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.”
CRASH. Agent “X” stifled the anger he felt as one of Lo Mong Yung’s rare vases was knocked to the floor and smashed to bits. He heard the voice of the aged Chinaman rise calmly, “You do injustice to my feeble attempts to honor this visit. You humiliate me by breaking the lesser of my art pieces. That is only a poor offering of the great Chu Tse-min, who went to rest in the dragon’s horn during the Yuan Dynasty.”
Listening at the microphone, “X” realized from Inspector Bower’s mumblings that the Chinaman had taken the wind out of the squad man’s sails.
A bulldog sort like Bower wasn’t the kind to volunteer an honest apology, but shortly afterward, certain that Lo Mong Yung was alone, he did hustle his men out of the office, leaving Lo Mong Yung to contemplate the ruin of his ancient vase.
Presently the Chinaman touched Pien Lan’s scroll again. The filing cabinet rolled forward, and Secret Agent “X” stepped into the room.
“The bull has invaded the China shop, my son,” spoke Lo Mong Yung calmly. “But the scattered fragments of Chu Tse-min’s vase make me rejoice to think that we still are here to gaze upon them. I believe the honorable official is convinced that I had no strange visitor, that all I entertained were the sad memories of a life misspent in folly and indiscretion.”
“I am forever in your debt, O father,” said Secret Agent “X,” “and I am sorry that I am the cause of this invasion of your sanctuary. But now I must say farewell and bid you long years of full rice bowls and warm coverings.”
Lo Mong Yung looked startled for the first time.
“You will stay surely!” he said. “In these poor quarters you have refuge at least. Outside you will be a hunted creature, doomed to become a prey in the ravening clutches of the law.”
Agent “X” knew that Lo Mong Yung didn’t exaggerate the danger. But he knew, too, that no matter how long he waited in Ming Tong headquarters the police would not be recalled from Chinatown as long as Police Commissioner Foster was shouting for results. Meanwhile the drug evil was spreading. The duty of the Agent was plain. He must find out about this dope ring that was recruiting cannon, and see whether it was behind the mysterious spread of this sinister narcotic.
When Lo Mong Yung understood that “X’s” mind was made up, he stopped his protests and gave “X” the address of an underworld dive and instructions that would enable him to reach the inner circle of the drug ring.
Armed with information that gave him something to work on, “X” left the office of the Ming Tong. The corridor was clear, but he could hear footsteps on the floor below. There was no chance of getting out of the building by the front entrance, and cops were probably at the back door.
At the end of the hallway was a small window. The Agent moved stealthily toward it. He shoved up on the frame. Moisture or paint made the window stick, but suddenly his efforts caused it to fly up with a bang. The noise wasn’t loud, but it was thunderous to “X” who wanted to go in silence.
Some one shouted. Others took up the call of alarm. A man ran up the stairs, reaching the landing below as the Agent was going through the window. It was one of Bower’s men.
The detective’s automatic roared, and the report echoed thunderously through the house. The bullet dug into the sill, but the Agent had catapulted through the window onto the slanting, corrugated terra-cotta roof of a Chinese restaurant designed after the pattern of an Oriental temple.
He intended climbing over this to the flat roof of a Chinese hotel. But halfway up the slanting side he was spotted. Sub-machine guns were trained on him. Inspector Bower shouted for him to give up. The squad chief warned the Agent just once, then barked an order for his men to fire.
The cops began shattering the terra-cotta on each side of “X.” It meant suicide to buck such odds. The Agent stopped climbing and slid, down to the eaves of the roof. Through the fog-laden darkness from the street, it appeared that he had been hit. His legs were hanging over the side. It seemed that his belt buckle, caught in the gutter, kept him from falling to the ground.
“We got him,” said the inspector harshly. “Keep him covered and climb out there. See what’s happened to him. But watch out. We don’t know whether he’s dead or trying to pull a fast one.”
AGENT “X” did intend to pull a fast one, but it had to be exceedingly fast — or fail entirely. He couldn’t afford the slightest misplay. Bower had sent two men out on the roof and cops were milling in the street. Others had been sent into the Chinese hotel.
A narrow alleyway separated the tong headquarters from this, but the drop would break every bone in the Agent’s body. He was covered from the street and not more than four feet away, a detective had a gun on him.
Before Agent “X” had leaped from the Ming Tong house, however, his photographic brain had recorded that under the eaves right below him was an opened window to the third story of the restaurant. That window figured in his daring plan. But he hung limply until the detective with the gun sprang across to him.
The dick got a footing in the rainwater gutter and a hand-hold on a half-circle of terra-cotta roofing. Agent “X” caught a glimpse of his face. It was Bartholdy, the man he had temporarily knocked out. The detective spoke savagely now.
“Hell! There’s that dragon-head ring that crocked me cold as a cod. But you won’t trick me again, Chink, not by a damn sight!”
“X” heard Bartholdy suck in a deep breath. The plainclothes cop didn’t intend to inhale any more sleep-producing gas tonight. But, to get the ring and prevent the supposed Chinaman from falling at the same time, the detective had to drop his automatic in his pocket.
This he did, still holding his breath. Then he grabbed the Agent by the back of the coat and began slipping the large gold-wrought, rose onyx ring from “X’s” finger.
Bartholdy wasn’t aware that his prisoner, whom he thought dead or unconscious, held a gun in his right hand which was wedged in the gutter under his body. The swirling, dank fog helped the Agent.
He waited until Bartholdy had removed the ring and exhaled. Then “X” himself took a deep breath and held it. The next instant he whipped his gas gun out and fired at close range. Bartholdy caught the full effect of the anesthetic vapor as he inhaled.
He uttered a faint sigh like a tired man and collapsed. His foot, jammed in the gutter, prevented him from going over the side. The Agent muscled up beside the unconscious detective. Death was close at his elbow. He must hurry if he expected to get away at all. But he wouldn’t leave Detective Bartoldy without first making certain that the man wouldn’t fall. He insured against this by thrusting the detective’s hands and arms under two half-circles of terra cotta. Bartholdy was safe now, far safer than Agent “X.”
Men were bounding up the stairs of the Ming House. Bower shouted to Bartholdy and, getting no answer, began giving orders like a general planning an attack.
Agent “X” lowered himself quickly until he was hanging below the eaves, many feet above the street, like a man suspended above the brink of doom. In spite of the curtain of fog the sharp eyes of Bower spotted him.