Secret Agent X : The Complete Series Volume 3

by Emile C. Tepperman

  Then he glanced down at Bartholdy’s inert form. It could not stay there. In a moment the two federal men would be back. They might look in the doorway of Ming headquarters and see it.

  The Manchu’s keen eyes saw a door opening toward the left. He turned the knob, stuck his head inside, and saw that here was a classroom maintained by the Ming Tong and used in the daytime to teach Chinese merchants American business tactics.

  In a moment he had transferred the unconscious Detective Bartholdy to this chamber. He left the detective propped solemnly before a desk. Then he moved silently up a long flight of stairs to the building’s second floor. He walked down a short corridor and stopped suddenly again, as a voice challenged him for the second time that night.

  This was no white detective or federal agent. It was a tall, stern-faced Chinaman, clad in a silk robe with flowing sleeves. His yellow arms were crossed and his hands stuffed in those sleeves.

  “Who are you, stranger, and what is your business that you come to the headquarters of the Ming Tong at this time of night?” The Chinaman with the folded arms spoke in Cantonese.

  The tall Manchu gave answer fluently, in the same language, as though all dialects were familiar to him.

  “Sung, courageous guardian of the portals of this most honorable tong, I come in peace. I would have talk with Lo Mong Yung, venerable father of the Mingmen. Tell him that one by the name of Ho Ling wishes to see him.”

  The robed Chinaman shook his head sternly. “You appear to know me and call me by name, but I have never seen you before. There are fears and evil whispers abroad tonight. Caution has been impressed upon me by my master.”

  The Manchu eyed the other calmly. He knew that in those flowing sleeves, clenched in the snaky yellow fingers, were twin automatics capable of mowing him down in a second. He knew that the Chinaman, Sung, had been selected for this post because he had nerves of steel, the brain of a fox, and could shoot with the uncanny accuracy of a born marksman. He nodded and reached into his own coat pocket.

  “It is about these fears and whispers that I come,” he said.

  The other’s body stiffened; But instead of a gun the tall Manchu brought a card from his pocket.

  “Give the venerable Lo Mong Yung this,” he said.

  The other looked at it, snorted. “It is blank,” he said. “It has no writing on it. What foolishness is this?”

  “Give it to him,” replied the man who called himself Ho Ling, “Save your questioning till afterwards.” There was a strange note of authority in his voice now, and something in his eye that seemed to command the other’s respect.

  “I will do as you say,” the guard said. “But remain here. If you attempt to enter the chamber of Yung before he has given the word, your life will be upon your own conscience.”

  Deftly removing one of the automatics hidden in his sleeve, to give the impression that he was unarmed. Sung took the blank card and walked through a doorway. He returned a minute later, and stared at the visitor, Ho Ling, with new respect and a little awe.

  “You may enter,” he said, “Lo Mong Yung, the honored and revered father of our tong, will see you.”

  THE Manchu passed through the doorway that Sung indicated, swept a curtain aside and found himself in a room that was like an ordinary American business office.

  At a glass-topped desk an aged Chinaman sat. His face was withered, parchmentlike. His hands were mere fragile wisps of bone and loose skin; yet his eyes were piercingly bright. He glanced at his visitor, glanced down at a white card lying on his desk, and in those bright eyes was a look of perplexity.

  The card, which a moment before when Sung had carried it in had been blank, now showed a black “X,” startlingly revealed on its white surface. Under the rays of the light overhead this “X” had come out.

  The old Chinaman’s voice sounded in the room. It was low, thin as tinkling glass, hardly more than a whisper, but it carried the weight of wisdom and authority.

  “I do not understand, O stranger. You come bearing the card of a white man—the only white man ever to be taken into our tong and made a brother of the Mingmen. Yet you are not he. You are a Manchu, and one unknown to me who have seen many men.”

  The tall Manchu bowed. “O father of the Ming Tong, accept greetings from that white man of whom you speak—and know that I am he, now brother of the Mingmen.”

  For seconds the eyes of the two men clashed. The ancient Chinaman shook his head.

