She busied herself for a moment over a tiny, teakwood table. This table she picked up and brought over to where “X” reclined. He watched her through somnolent eyelids. Hers was a flawless ivory complexion; yet, aside from her slanting eyelids, her features were more Caucasian than Chinese. A dark red poppy nestled in her dusky hair. As she raised her eyes to meet the Agent’s face, he noticed that her eyes, instead of the usual sloe-black eyes of her race, were deep blue.
She lighted the smoking-lamp, rolled a bit of opium gum from a box to the needle point of a yen hok. This she twirled in the flame of the lamp, watching the blue flame sputter. When the roasting was done, she deftly put the pill of opium into the brass bowl of an ivory-stemmed pipe.
“I have not come to smoke and dream, little flower of Chung Kwoh,” the Agent whispered to her in Cantonese.
The girl continued her occupation, paying no more attention to his whispered words than she did to the groans and nightmare mumblings that droned from the sleepers. But this fact only confirmed what “X” had suspected almost as soon as he had laid eyes on the girl. She was no more Chinese than he was.
He accepted the brass-bowled pipe from her slender fingers, set the bit in his mouth and puffed once or twice, taking care not to allow the poisonous smoke to enter his lungs. He watched the girl narrowly as she prepared the second pill of opium. His hand thrust in under his pajamas and took out the tiny brass hand from his pocket. In a slightly amused voice, he addressed the girl in English. “As I said some moments ago in what should have been your native tongue, I am not here to smoke opium.”
The girl jerked, nearly dropping the opium she had been roasting. Her violet eyes regarded “X” questioningly. He allowed opium smoke to dribble through his lips. “I have come with a message for China Bobby.”
A shadow of suspicion crossed the woman’s ivory face. “He is not in, sir,” she replied coldly. “If you do not desire to smoke, I advise you to go and make room for another.”
“I must see China Bobby. It is about the man who prevented the removal of Anthony Bernard from his apartment some hours ago.”
Cautiously, she said: “If you were one of us, what sign would you give?”
“X” OPENED his hand, disclosing the tiny replica of China Bobby’s maimed hand. “This,” he said, knowing full well the chances he took. For if this bit of brass was not the pass to China Bobby’s headquarters, he would undoubtedly be disclosed as a spy.
“Why did you not show me this in the first place?” she demanded. “Come then. China Bobby is waiting for you.”
“X” followed the graceful figure of the pseudo-Chinese girl across the floor of the opium palace to the ornate sliding panel through which she had entered. Pressing on the eye of a gilded dragon that centered the panel, the girl gained admittance. She led “X” into a narrow corridor the walls of which were hung with heavy silken draperies.
At the end of the corridor, she pushed open a door and bade him enter. “X” walked into a room that was the exact opposite of the Oriental atmosphere which dominated the rest of the building. Here was the latest in modern office furnishings. Evidently, China Bobby took greater pride in his white blood than in his yellow.
The half-caste was seated behind the desk, busily scratching off a note with a modern fountain pen. He did not raise his sleek head at “X’s” entrance, but simply waved him to a chromium waiting-chair against the wall of the room. “X” saw that the girl in Chinese costume had not entered the half-caste’s office.
An electric signal, somewhere in China Bobby’s desk, burred. He extended his pointed forefinger to a small electric switchboard, and pressed a button. A panel in one side of the room opened and closed quickly as a thin, emaciated Chinese with long stringy mustaches entered. China Bobby turned his head.
“Greeting, Yu’an,” he said in Cantonese. “What is your business?”
“Master, I have had the privilege of saving thy worthy life this night.”
“So?” China Bobby scratched with his pen.
“I have killed Ah-Fang when he came seeking your blood.”
China Bobby whirled in his chair. “What the devil do you mean?” he broke out in English.
The man addressed as Yu’an replied in halting English. “He came with bared knife. He would have killed you.”
China Bobby glanced quickly at “X,” and reverted to speaking Cantonese, supposing that “X” would not understand. “I thought him with his ancestors some hours ago. Perhaps my bullet was not blessed with good fortune. Perhaps I only wounded him. What have you done with the carrion?”
Yu’an pointed significantly at the floor with a long forefinger.
China Bobby nodded his head. “You have done well, Yu’an,” he replied. He reached into the drawer of his desk, took out a soiled ten dollar bill, and handed it to the Chinese. The man bowed, and retired through the panel by which he had entered. The Eurasian put aside his pen and faced “X”. His sensitive nostrils dilated. Because of the fact that his right eye turned far to one side, “X” was scarcely aware that the man was looking at him.
“Who sent you here?” he demanded in his metallic voice.
“The man whose name I dare not speak,” replied “X” cryptically. He thrust his hand deep into the slit he had made in his pajamas and grasped the butt of his gas gun. They were alone in the room. Not more than ten feet separated him from the half-caste. It would be a simple matter to overcome the man, force a confession from him, learn the identity of the Ghoul, and quickly conclude the matter.
“And what message did he send?” asked China Bobby.
Without the slightest display of muscular effort, “X” tensed himself for a spring that would carry him to China Bobby’s desk.
“I was to tell you that Anthony Bernard was saved by the activity of Secret Agent ‘X’. ‘X’ must be sought out, and killed.”
“And the Ghoul said that?” a smile flickered across China Bobby’s effeminate lips. “How do you know that I am not the Ghoul?”
Now was the moment for action. China Bobby had detected falsehood. Perhaps the half-caste was the Ghoul, contrary as that might be to the conclusions “X” had already drawn. But at the very moment when “X” would have hurled himself upon the Eurasian, China Bobby’s hand shot out and touched one of the buttons on his switchboard. Instantly, the steely nerves of Agent “X” received a terrific shock.
The metal chair in which he was seated became literally alive with crackling electrical charges. And try as he might, “X” could not break the invisible bonds of current that held him to the chair. He was helpless, racked with pain that was like the thrusts of a thousand needle points. At any moment, the diabolical Eurasian might move the switch, increasing the amperage to a point where “X” would die — die like a common criminal in the death-cell of Sing Sing prison.
Chapter VIII
FOR a time, the Eurasian grinned with sadistic mirth. Then his voice rose above the hum of the electric current that had caught even the wily Secret Agent in its invisible web.
“These are Chinese police methods, Mr. Detective,” China Bobby said. “You must admit they are some improvement over your methods of truth learning. An extremely high voltage at relatively low amperage prevents the current from doing you any serious damage. But always, the current is variable. Will you taste a little more?” He touched the button on his switchboard and the current increased, shooting tingling splinters of fire through “X’s” entire body.