He took the Big Kid by one blubbery arm and led him away from the others. His voice sank to a hoarse whisper.
“I like Iron Man in the fifth at New Orleans tomorrow,” he said.
The Big Kid gave a start and studied the Agent with a piercing gaze. “X’s” last comment had been the countersign which would admit him to the inner circle of the dope ring. It had been included in the instructions given him by Lo Mong Yung.
“All right, fella,” said the Big Kid. “I get you. Take that back door on the right. Go into the fourth room on the left. Wait there.”
“X” nodded casually. He lighted a cigarette, sauntered to the rear of the pool hall and wandered down the corridor to the designated room. It seemed to be an ordinary card room, garnished with a round table and a half dozen chairs. On the walls were photos of vaudeville queens and pugilists.
BUT the moment the Agent was inside, the door closed, and there was an ominous click. He did not need to turn the knob. He knew he was locked in.
His eyes glowed more brightly, but his features did not change. He puffed on his cigarette and seated himself at the table. An old pack of cards lay scattered on the circle of green felt; “X” gathered them in, shuffled them, and started a game of solitaire. He was certain he was under close surveillance.
On the back wall was secured a large full-length picture of John L. Sullivan. Suddenly some one spoke and “X” whirled. The voice came from the lips of Sullivan’s picture, and those lips moved. Also the eyes were gleaming at him, and they were alive. The Agent saw then that the eyes and mouth of the picture had been cut out. Yet they had been in place when he entered. Possibly they worked on hinges. Now some one was behind the picture, studying him and speaking.
“Who got you interested in Iron Man?” demanded the voice behind John L. Sullivan’s picture.
The Agent answered quickly. “Hoppy Joe said I could pick up some nice change if I had the right dope,” he said.
The hidden questioner remained silent for a second, apparently deliberating. Hoppy Joe was a Mingman, one of the spies detailed by Lo Mong Yung to ferret out the secret of the dope blight that caused suspicion to be thrown upon the tong. The Chinaman had worked his way into a membership in this drug ring. That was how Lo Mong Yung knew the counter-sign which he passed on to the Agent. There was a chance of difficulties, however, for Hoppy Joe, instead of being a narcotic victim, was in reality a scholarly young Chinese named Shen-nang Ti.
The Agent waited tensely for the man behind the picture to speak. Suppose the Chinaman’s identity had been discovered? What if it had been learned that Shen-nang Ti was a spy?
No trace of out-of-character emotion showed in his face, or gestures, however. The hidden man was studying him intently. The Agent was careful to maintain his attitude of insolent confidence as the gangster, Spats McGurn. The cigarette hung loosely from his lip. He raised one eyebrow impudently. Finally the unseen man demanded his name and details of his career.
“Pete McGurn,” said “X” at once. “They call me Spats out West. Chi’s my home town, but I rode the rails out when the goin’ got bad. Down along the Mex border I got to be quite a handy man. Ran snow, coke, a little poppy paste and some heroin. Never bothered with marahuana. That’s greaser stuff and not for smart guys like me. I played all the spots from Laredo to Nogales, till the Border got too hot for me. I came North with a nice stake, but blew it on a dame. That’s why I want to go to work.”
“It listens good,” said the hidden man. “Knowing Hoppy Joe shows you got the right connections, and the way you popped that punk out there wasn’t bad. But we ain’t much on knuckle stuff here. We leave that fer the kids. Can you use a rod?”
Agent “X” snorted and flicked ashes from his cigarette scornfully. “Listen, mister,” he said. “Along the Border they do some fancy shootin’, an’ they call hittin’ a silver dollar two out of five at fifteen feet pretty good. Four out of five was my average.”
“Yeah! Well, you’ll get plenty of target practice on this job, fella. But it won’t be silver dollars you’ll shoot at, see? Maybe you’ll do, Spats, and maybe you won’t. If you want the job you can have it. We’ll give you a chance to make good. An’ any time you want to quit the racket you can do it — via the morgue!”
The Agent heard a scraping sound behind him. A strip of the floor near the far wall was rising. It continued until it almost touched the ceiling. On a level with the rest of the floor was the platform of an elevator. “X” was instructed to stand on this. He did so, and the platform began to sink quickly.
ON the next level, “X” stepped into a cellar room lighted by a small yellow globe. The jaundiced light gave a ghastliness to the pinched face of the rat-mouthed, shifty-eyed little man who greeted the Agent in a high-pitched nasal voice. The twitching muscles and jerking movements proclaimed the hophead.
The guide took “X” down a long flight of stone steps into a winding passageway. Though they were underground, the air lacked dankness of an earthy odor. That was because the walls were of concrete. Somewhere down here, the Agent believed, were dry vaults where narcotics were stored. He wondered if this was the fountainhead from which free drugs poured forth on the country in a deadly, sinister flood.
At the end of the passage, the guide pressed a button that opened a door covered with bullet-proof sheet-iron. Ushered into a brilliantly lighted room, “X” viewed at least a score of men lounging in easy chairs, playing cards or billiards, or reading. The place could have been the clubroom of wealthy men, except for the amazing variety of types.
Pallor and nervousness marked the younger men as drug addicts. Some of the older ones, if they were victims of the habit, showed no evidence that narcotics ravaged their systems. A few of the oldest were of distinguished appearance, and the Agent’s impression was that they possessed more than front. Likely they were medical men, outlawed for illegal practices, who handled the details which required professional knowledge.
“This guy is Spats McGurn,” the guide introduced “X” to the crowd. “McGurn, make yourself at home. Plenty of reading material around. If you feel hungry, the cook will fix you a snack. Bunks are in the room on your left. Nothing to do but loaf now.”
“X” sensed that he was the focal point of frank distrust. In this place, a stranger was under suspicion until he proved himself a member of the underworld by some criminal action. The Agent scowled and sprawled in a chair.
Though he had reached the hideout, he was a long way from success. He was under probation. As far as he was concerned, this clubroom was an observation ward. Experience told him that he might be kept idle for a week or more, while he was watched and studied. During that delay, thousands of people might be enslaved to the insidious drug that was being unloaded upon the nation. Misery and tragedy would stalk across America, while a mobster determined whether “X” was worthy to shoot men down for the dope ring. He had to do something that would win the interest of the leader, that would end his probation at a stroke.
HE picked up a newspaper and rattled through it to the sports section. Behind the raised sheets, he listened intently. The conversation buzzed around the commonplace topics of small talk. He heard nothing about the activities of the ring.
The clock ticked oft valuable time, and “X” was learning nothing. He tried to single out the mob leader, but no one seemed to fit the part. The entire group appeared contented with idleness. This hideout wasn’t unlike firemen’s quarters, where there was little to do until an alarm came in.