  “The white man I speak of has surprised me with his deeds before. He is a brother of strange ways and remarkable talents. Yet he once did the Ming Tong a great service, and his actions are always based on the good things whereby men live well and honestly. If you are really he, step close and speak in my ear that word known only to the brothers of my tong.”

  The tall Manchu did so. What he whispered was spoken so softly that it did not carry beyond the desk. Yet it satisfied Lo Mong Yung.

  “Now I know,” he said, “that whispers I have heard are true. You are he whom they call the ‘Man of a Thousand Faces.’ You are one who fights the dragon of evil. You are—”

  The visitor lifted his hand. “Do not speak it, O venerable father! For even here there may be inquisitive ears. Let it be enough that I am a Mingman come to ask words of wisdom from one who has known many years of well-spent life.”

  The old Chinaman nodded slowly. “Proceed, O brother,” he said. “If the withered brain of this unworthy servant may humbly aid one of illustrious deeds; the honor blesses the revered fathers of my ancient family.”

  The white man in the guise of a Manchu bowed. It seemed utterly incredible that his Mongolian features, slanted eyes and yellow complexion were all parts of a masterly disguise. Yet this was so, for Lo Mong Yung’s visitor was the strange, relentless criminal investigator known as Secret Agent “X,” a man so secretive and mysterious that no living soul had ever knowingly seen him unmasked.

  IF it were rumored that “X” was in the building, a cordon of police would be thrown around it at once. Machine guns would be trained on the Ming Tong headquarters, the rooms would be bombarded with tear gas. “X” would have to pause in his investigation to save himself. For the Secret Agent, friend of the law in fact, was misunderstood.

  Many times he had been accused of crimes that he was trying in reality to prevent. Many times the guardians of the law had looked upon him as a ruthless, dangerous enemy of society, not knowing that he fought always for society, against the rabid hordes of the underworld of crime.

  He was beginning one of his amazing campaigns now. He was about to fight something that threatened to spread over the whole nation like a relentless, sinister blight. He addressed Lo Mong Yung gravely, still using the flowery language of the East.

  “Respected master, an evil visitation has come upon us—something as destructive to men as locusts are to a field of young rice. Unless this monster is strangled before it grows too large; unless the country is freed from its evil spell, no man can predict what may happen. There will be a famine of happiness surely, a collapse of human hopes—perhaps utter ruin. I speak, O venerable father, of the drug evil.”

  His slender, fragile hands thrust in the great sleeves of his gold-worked, richly embroidered mandarin coat, Lo Mong Yung sat as motionless and inscrutable as the figure of Buddha, wreathed with incense, that squatted in a niche on the opposite wall. Yet the eyes of the aged Chinaman were like fiery coals gleaming from the yellow face of a waxen idol.

  “I have heard the story,” he spoke at last in his thin voice. “The evil has permeated the privileged class. The wealthy have succumbed to the pitiless power of drugs. Their bodies writhe for the soothing potency. Their children cry to have their crawling nerves quieted. A dreadful narcotic is making maniacs and criminals of people who were as wealthy and respected as mandarins.”

  Secret Agent “X” nodded. “But these children of misfortune have not sought this degradation. It has seeped into their veins, enslaved them unawares. I have
discovered, wise father, through the science of my laboratory, that many brands of expensive cigarettes, candies, even lipsticks, have been treated with a powerful narcotic that has worked subtle power over these victims.

  “It is a wily method, a masterly stroke of distorted genius on the part of someone to gain addicts for this insidious drug. Yet no money has been demanded so far as I can find out. The drug is being administered free. This is one thing that makes the law helpless. And it makes the mystery of it all as black as a forest of ebony.”

  The Agent made a sudden gesture of apology.

  “I am presuming upon your tolerance,” he said. “I tax your ears perhaps with what you already know. But let me picture briefly how this thing is being spread.”

  Lo Mong Yung motioned with one withered hand for the Agent to continue.

  “A wealthy man may drop in at his club,” said “X.” “He may refresh himself at the cocktail hour, not knowing that his liquor is adulterated with this strange drug. He thinks the exhilaration he feels comes from alcohol alone. Even the club manager and the regular attendants have no knowledge of the evil force at work.

