Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 4

by Emile C. Tepperman

  Elisha Pond snorted.

  “Mr. Pond,” said Gage seriously, “I consider you a man of great good sense, and courage. There will be a meeting of men, whom I hope are as courageous as you are, at my house tonight. We are going to discuss a plan that will undoubtedly defeat the purposes of the Ghoul. I would be most happy to have you join us. Say, about ten o’clock?”

  Elisha Pond bobbed his head and hurried off. Beneath his apparently aged exterior, a young heart beat high with new hope. Behind his wrinkled face the brain of the most amazing criminologist of our time was hard at work. There was a glint of humor in his brilliant eyes. Little did the Ghoul know, for all his cunning, that in threatening Elisha Pond, he had threatened his arch enemy, Secret Agent “X.”

  That morning, Secret Agent “X” had spent in putting his vast crime-fighting machine into operation. Jim Hobart, who directed the operations of a group of private detectives employed by “X,” had been ordered to release Ah-Fang, former servant of Gilbert Warnow. Ah-Fang had been held prisoner during the Agent’s impersonation of the Chinese valet. “X” believed that Ah-Fang might have had a hand in the murder of Gilbert Warnow, and his instructions to Hobart were to have one of his men shadow the Chinese and record his every movement.

  TO Bates, another important cog in the Agent’s machine, had fallen the task of investigating the shortwave radio converter that “X” had taken from Warnow’s suite. Bates had been directed to put experts to work to determine the wave of the Ghoul’s radio station and if possible learn its location. A scientist in the Bates organization was also to examine the two hypodermic needles which “X” had removed from the pillow-trap to learn, if possible, what substance they contained.

  As he hurried along the street toward one of his hideouts, “X” noticed that the building directly across from the Hotel Empire was made conspicuous by the fact that a large balloon was anchored to its roof. He had noticed several of these balloons in various parts of the city lately. They were moored there, ostensibly, to advertise some little known product, and their surfaces were covered with lettering. But to the alert brain of Agent “X,” these balloons together with the mysterious bag of shot he had found in Warnow’s bedroom, formed an important clue as to the means in which the Ghoul performed his amazing kidnapings.

  However, he had plans that had to be carried out immediately, foremost of which was to contrive an interview with the dangerous Drew Devon, beautiful, poisonous tool in the hands of the Golden Ghoul.

  The apartment house in which Drew Devon lived cast a long shadow by the time Agent “X” arrived. He had taken considerable pains to produce an entirely new make-up. He was the very picture of opulence. Chubby cheeks were traced with a network of tiny red lines that might have indicated high blood pressure brought on by too much good living.

  As he alighted from his car, “X” noticed a familiar figure approaching a taxi that was parked in front of his own car. It was the swarthy-faced Daniel Calvert whom he had seen with Dr. Luigi on the previous night. And Calvert had come from the apartment house where Drew Devon lived.

  “X” busied himself around his own car, seeming to pay no attention to Calvert. As the wealthy financier got into the cab, “X” distinctly heard him say: “Back to the Great Eastern Bank, driver.”

  As soon as Calvert’s cab had pulled from the curb, “X” entered the building. A few moments later, he was adjusting his tie in front of the door of Drew Devon’s fifth-floor apartment. When the beautiful blonde opened the door, a toothy smile spread across “X’s” face. He allowed a dazzling diamond ring to show on the third finger of his left hand. Drew Devon’s slight frown disappeared. Here, to all appearances, was the sort of person she thrived upon.

  “Miss Devon?” enquired “X” politely.

  Drew Devon smiled, nodded, and accepted a visiting card that introduced “X” as Jason Longworth, a name that meant millions in Chicago.

  “It is my intention, Miss Devon, to back an entirely new musical revue that a promising young author-composer has brought to my attention. That young man was particularly anxious that no one be selected for the leading part until I offered you the post. Frankly, if I may say so, I realize now the wisdom of my young friend’s choice.”

  “Please step in, Mr. Longworth,” Drew Devon invited. “As you probably know, I have rather abruptly, but wilfully, terminated my stage career. However,” she added with an alluring smile, as she closed the door behind “X,” “I am always ready to listen to a new proposition.”

