“Quite a time, Agent X. Probably will never occur to them.”
The criminal’s two thugs produced automatics which they held against the Agent’s temples. Their chief came from behind to face X. Eyes in the black mask were cold as death.
“Just what do you intend to do with me, Achmet Karahmud?” asked X in a whisper.
The man in the tarboosh chuckled. “You know me?” His yellow brown fingers came up to snatch aside the mask revealing the dark bearded face of the Oriental importer. “What am I to do with you? Stop your meddling once and for all. The world shall be safe for crime.” He addressed his men. “Take him away to await execution with the others. With Agent X dead, Achmet sleeps!”
Chapter X
ACHMET SLEEPS
IN a small room within the basement of the Bennit Theatre, a group of eighteen men and women were held prisoners. Among them were Betty Dale, Sandra Phelps, Jim Hobart, Stuart Gray, Henry Farington, and the confidence man, McQuey.
“What the devil does this mean?” demanded a worried looking man who had been thrown into the room only a few minutes before.
Stuart Gray took a handful of the newcomer’s coat front. “You bought Achmet, Incorporated stock, didn’t you? They’re sure death!”
Suddenly, Henry Farington sighted McQuey, the confidence man. He bounded across the room and seized McQuey by the hair. “Here’s the man who sold me my stock, and I’m going to square things.”
A gray-haired, aristocratic looking woman intervened. “Aren’t we all in a bad enough plight without quarreling among ourselves?”
Farington grumbled something and let go of McQuey. The furtive eyes of the confidence man looked from face to face. “Please, folks,” he said timidly, “we’re all in this mess together. I didn’t know selling those stock certificates meant you’d all be murdered. When I did know, I tried to right my wrongs? That’s why I’m here.”
The door of the prison was thrown open and Chelsia Bunn himself was carried into the room by a pair of armed Chinese. Bunn staggered across the room and leaned against the wall. Big Stuart Gray crossed to him, took him by the shoulders, and shook him. “Isn’t this your theatre? I’ll bet my last cent you’re tied up in this.”
Chelsia Bunn only groaned.
Across the room, Jim Hobart crossed to Betty Dale. A fixed smile sliced across his wholesome face. “Cheer up, Miss Dale. Don’t think we need worry a bit. I think the police must have seen the faces of the men who attacked me and brought me here. They’ll trace them here.”
Betty smiled bravely. She had been trying for the last half hour to cheer up Sandra Phelps. The auburn-haired beauty was brave, but her courage was that of a fatalist. She had played and lost; now she was willing to pay.
“I only wish Mr.—er—Mr. Martin were here,” said Betty. “He might be able to help.”
Hobart nodded. He walked over to where McQuey stood. “Just what are our chances?”
McQuey shook his head. “None,” he husked. “Achmet will have us all clawed to pieces by his cats. A scratch is death from those poisoned claws. Then Achmet will fade out of the picture. The police won’t be able to trace him.”
Hobart felt responsible for every life in the cell. He felt that he was a representative of his beloved Mr. Martin. Martin would have known what to do, and Jim Hobart—well, he felt like a washout.
Once again the steel barred door opened. Surprised oaths came from the men. For here was a second Mr. Bunn. His eyes hurried around the room. His lips formed one unspoken word: “Betty!” For this second Mr. Bunn was Agent X—with his pockets emptied of all special equipment. Even his bullet-proof vest was gone.
Farington looked from one Mr. Bunn to the other. “Look here,” he snarled, “there can’t be two of you. One of you is that criminal who impersonated poor Samuels the other night!”
X shrugged. “Don’t tell me I’m not Chelsia Bunn, Farington!” Searching the room with his eyes, X spied Jim Hobart, a dejected figure leaning against the wall beside Betty Dale.
At that moment, the clamor within the room subsided. Two armed men approached the door. Walking ahead of them was Felice Vincart, her red lips curved in a scornful smile. “We are concluding our little business,” she announced to all in a soft voice. “And we are wiping out the organization of Agent X as well. But first of all, Achmet deals with traitors. McQuey, come here.”
