung her head.
“I’m dreadfully ashamed,” she said huskily, “for being in your way last night.”
“You in the way? That’s not possible.” One arm about her shoulders, he led her to a chair. “Why did you go to Ho-Pin’s last night?”
“To cash that coupon you snatched from the old Chinese’s hands,” she replied.
“Betty,” he said earnestly, “if you put money in that business, whoever sold you the stock must have told you to keep absolutely quiet about the stock and all details. Isn’t that enough to tell any sane person that there is something phony about the stock? What if it does pay big. Have you ever known anyone to cash in for a longer period than the first two months?”
Betty stood up. She looked so worried and helpless that X could scarcely resist taking her in his arms. “I didn’t know it was a crime to hold the stock,” she said. “If you want it, I’ll—I’ll get it for you.” She went into the bedroom and returned in a moment with a piece of gold engraved paper folded length-wise and sealed. She handed this to X.
Attached to the outside of the certificate was a perforated strip of coupons similar to the one that Betty had taken to Ho-Pin’s for cashing. They were similar to bond coupons yet they were attached to a certificate marked as thirty shares of stock in the firm of Achmet, Incorporated. The Agent’s eyes gleamed at the certificate.
“Thirty shares of murder!” he said, “Achmet, Incorporated. What a front they must put up to get sane people to invest money in a firm like that.” He turned to Betty. “And these coupons—what are they for? Do you have to call personally at Ho-Pin’s for the stock earnings?”
Betty nodded hesitatingly. “The coupons are numbered. Each one is worth five percent of the total investment at the first of every month.”
“Why, that’s sixty percent a year. No wonder people invest.” X turned toward a door. “Come out in the kitchen, Betty. We’ll cook up some trouble for Mr. Achmet, maybe.”
Twisting her fingers nervously, Betty followed X into her little kitchenette. “I went to interview Mr. Gray this morning,” she said.
“Like him?”
“He was very nice to me. Wanted me to try every cosmetic in—Why, what are you doing?” Agent X had plunged the folded stock certificate into the water. Betty seized his arm. “You mustn’t do that! I wouldn’t care if it was my own, but it isn’t.”
“Whose, then?” he asked slowly.
“I can’t tell you.”
X’s eyes bored into Betty’s. “I’m trying to save somebody’s life. It ought to be worth the three thousand put into the stock to have a life saved, shouldn’t it? You see, Achmet, Incorporated—Killers, Incorporated is much more appropriate—is not at all anxious to have these certificates investigated closely. For that reason, they are sealed with a mixture of phosphorus, emery, and glue. Maybe a little magnesium powder in it, too. The slightest friction such as a knife might make in breaking this seal, ignites the certificate and burns it to ashes. Well soaked with water and—” X removed the certificate from the basin and opened it without trouble.
INSIDE was the same sort of engraving that covered the document. It informed him that one Perry Atwood was the owner of the stock, each share of which had a par value of one hundred dollars. “Perry Atwood,” he muttered. He knew the man slightly—a certain weakling who had possessed a fortune and had lost most of it gambling. “So Perry Atwood gave you this stock?”
Betty nodded slowly. “He told me not to tell anyone. He had to go to the hospital. He needed the money and asked me to go to Ho-Pin’s and cash that coupon for him. I didn’t want to do it, but then Perry helped me get my first good job and he looked so sick and pitiful—”
“Sick with fear, no doubt,” said the Agent. “This stock was his death warrant. He tried to pass the buck to you. The yellowest trick a man ever pulled! He could have given you the coupon alone if he hadn’t thought he could side-step murder by getting rid of the stock.” The Agent looked at the certificate. At the bottom of the page was what purported to be the president of the company. It was a sprawling of unreadable characters.
“That—that’s Arabic, isn’t it?” Betty pointed to the signature.
X shook his head slowly. “It isn’t. It’s no writing I’ve ever seen before. Strange.”
“I don’t understand. What’s so deadly about this stock?”
Agent X smiled grimly. “In itself, it isn’t deadly. The danger comes in the form of green china cats, I believe. But suppose Perry Atwood had been induced, because of the enormous dividends paid by Achmet, Incorporated, to invest three thousand dollars with them. With the hope of inducing him to invest more money and also to give him confidence, the company pays him his two monthly dividends on the dot. Suppose the third month, Perry Atwood would be found killed in some strange manner. His heirs, if he had any, might come across this certif
icate and open it.