  Back to the door, “X” made a move that was nothing else than legerdemain. He twisted the key in the lock without Drew Devon knowing it. His voice, which up to now had dripped honey, became flinty. His right hand came out of his pocket holding a bent and twisted hairpin.

  “You realize, Miss Devon, that I have only to turn this over to the police together with information as to where I found it, and a very beautiful woman takes her place in the electric chair!”

  Most of the pink faded from Drew Devon’s pink-and-white complexion. Her eyes widened. “Wh—who are you?” she whispered huskily.

  “You have seen my card. I am Jason Longworth, a life-long friend of Gilbert Warnow. I happened quite by accident upon this hairpin. Discreet inquiry led me to believe that it was you who were the instrument of Warnow’s death. Be assured that I will move heaven and earth to see that my friend is avenged. You are a servant of the Ghoul. But I am charitable enough to believe that you are a victim of circumstances. Is my assumption correct?”

  DREW DEVON nodded slightly. It was as though she feared some unseen eye might observe her admission.

  “Very well,” continued the Agent. “I am willing that my knowledge concerning your part in this matter shall forever remain a secret. In addition, I am willing to pay you enough money to leave this country and insure yourself an excellent living elsewhere. Can we do business?”

  Drew Devon’s poise did not desert her as she crossed the room to a small table. But “X” noticed that her hand trembled slightly as she drew out a chair. “Please sit down, Mr. Longworth. Perhaps we can come to some agreement.”

  “X” seated himself on the opposite side of the table. He studied the woman’s face carefully. Outwardly, she appeared the picture of harassed woman-kind. But beneath the mask—what?

  Drew Devon examined her polished nails critically. “I am,” she began, “as you say, a victim of circumstances. I would do anything within my power to free myself of the slavery of him. But I am afraid—afraid of him I dare not name.”

  “X” reached inside his pocket and drew out a neat packet of currency. “Would fifty, one thousand dollar bills overcome that fear, Miss Devon?” he asked shrewdly.

  Drew Devon started. Perfect as was her control she could not conceal the avaricious gleam in her eyes as they met that stack of bills. She made an attempt to conceal her eagerness in a sudden movement. She picked up a silver cigarette chest, opened it, and passed it to Agent “X.” He declined without hesitation. He had sensed beneath Drew Devon’s lovely face the guile of a Borgia. Aware of his distrust, she shrugged slightly, selected one of the cigarettes and put it between her lips.

  “So you want me to risk my life—even my sanity—to tell you the name of—of him of whom you speak,” she said reflectively.

  “X” watched the woman narrowly and saw her do a peculiar thing. Whether, in a moment of suppressed excitement, she made a mistake or whether the act was intentional, he couldn’t tell. But Drew Devon flicked a lighter and applied the flame to the cork tip of the cigarette. She inhaled deeply and allowed feathers of smoke to dribble from her scarlet lips.

  “Mr. Longworth, you will probably find the name of the man you are seeking in tonight’s paper. If you will read the story which will undoubtedly concern a gentleman by the name of Elisha Pond, you will find his true name.” She leaned far over the table. Her cigarette returned to her lips. She drew deeply, regarding her companion with a curious gleam in her violet eyes.

  S
uddenly, it happened. There was a snap like the breaking of a violin string. The cigarette in the woman’s lips had disintegrated. A tiny dart, propelled by a coiled spring, had been released from the inside of the cigarette. In a split second it had sprung the short distance between Drew Devon and Agent “X.” The dart, at that moment, was deeply imbedded in what appeared to be the cheek of Secret Agent “X.” He sprang out of his chair, staggered to one side, and pitched over backwards to the floor. Legs and arms twitched convulsively. Then he lay very still

  An evil smile twitched the lips of Drew Devon. “Now, Mr. Longworth, read this evening’s paper—if you can!” She picked up the sheaf of bills from the table and tucked them into the bosom of her dress.