McQuey approached the door, head drooping on his chest. There he stopped. “Don’t think too bad of me, folks. I’m paying off now.” The iron door opened, and one of the guards dragged McQuey from the cell. X noted that as he passed the Leopard Lady, she sprayed a mist of colorless fluid into McQuey’s face. Ice encased the Agent’s heart. He knew the fluid was the same as that contained by the green china cats. It told of the hideous death awaiting them all.
THE guards and the Leopard Lady went away with their captive. Once more bedlam broke loose in the cell. Hobart, waving his hands above his head, shouted: “Quiet, everybody. We can’t get anywhere this way. We’ve got to think this through. There must be a way out.”
But at that moment, a dreadful bestial roar and vicious animal snarls filled the cellars and mingled with a shriek of human agony. That sound froze the prisoners into quivering silence.
“That’s the end of McQuey,” grumbled Farington.
“Shut up, you fool!” whispered Gray.
But Gray had spoken too late. Even the aristocratic, gray-haired woman showed signs of hysteria. Betty Dale’s pale lips trembled slightly. Her eyes wandered from X to Chelsia Bunn. X knew what she was hoping, but he gave no sign. It was enough for her to know that some one was there who would protect her with his life.
Again the guards came to the door. “One of our largest stockholders now,” said Felice Vincart with a smile. “Mr. Stuart Gray.”
The cosmetic manufacturer’s great frame was shaking like a leaf. He turned, would have thrown himself through the group to the back of the room had not one of the guards thrust a steel hook through the bars of the door, caught Gray, and drawn him toward the door.
Shrieking like a madman, Stuart Gray passed into the hands of the guards. He was dragged across the outer chamber into the execution chamber beyond. Once again, the cellars quivered with the agonized wail of humanity in mortal agony.
But while Gray had been resisting the efforts of the guards, Agent X had dropped to his knees on the floor. No one was paying any attention to him with the possible exception of Betty Dale. Surreptitiously, he worked with the heel of his right shoe. A tiny slide in the heel moved aside at his touch, revealing a small compartment. In this compartment rested a tiny tube of make-up material, a small flask of some dark colored liquid, and a hypodermic needle.
Removing flask and needle, X quickly filled the needle with the powerful narcotic the flask contained. Here was a weapon which even the most careful searchers frequently overlooked. A tiny, fragile weapon to be pitted against the trained criminals of Achmet Karahmud, but it was all he had. On his feet in a moment, X went over to where Hobart was standing. He slapped Hobart on the shoulder. “I’ve got a plan!”
“Yeah?” Hobart’s eyes brightened.
“Whoever is chosen next will undoubtedly resist. The guard will have to use the hook to get the victim near the door. They’re afraid to open that door very far. We might get out of control and bolt for it. That’s just what we’re going to do. I’m getting out of this place, and I’ll break the trail for the rest. If anything happens to me, you’ll help the others. Especially, I want you to watch out for Miss Dale. She’s young and deserves to live. Understand?”
Hobart’s shrewd eyes narrowed. “You’re the man they call X?”
X nodded.
Hobart smiled. “Go to it. I’m back of you. Never did think you were as black a villain as you were painted.”
“Thanks,” said X simply. “Just get the rest to follow me. Beyond is a big storage room and next to that the furnace room with a good-sized fuel room attached. The fuel room has
a sliding steel door. Get everybody in there and pull that door shut. You may be able to hold it against the killers—if we can’t find a way out right away.”
Again came the Leopard Lady and her two burly guards. Still smiling, the Leopard Lady said: “And next, because she knows too much, my sister-in-law, Sandra Phelps.”
SANDRA’S stoical mask was suddenly broken. Her lips parted in a shriek of terror. Betty Dale threw both arms about Sandra and held her against the wall.
“Oh, do something!” Betty cried. And X knew that appeal was intended for his ears alone. He watched the door, saw the guard’s hook come through the bars. Still, he dared not move. Felice Vincart waited to unlock the door. Men and women shrank from that groping hook—all but Betty Dale. She clung to the terrified Sandra with all the strength in her small body.
X saw the steel hook catch Betty by the shoulder. Slowly, the guard drew both of the girls toward the door. X ground his teeth, watched the door swing open, and saw the second guard reach out to seize Betty Dale.
