Even as “X” watched, the man fired — once, twice, three times, and then cursed, low and violently.
“X” had been too far away from him to prevent his shooting. And now the Secret Agent’s eyes narrowed. For he recognized the man’s voice. It was State Senator Thane.
Thane had been shooting in the direction of the mausoleum, which loomed gray and dreary in the dark.
Now, from that direction came answering shots, also muffled, but distinguished by the flashes that accompanied them.
Thane fired once more at the flashes, and there were two quick shots in return. Thane spun around, dropped his gun, and put a hand to his stomach, slowly sank to the ground. He uttered a high-pitched cry, and doubled over.
There were shouts from the house, and several figures came running toward them. “X” moved swiftly to the left, circled the wounded Thane. He saw a dim figure stealing through the shrubbery some distance away. It was the unknown duellist who had wounded the senator. He started in pursuit, but almost immediately lost the shadowy figure. Whoever he was, he knew his way about very well.
Behind him, “X” heard the voice of Major Denvers. “It’s Senator Thane. He’s shot! Somebody phone for a doctor! The rest of you spread out and comb the grounds again. Do it right. Don’t stop till you get that killer this time. Where’s Judge Farrell? Make sure he’s safe…. Plimpton! Find the judge and stay with him every second. I bet he’ll be next!”
The Secret Agent made his way toward the mausoleum. If the other man had gone there, it would be dangerous, but it was just as dangerous to remain on the grounds.
He stopped in front of the grilled door, looked through. The massive stone door was unlocked now, and it swung open. Within the crypt was impenetrable darkness.
HE went down the single step cautiously, inched open the stone door. The dank odor of death assailed his nostrils. Was the attacker of Thane lurking in there, automatic ready, to send a slug into him as he had done to the senator?
Oddly, the thought occurred to him, that if it had been the senator who had shot the flashlight out of his hand in the tunnel, he had certainly not done well by himself in that duel. “X” had seen him fire three shots without hitting his antagonist.
He had the heavy door wide open now. He dropped to the floor. If that man was waiting inside, “X” would make a splendid target for him, standing up. The Secret Agent inched his way into the crypt. Now he felt more at ease. That infallible instinct of his told him that he was alone there.
He reached out and swung the door to, then felt his way across the floor toward the spot where the coffin had lain with the horrible, swollen body of the Princess Ar-Laasi. He wanted to examine that body now. Later, he would try to find whether or not there was an exit from the crypt into the tunnel.
He touched the coffin.
He took out a book of matches and lit one. He had been reluctant to use them in the tunnel for fear that he might cause a secondary explosion with the fumes of the cordite.
Now, in the flare of the match, he glanced down into the coffin. For a long time he stared, speculating, his mind racing. Finally, he let the match drop to the floor and go out.
The coffin was empty. The body of the Princess Ar-Lassi had been removed.
So engrossed was he in the train of thoughts that followed this discovery, that he did not notice the slight movement of the massive door — did not notice that some one was inching it open from the outside.
He lit another match, and let his eyes rove over the interior of the crypt. The other coffins were in their proper places in the niches. He stepped close, and examined the drawers. They had not been moved recently, for the dust was not disturbed.
The match went out, and he lit another. He eyed the stone table against the opposite wall, and frowned. He went across to it, and stooped. The table had a wide stone base. Around the base, on the floor, were odd little scratches.
He allowed the match to die; then, in the darkness, he put both hands on the right-hand edge of the table and heaved.
The table swung out from the wall on a pivot. Once more he used a match, and by its light stooped and peered into the opening in the floor that the table had concealed.
This was the other end of the tunnel. There were four steps down, like the four steps at the house. At the bottom he could see the muddy iridescence of the film of water that covered the floor of the passage. And with the last flicker of the match, he saw something else — two bodies lay there.
One was that of the princess, her gaudy red dress wet and torn, and clinging to her bloated body. And beside her lay another body — the body of a man. And “X” started as he caught a flash of those features, stiff in death.
And while the Secret Agent scraped another match, he did not hear the muffled steps of the figure who had worked the door open, and was stealing across the floor of the crypt toward him. He was too absorbed in the new mystery that was presented by the face of that dead man.
The only thing that saved him was the fact that he suddenly bent his head to see better what the match would reveal. As he did so, the viciously swung gun-barrel wielded by the shadowy intruder, just missed the back of his head, and struck his shoulder with stunning force.
“X’s” left arm was numbed from shoulder to elbow. The match flew from his fingers to be extinguished in the water below, and the Secret Agent pitched forward into the tunnel.
He landed on his side, close to the body of the princess. He looked up to see the base of the table moving slowly back into position over the opening.
Chapter XXIII
HE flexed his muscles, bit his lip to keep down the wave of nausea that assailed him as a result of the blow, and lunged up the steps. The table was moving slowly, and “X” got his head and shoulders into the opening. The man who was moving it back into place was just on the other side, and “X” saw a pair of feet. He grabbed one foot with both hands, and yanked hard.
The man uttered a cry of pain as his shin struck the table. The table stopped moving.
“X” was up into the crypt in a flash, raised his arm in time to deflect the muzzle of the automatic that was fired almost into his face. He gripped the wrist that held it, and twisted hard. The automatic spat flame four times more, harmlessly into the ceiling, then clicked on an empty chamber.
In the dark “X” drove a smashing blow to his opponent’s head, and the man staggered back under the impact. But he came back in a rush, trying to slash “X’s” face with the barrel of his gun.
“X” seized the wrist again, clinched with him to avoid being raked by the barrel. His face was close to the other’s, and the faint light that came from outside through the partly open door showed him the man’s features. He exclaimed:
“Judge Farrell!”
The other broke away from the clinch, cried hoarsely, “Damn you, you’ve—” and swung wildly at him.
“X” blocked the blow, and delivered an uppercut that sent the governor-elect reeling backward. He tripped over the open coffin, struck his head against the floor, and lay still.
“X” knelt beside him, lit a match. The governor-elect was unconscious, but no blood was in evidence. He had sustained a bad blow on the head, but that was all.
“X” ran his hands through the governor-elect’s clothes, and found a pocket flashlight. He closed the door of the crypt, and then snapped on the light, went down the four steps into the tunnel.