  THERE came a knock at the door. From beneath lowered eyelids, Secret Agent “X” watched Drew Devon as she walked across the room. Actually, the dart, which was evidently poisoned, had not touched his flesh. The point of the deadly little missile had entered the plastic material that covered his cheeks, but had come in contact with one of the metal faceplates which he had used to achieve the plump contours of the face of Jason Longworth.

  He knew now why Drew Devon had lighted the cork tip of her cigarette. The dart and the spring that propelled it had been concealed within that cigarette. Had “X” smoked the cigarette, he would have lighted the right end. In that case, the poisoned dart would have shot down into his throat.

  It was a deadly contrivance worthy of the criminal genius of the Ghoul himself. He watched the beautiful figure of the woman gracefully crossing the room. Hers was the callousness of a master murderer. Was it possible that she was the Ghoul whose infallible schemes and terror tactics were slitting the fattest purses in the city?

  Drew Devon opened the door of the room a crack, silently nodded her blonde head, then opened the door to admit a man. She closed the door behind him and locked it. The man who had entered was extremely tall and thin. He was dressed in the height of fashion. The lean hands, visible below the cuffs of his dark coat, were yellow, and “X” noticed that one finger on his right hand was missing.

  “You are ready to go with me, Drew?” the man asked in a voice that could be described only as metallic.

  “All ready, Bobby. Having transacted a rather neat bit of business. Do you suppose you could manage to have some of the boys dispose of this carrion for me?” She took the arm of the man with the yellow hands and turned him so that he faced the recumbent form of Agent “X.”

  Without so much as a flutter of an eyelid, “X” regarded the man through the curtain of his eyelashes. The man’s face, too, was the yellow of old ivory, but his features were regular and Caucasian. He would have been handsome in an effeminate sort of way, if it hadn’t been for his right eye. This eye, turned far out, gave an ugly, inhuman cast to his face. He was obviously an Eurasian.

  “Who is he?” demanded the man with the ivory face.

  “Jason Longworth,” Drew Devon replied. In front of a mirror, she was putting on a rakish looking hat. “A friend of Warnow’s who thought I could be persuaded to tell things—things I don’t know.”

  “How did you manage this?” asked Bobby as he approached “X.”

  “Oh, I’ve ways of protecting myself,” she said lightly. “Is he dead yet?”

  The man knelt. With one yellow finger, he peeled back “X’s” right eyelid. Had not the Agent been the master of his own nerves that he was, he could not have managed to roll his eyes back under this severe test.

  “No,” replied he of the yellow hands. “But he is scarcely breathing. Don’t you think it would be wise for me to thrust my knife into his throat?” He allowed “X’s” eyelid to snap shut.

  Drew Devon laughed. “No! Decidedly crude. He won’t last much longer. Are we going to Ah-Fang’s, or not?”

  “With you in a moment.” The man called Bobby availed himself of the diamond ring on the finger of Secret Agent “X,” and then joined Drew Devon at the door.

  No sooner had the couple left the apartment than Secret Agent “X” was on his feet. His photographic memory had recalled the face of the man with Drew Devon. He was known simply as China Bobby and operated a supposedly respectable Chinese-American restaurant—one of the show spots in Chinatown. But “X,” who was as familiar with the records of Scotland Yard as he was with the New York police records, knew that China Bobby had obtained the money with which to back his elaborate restaurant by operating a profitable dive in East End London. He was an exceedingly dangerous person, if his past history could be believed, and a man crafty enough to be the Ghoul himself.

  “X” TOOK but a moment to twitch out the dart that would have spelled his death had it entered his flesh; then he opened the door, and cautiously followed Drew Devon and her half-caste companion.

  Dusk had deepened. From the door of the apartment building, he watched them step into a small black sedan. As the car started from the curb, he flung from the apartment and sprinted for his own car. He had the engine turning in a moment, and flashed off down the street following the speck of red light that marked the car of China Bobby. “X” weaved in and out of traffic until he was directly behind the Eurasian. When the black sedan turned into a less traveled side street, “X” was forced to slow down and permit the car ahead to gain on him.

  In a poor section of the city, the car pulled to a stop in front of a once pretentious house. But the place was dark now and seemingly deserted. “X” speeded to the end of the block, rounded the corner and came to a stop. He got from the car and walked with apparent unconcern back toward the dark old house which Drew Devon and her companion had entered.