At that moment, like a man who welcomes death, Agent X leaped toward the door. His right hand darted out. The frail hypodermic needle buried itself in the guard’s arm. The man jerked back. His knees became jelly. The second guard released his hook, snatched out his automatic, and aimed it directly at the Agent’s unprotected chest as X sprang through the opening to seize the Leopard Lady.
A split second separated X from the jaws of death. Had it not been for Jim Hobart, the Agent’s long and useful career would have been at an end. But as the first guard dropped under the influence of the Agent’s narcotic, Hobart sprang forward, seized the steel hook the other guard had dropped, and swung it with all his strength. Just as the guard’s finger tightened on the trigger of his gun, that swinging hook struck him on the side of the head and swept him to the floor.
In the hands of Agent X, the Leopard Lady writhed like an eel. A tiny poniard in her hand threatened to lodge itself in the Agent’s throat twice before he could disarm her. Then with a twist that brought every muscle in her body into play, she broke from his grasp and raced through the door to the outer chamber. X turned, saw Hobart knocking the fallen guard into insensibility. Catching X’s eyes, Hobart remembered his job. He sprang to the side of Betty Dale.
“This way!” shouted X. He led across the outer chamber, the other prisoners running in a panic behind him. He gained the storage room just in time to see Karahmud and the Leopard Lady hurrying through a steel door that clanked shut behind them. But almost at the same time, a smaller door, that looked as though it might have closed a chute for getting props from the stage to the storage room, started to open slowly by remote control. One of the prisoners, taking this smaller opening for an avenue of exit, sprang toward it.
“No!” shouted X. “Not that way!” For beyond the cavernous mouth of the chute he saw eyes—gleaming “cats’” eyes. Not a single pair of eyes, at least half a dozen. X pivoted. “A match, somebody. Quick! Hobart, make for the coal bin. There is no way out!”
Somebody threw a cigarette lighter to X. He caught it, turned around, just as the lithe form of a powerful leopard appeared in the opening of the chute. With a cry of terror, the panicky prisoners rushed by X to the door of the next room. X ran like a mad man across the big room toward a pile of scenery. The leopard, moving swiftly across the room, crouched, fully conscious of the helplessness of this mere man. Another black form crept from the chute. Then another. Running stealthily on padded feet, the killer cats followed Agent X.
X dropped behind the pile of old scenery, knowing full well that to be out of sight of the stalking cats meant nothing. X still carried the green china cat in his pocket—did so deliberately knowing that the colorless fluid which exuded from its surface compelled the cats to follow him and filled them with a lust to kill. He was playing human decoy in one final effort to give Hobart a chance to herd the frantic prisoners to a place of safety.
One of the leopards rounded the pile of scenery. At that moment, X sparked the cigarette lighter. The wick flamed. He touched the flame to the canvas of the scenery and saw the scenery smolder. Then he was forced to spring back to avoid the charge of the cat.
The animal landed with a disappointed snarl on the spot where X had been kneeling. Even before it could wheel for another spring, X had vaulted to the top of the heap of scenery. Beneath him, flames were licking along the canvas. He stooped, whipped up a roll of canvas drop, and was upright again in time to knock over another cat with it. He flamed the frayed end of the drop and threw it at a third leopard.
He picked up a light canvas fly, ignited it, and sprang from the now blazing pile. Swinging the flaming canvas, as a bull fighter swings his red cape in front of a bull, X advanced toward the leopard. Snarling and whining, claws now and again lashing out at thin air, the cats retreated. X whirled around. A leopard stalked him from behind.
The piece of canvas in X’s hand flamed dangerously close to his flesh. He flung it straight at the nearest leopard. The cat snarled, backed quickly. Then dropping almost to its belly, it ran back toward the opening of the chute through which it had come. The other leopards, slinking around the sides of the room, followed suit. The reason was obvious. Once the fire had started among the canvases, it had licked up the wooden partition between the storage and furnace rooms. The wall of fire mounted and X saw that it was crawling along the ceiling.
The room was rapidly filling with smoke and the flames had completely cut off every exit except the one opening on the leopard chute. Hobart, Betty, and the other prisoners were comparatively safe if they had gained the empty fuel cellar, but X was trapped by the fire on one hand and retreating leopards on the other.