“When it is opened, it is self destroying—and consequently remains a mystery. Achmet, Incorporated keeps Atwood’s three thousand dollars which is clear profit except for the dividends paid out. See how it works? Imagine what they realize when they get their hooks into some one with real money—say several hundred thousand dollars to invest.”
Betty paled slightly and nodded her head. X took her arm and led her from the kitchen. Then he went to the phone and called a number. A moment later, he was speaking to Jim Hobart, head of the Hobart Detective Agency.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Martin,” came Jim Hobart’s cheerful voice.
X spoke quickly. “You know Miss Betty Dale of the Herald?”
“Yes, chief.”
“You’re to come over and keep an eye on Miss Dale’s apartment. Report any comings and goings. And have some of your men get on the trail of Perry Atwood, the gambler. I want to know where he is, right away. That’s all.” X hung up and turned around. He rested smiling eyes on Betty’s petite figure—eyes that gradually hardened and sharpened to needle points.
“Why, what’s the matter with me?” Betty asked. “You look so—”
The Agent’s arm darted out. His fingers plucked something from the sleeve of her dress. It was a coarse, brownish hair about six inches long. An expression of fear crossed his face—fear for Betty Dale.
“Where did this come from?” he asked.
Betty laughed. “Why what’s so terrifying about a hair? Really, you’re treating me like a criminal this evening. I thought I had all of those hairs brushed off. They are a bit strange. There were quite a number of them clinging to the arm of a chair in Mr. Gray’s office. They’re pesky things the way they stick to everything.”
“Gray’s office?” X murmured. He put the hair in an envelope and put the envelope in his pocket.
Chapter VI
“TREASON!”
IN a second floor room of a brick lodging house in a poverty stricken quarter of the city, a man threatened to completely demolish all that remained of an old jute carpet with his continual nervous pacing. His clothes, once the finest, were worn and untidy; his collar was ripped wide. He had a starved, weak-looking face, pinched nose, negligible chin, and blood-shot eyes.
Came a rap at the door. The man in the room twisted and froze in his tracks. The knock came again. In a high, hoarse voice he asked, “Who’s there?”
“It’s me. McQuey. Come on, Perry, open up. Got some grub.”
The nervous wreck crossed the room to the door and opened it cautiously. The man who entered looked like a banker, but the affable qualities of his plump face were spoiled by furtive eyes behind Oxford glasses. He carried a brief-case.
“I don’t want anything to eat,” muttered the nervous man.
“Look here, Atwood,” said McQuey sternly, “I’ve risked everything to get here. You’re my cousin. You’re no good, but you’re my cousin. When I warned you about that stock, told you to hide, I took my life in my hands to try and save yours. You don’t appreciate that!”
Perry Atwood shrank back into a corner and regarded his prosperous looking cousin with terrified eyes. “You—you’re in with them, aren’t you?”
McQuey put a finger to his bulbous lips and looked back at the door. “Shut up, you fool! Of course I’m in with them. I can’t get out alive. Listen, Atwood, I’m a pretty lousy sort of a guy. I’ve mixed in every confidence game known and I’ve fleeced the smartest financiers. This Achmet business looked great, but I didn’t know they made their dough by murder.
“My job is selling stock. Oh, there are a lot of others in it, too. I didn’t sell you your stock, did I? And when I found out holding the stock meant death, I warned you. I don’t have a thing to do with the killing part of the game. I don’t even know how it’s done. But I can’t duck out now.” McQuey tugged a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “But I wish you’d buck up, Perry. You ought to be safe.”
“Ought to be!” Atwood snarled. “You’re damned right I ought to be. I got rid of the stock, didn’t I?”
The handkerchief dropped from the confidence man’s fingers. He looked dumbly at his cousin. “You—you what?”
“Got rid of the stock. Passed the buck. Don’t you see, I haven’t got it, so they can’t do anything to me—”
“You—you damned fool! Who’d you give it to?”
“A newspaper reporter.” Atwood’s head dropped shamefully.
“A newspaper reporter! Of all the people in New York you picked a newspaperman? You poor sap! Why didn’t you give it to the chief of police and be done with it? You’ve got us both on the stove now. What if that newspaperman gets wise? Lots of them do. He might go to the cops. Achmet knows everybody who’s got the stock. He’ll trace back, you idiot!” McQuey picked up his brief-case and hurled it with all his strength at the cringing Atwood. He sprang to the door, wrenched it open, and flung out into the hall.
Perry Atwood stared at the brief-case. It had burst open on striking the wall, discharging bread and tinned meats. He hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours. But he had no appetite now. He dropped into a chair to rock his throbbing head in his hands.
