He stepped back into the corridor, hurried back to the laboratory. There was a phone here, and he picked it up, dialed the number of Jim Hobart’s office. When Jim got on the wire, the Agent gave him the address of the house of death, issued swift instructions.
“This is Fearson,” he said. “Come to this address at once. Bring with you a large black bag which Mr. Martin keeps in your office. Ring the outside bell, and I will take the bag from you.”
That done, the Agent inspected the room carefully. He was seeking the hiding place of the safe which Barton had said contained the descriptions of all those convicts who were lying unconscious in the meeting hall….
IT was almost midnight when sirens sounded before that house of mystery and death. Headquarters cars, squad cars, radio cars filled the quiet street. Police swarmed in from every direction. They were headed by Deputy Commissioner Pringle in person, and they were there in answer to a mysterious telephone call. The caller had instructed them to go to this address in connection with the robot murders.
Commissioner Pringle was the first up the steps, tried the door and found it open. Burly Inspector Burks, in charge of homicide, shouldered past him. “This is my job, Commissioner,” he grumbled. He strode into the dark hallway with drawn gun, flanked by two plain-clothes men with Thompsons.
But they met no opposition. Not until they reached the cellar did they know that they had not been hoaxed.
For there they found the laboratory, and on the floor the empty, monstrous armored shell of the being that had struck terror to the city: And close by lay Fred Barton, youthful and innocent looking in death, beside the scorched body of Jack Larrabie.
Pringle said with a catch in his voice, “Poor boys. They died trying to fight the monster. I hate to be the one to break the news to their families!”
From the laboratory they passed down the hall, found the meeting room. Inspector Burks stepped onto the platform, looked down, and exclaimed, “What the hell is this!”
The chairs had been cleared away from the center of the room. Where they had stood, there were now ranged in a long row twenty-five unconscious bodies. And the faces were not the faces of robots, but those of the very men who were being sought all over the country — the twenty-five convicts who had escaped from State Prison!
Inspector Burks leaped from the platform, stooped and examined those heavy-breathing forms. To the chest of each was pinned a typewritten sheet bearing the identifying marks to be found on their bodies — marks which were part of the prison record of each man, and could not be denied.
Burks exclaimed, “These are the robots! Feel their bodies — they’re wearing the bullet-proof clothing yet!”
He placed a hand on their faces, cried, “Good God — this is make-up! Somebody’s fixed their faces to resemble their old selves. They’ve been delivered to us on a silver platter!”
He arose, issued orders excitedly. Men hastened in, placed handcuffs on the unconscious convicts. A call was put in for the wagon.
Pringle was trembling with emotion. “I wonder which of these convicts was the ringleader — which of them used the armor of the monster.”
“We’ll never know,” Burks said morosely. “Whoever it was that laid them out here, must have taken out the one in the monster’s shell and set him here next to the rest. It makes no difference, though — they’ll all burn for murder!”
Pringle sighed. “Well, there’ll be no more robot killings. At least Professor Larrabie, and Giles Barton will have the satisfaction of knowing that their sons’ deaths were not in vain. They can always be proud that their boys were brave enough to risk their lives against these killers!”
And from somewhere in the distance there sounded the faint notes of an eerie whistle that jerked every man in the room to attention. That whistle was the inimitable signal of the man who was known as Secret Agent “X”—and it seemed to carry through the air the stamp of approval of Commissioner Pringle’s words.
The secret of those four young men who had built a tower of terror upon a dream of power would forever be locked in the breast of a single man — Secret Agent “X.”
For the sake of their families he had adopted the adage, “De mortuis, nihil nisi bonum!”
The Sinister Scourge
Unseen, horrible as the tightening coils of some spectral serpent, the dope ring worked! Those who betrayed its secrets died in the agonies of the green-hued poison death. Those who served it became sweating, shattered slaves. And Agent “X” dared both death and slavery to fight the sinister scourge!
Chapter I
NIGHT lay over Chinatown. Night with its stillness, its darkness, its strangely sinister shadows. A blanket of drifting fog, deadening sound and sight, made even familiar objects appear distorted and mysterious. Behind this dank vapor there was tenseness, uneasiness and unusual activity along the narrow, winding streets.
As the fog rolled ponderously through them like the coils of some huge, ghostly serpent seeking human prey, men moved in the gloom and spoke in whispers. Few Orientals were abroad. The men who trod cautiously by dusty shops and dark doorways were white. Their faces were grim. Guns weighted the pockets of many. Automatics were strapped in holsters ready for instant use.
A score of extra policemen had been detailed for duty in Chinatown tonight. Others of the group who so vigilantly patrolled were plainclothes detectives and special agents of the Federal Narcotic Squad. All were hunting the same insidious thing — dope.
Certain habits of the men from the Land of the Poppy Seed were known to them. Suspicions therefore led to this section of the city where thousands of Orientals dwelt.
The few Chinamen who ventured out crept furtively along the pavements, ducking out of sight quickly. Those who didn’t were stopped and questioned by alert detectives. They were asked to identify themselves, with business references or immigration papers. If they couldn’t they were driven away in patrol wagons to police headquarters for further questioning. Because of the sinister, unseen presence of the dread dope evil, East and West were close to the breaking point tonight.
As the darkness deepened and the fog grew thicker a shadow moved at the end of a narrow, cluttered alley. It became taller, clearer, and suddenly took shape as a man. There was a fence behind the alley. Through this the man had come. So quietly and mysteriously had he appeared that he seemed hardly more than some apparition, a human embodiment of the darkness of the night.
Yet he had the complexion and the sloe-black, slanted eyes of a Chinaman. A lofty, intellectual forehead, broad, high cheek bones, and a tall, muscular body proclaimed that he was one of the proud Northern Manchu race, conquerors and rulers of China for three hundred years.
The tall Oriental moved with catlike quiet and swiftness. He was dressed in a simple black mohair suit. Black, rubber-soled shoes were on his feet. A black, soft hat covered his head. Except for the yellowish moon of his face he was invisible as long as he stayed in the shadows.
He seemed to have a definite objective, a route that he was following. Twice this took him across Chinatown’s main streets. At such times he waited with infinite patience until the patrolling cops had turned their backs. Then, swift and silent as a streamer of fog blown by the night wind, he would slip across the thoroughfare and disappear into an alleyway beyond.
In a few minutes he came close to a building that was famous in Chinatown’s history. This was a simple three-story, brownstone edifice with a peaked roof. Once it had been a white man’s residence. Now ornate bronze dragons graced its four corners. On its front, high above the street, was the insignia of the Ming Tong, powerful Chinese secret society whose influence stretched into every city in the land where Orientals gathered.