“X” saw the broad blade of a knife flash in the man’s hand. He knew that to climb back that fifteen feet before the knife slashed through that line would be impossible. Already, as he swung there, eight or nine stories above the pavement, he could feel the rope vibrating like the strings of a violin beneath the sawing knife of the man on the roof.
There was but one thing to do — and small chance of it succeeding. “X” loosened his grip on the line, dropped like a plummet, felt the rope burn through his fingers. Then came that instant of sickening sensation when the rope became a limp, snaky thing falling with him. The knife had won.
Even in that moment when the primitive fear of falling would have paralyzed another man, “X” kept his head. At the moment that the rope broke, “X’s” right arm shot out. His fingers crooked to grasp the steel awning-support that extended out a little way from the wall directly over Bernard’s window. For a fraction of a second, he hung there, saw the masked man beside Bernard’s bed turn, draw a knife and spring toward the window. “X” swung up his legs, kicked forward with all his strength, and threw himself through the open window.
He landed on his heels, fell over backwards, with the masked assassin on top of him. The killer’s knife flashed silver fire in its descent, and was stopped by the Agent’s hand when its point was but a fraction of an inch from his throat. With a quick twist, “X” brought his left arm around over the man’s head and gave a jerk that threw the killer over on his back.
“X” rolled, following his opponent, and landing with both knees on the man’s chest. His thumb pushed sharply between the center knuckles of the man’s knife hand. The killer’s fingers sprang apart and the knife clattered to the floor.
A single blow from the Agent’s fist would have put the man out for a long time; but before he could deal that blow, the second balloon-jumper had dropped a rope, slid down it, and swung through the window. “X” sprang to his feet then dropped almost to his knees as the second man’s knife sang its death song over his head to bury its point three inches in the woodwork of the opposite wall.
“X” snatched out his gas gun and, as the man leaped toward him, jerked the trigger. The gas pistol hissed. A cloud of the powerful anesthetizing vapor blotted across the assassin’s black mask. The man received the full concentrated force of the gas and lurched forward to fall a few feet from “X”.
But in that brief moment when the gas gun had knocked the second man unconscious, his companion had bolted from the room. “X” could hear the sound of his feet padding down the hall outside the apartment. “X” did not pursue the escaping criminal. He had captured one of the Ghoul’s hirelings, and expected to be able to make that man talk.
His first act was to remove the man’s mask. Beneath was a narrow, ratlike face with white skin blued about the chin by a stubble of black beard. He recognized the man as Jeff Lucko, who had cut his name in several crime records. He carefully searched the man’s pockets. He found a few coins, a deck of cocaine, and a small bit of cast brass. The last-named article interested him. It appeared to be a tiny hand not more than an inch in length, and he further noted that the little finger had been removed. This little brass hand “X” put into his pocket.
FROM his pocket medical kit, “X” removed a powerful stimulant and a hypodermic syringe. He made an injection of the fluid into Lucko’s arm, and while waiting for the man to revive, he contemplated the possible value of the little brass hand. It was obviously a badge or a pass. “X” remembered that China Bobby had had only three fingers on his right hand. It was very probable that “X” would be able to make use of that bit of brass later on.
Jeff Lucko stirred slightly, opened his eyes, and stared up into “X’s” face. Then his beady eyes wandered toward the bed. He licked dry lips. “Well?” he challenged.
Agent “X” fixed the man with his strange, magnetic eyes. “Lucko,” he said softly, “you’re in a spot. I’m the only person who can help you out.”
Lucko sat up. “Who the hell are you, mister?”
“The man you tried to kill. My name is of no importance to you. The point is, do I turn you over to the police or will you answer my question?”
Lucko didn’t answer. He looked past “X” and twisted a button on his coat.
“You know, Lucko, there’s quite a price on the head of anyone associated with the Ghoul — dead or alive. You were caught with the goods. Your jumping-balloon must be moored up on the roof right now. I’ve only to give you a shot of an effective narcotic, and then call the police.”
“You got me wrong, mister.” Lucko shook his head. “You’re off your nut if you think I killed this guy here.”
“A lot of people are going to think you killed Bernard,” the Agent lied. “But if you tell me who the Ghoul is and where I can find him, you get an even break to skip the country, and pocket money besides.”
“The Ghoul!” Lucko muttered fearfully. “Don’t try to get none of that stuff out of me. I don’t know nothin’!”
“X” shrugged. “Maybe you don’t know who he is, but you can tell me where to find him.”
A ghastly grin spread over Lucko’s face. “Nix. Get wise, guy. You couldn’t worm that dope out of anybody with a hot iron!”
“X” slipped a small black leather case from his pocket and removed a small vial from it.
Lucko, who had been watching every movement the Agent made, said: “Save that stuff. Mister. I’m fit for the slab right now!”
A puzzled frown flashed across “X’s” forehead. His eyes skated down Lucko’s coat, and rested upon a telltale vacancy. The button with which Lucko had been toying, was missing. “X” seized Lucko by the shoulders and shook him. “That button! What did you do with that button?”
A sickly grin spread across Lucko’s face. “That button? You won’t see that again. It was one of the Ghoul’s pet tricks. Loaded with enough cyanide to knock over a horse. Don’t fool with me. I’m — I’m—” Muscles of the hood’s face tightened, drawing his features into a mask of pain. “I failed…. The Ghoul knows everything… He’d have — got me…. The Amber Death — livin’ hell—”
A convulsive tremor shook his entire body. A sigh rattled in his throat. The man was dead.
More than ever before “X” realized the power of the criminal with whom he battled. It was the power of fear. Lucko had preferred certain doom to living torment of the Amber Death.
So the Ghoul had won another hand. The single trick that “X” had taken had been the saving of Bernard’s life — a valuable trick, to be sure, but it took “X” no nearer his goal.
“X” turned to the telephone, picked it up and called police headquarters. In a flawless imitation of Bernard’s voice, he said: “Quick! Send somebody to my apartment. There’s a man here. He’s killed himself…. This is Anthony Bernard speaking. I’ve got to have—” A gurgling sound that to the desk sergeant must have sounded as though Anthony Bernard’s conversation had been interrupted by the clutching fingers of a strangler. “X” dropped the phone on the table, confident that his message would bring quick results.
With sure, deft movements, he removed the make-up material from the face of the unconscious Bernard. Then he dragged the millionaire from the bed to the table where the phone had stood, and dropped him on the floor. When the police arrived, it would appear that Bernard had been attacked by some one when he was in the act of phoning the police.
Chapter VII
SOME time later, in Chinatown, a white man was seen to leave the door of a three-story brick house which contained the offices of the powerful Chinese society, the Ming Tong. This young white man was dressed in the height of fashion. His pale face bore the unmistakable marks of mild dissipation. But those weak, pale features served only to hide the true face of Secret Agent “X”.