  “But in a week, two at most, our clubman has become an addict. He is no longer human. He is a fiend with a craving that destroys his integrity, an appetite that will make him lie, slander, sell out his partners, even kill, to get more of this thing that has enslaved him. Yet no one knows who is giving this drug out, or why it is being done.”

  Lo Mong Yung threw out his hands, palms upward.

  “It is deplorable,” he said. “But why do you confer with my profound ignorance? How may the sum of my blundering experience help you against this blight?”

  “Learned father,” said the Secret Agent slowly, “is it possible that the poison of some strange plot has eaten into the hearts of our Mingmen? The tong is powerful. It has ways of reaching all levels of society. I ask you therefore, as the honorable head of the Mings, to speak if you have any suspicion of our brothers.”

  LO MONG YUNG’S expression did not change. He did not show anger. It was not in his philosophy to let the fires of rage destroy the wisdom of his venerable years. His was the power of a placid man.

  “Truly, my son,” he said quietly, “the burnt child is wary of the fire. And the man who has reached the mandarin’s palace does not seek the coolie’s hut. The insidious poppy once ravaged our people like a leprosy. We have been the burnt child. But we have smothered the velvet fumes of the opium pipe, have broken the needle of the hypodermic. No longer do Mingmen court the devil dust of morphine that mocks them with visions of lotus blossoms while it shrivels their souls and shrinks them, body and mind. We have left the coolie’s hut of poverty. We have sipped the nectar of prosperity. No, O son, the weight of my years be upon my words! No Mingman is guilty of this evil.”

  The Agent bowed low, and his gesture of humility was sincere.

  “Forgive me, most venerable sage,” he said, “and accept my deepest thanks for the manner in which you have answered my question. Know, too, that I am happy in the assurance that the brothers of our Ming Tong are innocent of any traffic with this evil. And now I would draw upon your wisdom a little longer. Have you, O father, given any thought as to what man, or group of men, may be behind this strange thing?”

  Before he answered “X’s” latest question, the venerable father of the Ming Tong arose and crossed the room that was like any business office except that ancient Eastern art mingled with modern Western efficiency. Built into the back wall was a large filing cabinet.

  On it stood an enameled bronze incense burner of the Ming Period. Across the paneled wall stretched a scroll of flowers and birds, which “X” knew to be the work of Pien Lan, an artist of the Tang Dynasty, who lived in the eighth century. There were specimens of Chinese craftsmanship; carvings of teakwood, jade, rose quartz and ivory. On the glass-topped desk lay a cinnabar box of delicate design, and chrysanthemums filled a glazed flower vase of the Ching Dynasty.

  Lo Mong Yung lighted a coiled joss-stick and placed it before the idol of Buddha, then he seated himself again and spoke in the solemn tones of some Eastern oracle.

  “My son, long before the bluecoats swarmed the streets and caused our people to bolt the doors and draw the blinds, I knew that our noble order was suspected. I have sent out many of our brothers to try and pierce the mystery. But we have learned little. It may be that the dragon of a foreign power is breathing fire on America—seeking to weaken the nation for invasion.”

  The eyes of Agent “X” gleamed as Lo Mong Yung said this. He crouched forward toward the ancient Chinaman with something of the look of a questing hawk about his face and posture.

  “That thought has troubled me,” he said softly. “If a hostile country is fostering this dread thing, then the leaders must be caught before guns roar and men are mobilized for wholesale slaughter. But possibly a madman, jaded by riches and jaundiced against the goodness of the world employs this treachery to feed his hatred and cultivate his wickedness.”

  “The suggestion has the color of logic,” replied Lo Mong Yung. “Whether it carries the substance of truth, I do not know. I can speak only in feeble conjectures. But I do know of one powerful white drug ring that is like a volcano, rumbling in its depths and boiling with the threat of devastating eruption. We have learned that this ring is combing the underworld for gunmen—for the vicious gray rats and snarling jackals who slew during the prohibition era. Maybe it is behind this blight for some reason we do not know, and maybe it is marshaling forces to fight a competition that threatens its ruin.”

