The Agent’s face was contorted as though the pain was almost unbearable. Actually, he was watching a narrow slot in the wall which had opened when China Bobby had turned on the current. Through the slot, dark eyes watched the captive in the electric chair.
“Now,” said China Bobby, “perhaps you will explain how you managed to enter here? Who sent you?”
“X” shook his head. “You’re wasting time.”
China Bobby laughed and stepped up the torture current another notch. “Now, your name!”
“X” writhed, unable to take his hands from the metal arms of the chair. “Martin Smith,” he groaned. “Good Lord, man! Stop it! You’re killing me!”
“And who is Martin Smith?” demanded China Bobby.
“Federal agent — narcotics.”
China Bobby nodded. “And what becomes of spies, Martin Smith?”
“Get shot,” the Agent gasped. “You couldn’t do that. Too merciful.”
“True,” said China Bobby slowly, as though he was considering what more terrible death his sadistic cunning might devise. “We have our stinging ants, always anxious to be put to work. Or perhaps you could be lashed with nettles. That’s rather unpleasant. Then, of course there’s the Amber Death in which men die to live a brief eternity of mental torment. Or again, I might burn you in that chair.” With an evil smile, China Bobby stepped up the current another notch.
“Turn off that current.”
A voice had whispered from the walls of the room in which they were seated. The half-caste turned pale, and jerked his head toward the slot in the wall which “X” had been watching. He murmured something and cut the switch. “X” felt muscles and nerves relax. He stared at the slot in the wall and the glittering eyes behind it. They were the eyes of the Ghoul.
AGAIN came the voice of the Ghoul, this time speaking in Cantonese, obviously with the intent that “X” should not understand.
“That man is lying to you. If he is not the one known as ‘The Man of a Thousand Faces’—then he is one of his servants. He would not speak the truth were he to be lashed with scorpions. But if he is the man I think he is, then there is one who can make him talk. We shall learn later on. If he were to see her in the ant pit, he would talk. But there are other matters that require my attention. Let him be held a prisoner in the cells below. I would have speech with you alone.”
“Yes, master,” said China Bobby. There was no mistaking the whipped-cur attitude with which he regarded the Ghoul. It seemed to “X” that each of the Ghoul’s words had been a leaden weight descending upon the Agent’s shoulders. The Ghoul’s insinuations had been unmistakable. By some ruse, he had managed to lure Betty Dale into this devil’s den.
Pressing the buttons on his switchboard, China Bobby summoned two men. One of them was the emaciated Yu’an; the other a broad-shouldered, black-haired Irishman addressed as Morgan.
“Take this man to the cells,” China Bobby ordered. “Search him first.”
Morgan prodded “X” to his feet with the muzzle of his automatic. “No funny business, now,” he cautioned.
Yu’an ripped off the pajamas “X” wore, then relieved him of his gas gun. Supposing, no doubt, that it was a regular automatic, the Chinese put the gas pistol in his own pocket. “X’s” compact make-up kit, pocket tool-kit, master keys, medical kit and other special equipment were laid on top of China Bobby’s desk. Then, seizing “X” between them, they dragged him through a doorway and into a short hall that ended in a flight of stone steps descending to a sub-cellar. As they were going down the steps, “X” debated whether or not to try and jump Morgan’s gun. He had overpowered armed men many times before. But to hope to be able to quietly knock both Yu’an and Morgan unconscious before they could sound an alarm, was too much. He must not take unnecessary risks. There was more at stake now than before. For Betty Dale had fallen into the power of this master criminal.
The stone steps ended in a veritable catacomb of damp, brick-lined rooms. Iron gratings covered darkened cells — cells which at that moment might have been housing Calvert or some of the others who had been taken from Gage’s house that night.
Morgan threw open a door, flung “X” to the damp floor, and slammed the grating. There was the click of a lock and the sound of receding footsteps, as Yu’an and Morgan returned the way they had come.
Though Yu’an’s search had seemed thorough, “X” was not entirely stripped of his resources. The Chinese had left him such innocent little devices as a fountain pen and a cigar lighter. Then in the heels of his shoes were little compartments where he carried a tiny tube of make-up material, a vial of powerful narcotic, and a number of finely tempered tools. The lining of his coat had several accessories, that Yu’an had overlooked, sewed into it.
HIS first act was to take the fountain pen from his pocket. It resolved itself into a small but powerful flashlight. With this, he took stock of his surroundings. Cold brick walls and a floor through which moisture was seeping, a wooden bench, nothing more. He approached the door and turned his flashlight on the lock. For a moment, escape seemed impossible.
The lock on the door was a pattern he had seen but a few times in his life. It was an ancient Chinese pin-lock, entirely different from western locks and in some ways superior. It consisted of two separate parts — a socket, and a wedge-shaped piece of flexible steel that fitted into the socket. The shackle, which in this case passed through the iron grill and a ring welded to the door frame, was simply a straight pin. The keyhole was so shaped that only one key could fit it. The key would be so channeled as to pull the wedge-shaped members of the steel together and at the same time force the lock open. There were neither tumblers nor movable cylinders. It was a veritable Waterloo for even a professional lockpick. “X” knew that the tools he carried in the heel at his shoe would be absolutely worthless.
It was then that he remembered a part of his equipment which he was seldom called upon to use. In a moment he had stripped off his coat, torn a strip from the lining, put in his hand, and pulled out a flat little bag of cloth. From the other side of his coat, he pulled out a similar bag. Each bag contained a small quantity of powder of his own compounding, so combined as to render ordinarily dangerous chemicals safe to carry.
“X” tore through the corners of each of the bags. Then he emptied the contents of both bags into the keyhole of the Chinese padlock. He retired to the end of the cell, turned out his flashlight, and waited. Brought into contact with one another, the two chemicals would combine in a complex chemical reaction producing terrific heat. The substance was very similar to that known by welders as thermite.
After perhaps a minute, the entire cell was engulfed in a blaze of dazzling white light that emanated with a hissing sound from the lock of the door. After the flare had subsided, the lock was a white-hot mass of twisted metal. “X” well knew that no tempered steel could withstand such temperature. He picked up the wooden bench and knocked open the grating. Then he stepped out into the dark passage.
He had no time even to examine the neighboring cells under the gleam of his flashlight before he saw a dot of light hurrying down the corridor towards him. “X” stepped aside, flattened himself against the wall. He heard the footsteps of a single man coming toward him. Evidently some one had heard him escaping from the cell. A few feet from “X”, the man came to a stop, staring in awe at the open grating.