  The house exhibited no more outward signs of life than when he had first passed it. But in the shadow of a sagging board fence that separated the house from the adjacent lot, he saw a man. Though there was not sufficient light to recognize the man, “X” believed him to be one of Jim Hobart’s sleuths. Drew Devon had stated that they were going to Ah-Fang’s place so it was logical to assume that this shadow was the man put on the Oriental’s trail by Jim Hobart.

  “X” crossed the small, unkempt yard and walked silently around the side of the house. Still no sign of life. Judicious use of his flashlight, however, enabled “X” to find a cellar window that would require little effort to open. With a small jimmy of special chrome steel, “X” had the window open in a minute.

  With the utmost care, he wriggled backwards through the opening, and dropped soundlessly to the floor. The finger of his flashlight explored the basement—evidently a clearing ground for years of trash accumulation. He picked his way through the litter, climbed the stairs, and found himself in the kitchen.

  A panel in the door leading from the kitchen to another part of the house had warped out of place and a narrow line of light shone beneath it. On tip-toe, “X” approached the door and peered through the crack. Squatting on a box behind an old round dining-room table was the man whom “X” had so artfully impersonated the night before. It was Ah-Fang, Warnow’s valet. Drew Devon and China Bobby were standing. The woman regarded Ah-Fang through scornful eyes. It was China Bobby who was speaking in his odd, metallic voice:

  “You think that I was born yesterday, Ah-Fang?” he demanded angrily. “Why, I wouldn’t pay that price for number one Li Yuen, let alone that rooster brand of mud you put out!”

  “Do not imagine, son of two races, that you can bargain with Ah-Fang,” said the Chinese. “You not pay my price, no Pen Yen. What is more for persuasion, unless you buy from me, I inform to police.”

  A laugh hissed in China Bobby’s throat. “That’s likely! You go to the police! Why, I’ve half a mind to put a bullet in your thick skull and walk off with every Fun of the stuff in the house.”

  ON the other side of the door, Secret Agent “X” believed that he had run into what promised to be an ordinary underworld squabble. It was evident from the conversation that Ah-Fang operated a depot for smuggled opium. China Bobby, it seemed, had evidently reverted to his old occupation of running an op
ium den. “X” was about to turn away from his peephole when words from Ah-Fang checked him.

  “I do not make reference to your occupation as master of House of Black Smoke. I was thinking of telling police that you serve another—he who calls himself the Ghoul.”

  With an oath, China Bobby’s hand drove into his pocket and brought out a blunt-nosed automatic. “Know too much, don’t you, Ah-Fang? Well, there’s a cure for that!”

  Drew Devon put a restraining hand on China Bobby’s arm. But the half-caste shook her off angrily. “X” saw a knife slip from Ah-Fang’s sleeve. China Bobby’s gun roared. The knife dropped from the fingers of Ah-Fang; an expression of surprise flashed across his face. He slumped to the floor, a little stream of blood trickling down his forehead.

  Again China Bobby laughed. “Come on, Drew. We’ll have to move. The cops—”

  Hardly had the half-caste spoken the word before a police whistle blasted just outside the house. With an oath, China Bobby sprang for the door, dragging Drew Devon with him. From his listening-post at the kitchen door, “X” turned. Outside the house came the sound of running feet. The back door was suddenly thrown open and a heavy figure blotted across the doorway. A ray of light glinted against gleaming metal—the silver shield of a policeman.

  The cop’s flashlight bit through the gloom, caught the fleeting form of Agent “X” as the latter leaped to the opposite wall of the kitchen.

  “Comin’ out of there now, or do they bring you feet first?” growled the cop. The spot from his light danced a little nearer to Secret Agent “X”. Creeping along the wall, eyes locked on the manhunter in the doorway, “X” encountered the sink. His groping finger touched the rusty surface of a tin can. He snatched it up and hurled it against the opposite wall The policeman’s light followed the clatter. His gun spat lead, shooting at the sound. But almost as soon as the can had left his fingers, “X” leaped toward the door.