Suddenly, he stood up. Again, there was a rapping at his door. “Who’s there?” he demanded shrilly.
“McQuey, Atwood. Open up quickly!”
Atwood crossed to the door and opened it a few inches. “You’re not McQuey!” he cried, attempting to slam the door. But a shoe was wedged in the opening. Powerful arms gave the door a shove that sent Atwood reeling back across the room. When he regained his balance, his visitor was standing against the closed door, looking at him with dark eyes that smoldered. Atwood had never seen the man before. The Roman nose, firm mouth, and iron jaw contrasted with Atwood’s weak features. The man crossed the room in two strides, seized Atwood by the shoulders, and thrust him into a chair.
“Now talk!” said the man, but he did not speak as McQuey had spoken. Actually, McQuey had left the building at the same time that this man had entered. This man with the iron jaw and hawk nose was Secret Agent X. Jim Hobart’s alert scouts had not been long in locating the hiding Atwood, and as soon as he had changed his make-up, X had followed up this lead. On seeing McQuey leave the place, X had guessed that the confidence man had been there to see his cousin.
“Who—who are you?” whimpered Atwood.
“I’m from the police and if you talk it’ll go a lot easier with you,” declared X. “I want to know all about the stock you purchased from Achmet, Incorporated—whatever that is.”
Atwood’s mouth was working spasmodically. “It—it means death. They’ll get me. Don’t let them come here!”
X SHOOK the man’s shoulders. “Snap out of it! You knew that stock meant death so you gave it to an innocent, trusting girl. I ought to have your hide for this!”
“I didn’t suppose she’d be in any danger,” Atwood blubbered.
“Oh, no? Why did you get rid of the stock then?”
“M-McQuey said—he said it was dangerous.”
“How did McQuey know? Get a grip on yourself. You’re going to pieces fast!”
“McQuey sells it. He told me to give it to Miss Dale.”
X’s eyes narrowed. Atwood didn’t lie convincingly. The man’s nerves were completely shot. There was white froth at the corners of his mouth.
“How’d you happen to buy the stuff in the first place? Three thousand dollars is a lot of money to bet on fake stock.”
“It—it isn’t fake. They own all the business in Chinatown, nearly, and a lot of other things,” explained Atwood weakly.
“Yes,” X rapped, “and the Boulder Dam, too, I suppose.”
Atwood wrenched himself out of his chair, X pushed him down again.
“You—you leave me alone, damn you!” Atwood whined. His bloodshot eyes were swimming with tears. “You’ve made me tell you!” His foam-flecked lips trembled. “They said something terrible would happen if I told anyone.”
“And you’re going to tell a lot more in a moment.” X strode across the room to a filthy washroom adjoining. He took from his pocket a flat, leather-covered case which contained small bottles of costly drugs. In Atwood’s present terrified state, it was almost impossible to tell when he was lying and when he told the truth. A powerful sedative might make him more manageable. X dumped the contents of one of the bottles into a tumbler and was adding water from the faucet when he heard a purring, whispering voice utter the one word:
“Treason!”
The glass dropped from X’s hand and crashed into fragments. He turned, tried to snatch out his gas gun but was forced to raise his right arm to ward off a blow from a clubbed gun in the hand of a powerfully built mobster. As he turned the blow aside, he sent a smashing fist to the man’s mid-section.
Out the corner of his eye, he saw Cecil, the pock-marked Burmese, crouched and ready to spring. There was a knife in the man’s brown hand. But as X turned to meet the leaping Burmese, the full weight of another man landed on his back. Off balance, he went down in a heap. Sheer weight held him to the floor. He had only got a glimpse of the room as he turned around but he had seen four or five men and the familiar, graceful figure of the Leopard Lady.
“Don’t kill him,” purred Felice Vincart. “Not yet. Hold him on the floor. I am most interested to see who he is.”
Helpless in the grasp of four men. Agent X felt the woman’s strong, cool fingers on the back of his neck. The blade of a knife ripped through his collar. A laugh rippled from the Leopard Lady’s lacquered lips. “So nice seeing you again, Agent X.”
“Agent X?” echoed one of the men. “The man the boss wants finished off? Achmet thought he was dead until this X guy appeared to save his spy from torture.”
“Put him on his feet,” directed the woman. “But hold his arms and keep his head propped up between automatics.”
AGENT X was lifted bodily to his feet and so firmly wedged between automatics that he dared not move his head. Directly across the room, he saw the body of Perry Atwood. The hasp of a knife protruded from his shirt front and blood formed a crooked circle on the worn carpet.
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 6 Page 16