  The Secret Agent pressed his fingertips together till the nails showed white. His eyes seemed to carry leaping points of fire in their depths.

  “O father,” he said quickly, “you may have given the lead that will direct me to the heart of this trouble. Tell me where these men gather to plot their wickedness.”

  Before Lo Mong Yung could answer something disturbed the quiet of the room. The shrilling note of a police whistle pierced the tense stillness of Chinatown. Then a harsh Western voice roared out orders that brought a look of distress to the ancient Chinaman’s face. A gun cracked sharply, and somewhere a window crashed shut.

  From a lower floor arose a shrill chatter in Canton dialect. Then came a ripping, splitting racket that was almost deafening. Axes were splintering the front doors. The headquarters of the Ming Tong was being raided.

  Chapter II

  UNDER FIRE

  IN a moment there was a bang as the door was flung back. Heavy footsteps thumped in the lower hallway. The guard, Sung, began protesting in pidgin English.

  Agent “X” heard a snarled oath, then the crack of a fist against flesh and bone. Sung’s outburst was cut short. Immediately there was the pounding of steps on the stairs.

  The Agent slipped his hand in his pocket and brought out a gun. Lo Mong Yung put a restraining hand on “X’s” arm, and shook his head. He did not know that the weapon discharged only gas pellets, which aided the Agent in his captures and escapes, but which did no harm other than render the victim unconscious for a short time.

  “One killing in the house of the Ming Tong,” said Lo Mong Yung, “and I would join my ancestors knowing that our society would be forever blackened in the eyes of the law. I speak now as the father of the Mingmen. Come!”

  It was a command, and the Secret Agent bowed to it, following the fragile Chinaman across the room. Already the police had reached the floor, and were pounding at the door.

  The Agent thought he would have to fight, for there appeared to be only the one exit, and the law was swarming in the corridor. But Lo Mong Yung slid his slender hand like a caress over the scroll of Pien Lan, and a long-nailed finger touched the bill of a humming-bird drawn during the Tang Dynasty, when even Europe was a land of barbarians.

  Instantly the filing cabinet moved forward, revealing an aperture through which a man could squeeze. “X” needed no prompting. He was through the opening in a second, and the cabinet was
rolling back, leaving him in a vaultlike room lighted by an oil lamp. The room seemed sealed, except for a secret entrance, but the air was fresh, so there was some other means of ventilation and probably another exit.

  The Agent was amazed how clearly sounds came from the other room. He carried a small, portable amplifier, but he didn’t need it now, for the vault was equipped with a microphone connected with the office. The members of the narcotic squad were in the room. “X” pictured Lo Mong Yung greeting them with the sedate, unruffled graciousness of a philosopher. Lo Mong Yung’s voice reached his ears now.

  “A violent entrance and a furrowed brow imply an interest which a doddering old heathen like myself does not merit,” he said in faultless English and with gentle irony.

  A quick retort came.

  “Listen, you slant-eyed old fossil! I’m Inspector Bower of the Narcotic Division. We got a tip-off that you had a Chink dope runner cached in here. Bring him out or we’ll tear this dump down and sell it for kindling wood.”

  “Your request fills me with regret,” said Lo Mong Yung. “You ask me to perform a task not in my humble capacity to achieve. Had I the power of Confucius I could not lessen my unworthiness by bringing forth the dope runner in question, for he does not exist except in the fertile realm of your excellent imagination. If you will honor me, however, by accepting a glass of Tiger Bone wine, or a choice draft of Gop Goy in which a lizard has taken ten years to dissolve, I will feel that I have made partial atonement. Or, if liquor while on duty is forbidden, perhaps I can tempt you with cockroaches in honey, a delicacy that caused the Emperor Shih-tsu to neglect the affairs of state.”

  The Agent heard a snarl of laughter.

  “That’s tellin’ him, Lichee Nut!” a squad member said. “The old duffer has you tied in a package and ready for delivery, Bower.”

  “Search this room!” bellowed the voice of Inspector Bower. “This isn’t a tent show. Tap the walls, and if you hear a hollow sound, use the ax. Look in those jugs, too. You never can tell where these slobs may hide dope.”