HOBART followed the prisoners into the fuel room and closed the door of steel that separated that room from the rest of the basement. The door was fireproof and so were the walls of the room, but smoke penetrated the crack beneath the door. Hobart knew that it would only be a matter of minutes before the door was red hot.
A man seized Hobart by the shoulder and pulled him from the door. “What’s that hare-brained fool done? Set the place on fire?”
Hobart’s redheaded temper came near getting the best of him. “That hare-brained fool, as you call him, has just saved your life! If it hadn’t been for him, you’d be food for the leopards right now!”
“But we’ll be roasted to death or stifled here,” put in a woman.
“Oh, Mr. Hobart!” It was Betty Dale who called excitedly from the back of the room. “There’s a coal chute here. The door at the top must open on the sidewalk. We think we can hear footsteps up above.”
Hobart joined the girl reporter. A wide, blackened sheet of metal extended down from above. He could not quite reach it.
“Can’t we form a pyramid or something,” Sandra suggested. “Then one of you might get up there and unlock the door.”
Men volunteered immediately. Hobart was hoisted onto shoulders and boosted up the chute. Digging heels and elbows against the steel sides, he worked his way up only to find that a chain and padlock secured the coal door. Air up in the chute was foul, all of the smoke and gas in the burning basement seemed to have collected at its upper end.
Hobart clung desperately to the chain with one hand, shouted until he was hoarse, and pounded with his knuckles until they were bloody. But he had attracted attention. On the other side of the door, some one shouted back to him.
“We’re trapped!” Hobart gasped. “You’ll have to cut through this door. Get a torch.” A clatter of feet on the steel plates above. Hobart, nearly suffocated, let go of the chain and dropped back to the floor to lie at full length, drinking in the fresher air near the concrete.
“He’s nearly suffocated!” cried Sandra Phelps compassionately, brushing Jim’s tousled red hair back from his eyes. Hobart smiled weakly. It wasn’t the gas and smoke so much as the heat of the room at that moment. And Hobart was thinking of that heroic, flame-flaunting figure of Agent X. One man who had risked everything that th
e others might have their chance. Agent X, the man whom Hobart had, like many others, looked upon as a criminal, had risen to new heights in Jim Hobart’s estimation.
Suddenly, multicolored fireworks filled the fuel room. An acetylene torch was at work on the steel door above.
“Back!” shouted Farington. “When they cut through that plate, it will slide down the chute on top of us.”
The prisoners shrank back toward the steel door that was already too hot to touch. Hobart dragged to his feet with the help of Sandra and Betty. They were hardly out of the way before the cutting torch brought the steel plate crashing down into their midst. Gas and smoke spurted up through the opening. The draft sucked flame beneath the door. But when the smoke had cleared away, the helmeted head of a fireman appeared in the opening above.
“Get an oxygen tank ready,” Jim called back. “Some of them may need it.”
The fireman nodded. In another moment, a ladder was extended down into the fuel room.
IN an office off the stage in the theater above, the man who called himself Achmet Karahmud knelt beside an open steel box. His yellow-brown fingers plunged again and again into the box, bringing out neatly wrapped piles of currency of large denomination. His eyes gleamed avariciously as he crammed money into a bulging valise. Not all his profits were in that box. He chuckled gleefully as he worked.
“Achmet is far too clever to put all his eggs in one basket,” he soliloquised. “But this will take me safely from the country.”
Quickly, he locked and double locked the valise. It was not until then that he noted the pungent odor of smoke that purled under the office door. Had the fire then spread to the rest of the building? He looked again around the office. His Burmese servant lay on the floor with a jagged bullet hole in the center of his forehead. His lieutenant Wong Kee Lim lay in another corner, his head beaten to an unrecognizable horror. Dead men told no tales, Achmet thought to himself.
Valise in hand, Achmet hurried to the door and swung it open. A mammoth tongue of flame roared across the door. Achmet stepped back. The fire had spread. From his office, he could see that the stage was in flames. The old theater would go like tinder once it was well started. But Achmet had no intention of waiting for that.
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 6 Page 20