As “X” looked about the room, a cabinet against the wall swung back, revealing a doorway. A man dressed in a surgeon’s white gown entered the room to be followed by six vicious-faced men of both yellow and white races.
“X” recognized the man in white. He was Dr. Vardson, a scientist and medical man who had recently been deprived of his license to practice. Probably Vardson was responsible for the development of the Amber Death.
Although he knew the scientist, “X” asked timidly of the man in white: “Are you the Ghoul?”
A MAD cackle of a laugh broke from the scientist’s lips. “No, I am not the Ghoul!”
“Are you concerned about my presence, Morgan?” the cold, inhuman whisper of the Ghoul breathed from empty air. “Know then that I am always with you. Nothing that you do, or have done, has escaped my notice.”
“X’s” eyes roamed around the chamber. Between a pair of powerful electric lamps in the ceiling, he saw the conical diaphragm of an ordinary radio speaker. Through this the Ghoul spoke. “X” realized the seriousness of the position in which he had placed himself. Hoping to meet the Ghoul face to face, he had been willing to risk meeting even the Amber Death. But the Ghoul, always shrewd, always cunning, took no personal risks. He remained the disembodied voice, the invisible presence. “X” was not in the hands of the master criminal, but in the hands of his paid assassins.
“Morgan,” said the Ghoul, “we have developed a new phase of the Amber Death — a milder form that will give us better control. So many of our victims have died from the Amber Death before we had a chance to give them a thorough milking. It is my intention that we shall kidnap the mayor, keep him under the influence of the Amber Death, and make the city pay for his release — his release from life, that is. It will be my master stroke. We will gut the treasury of the city. You understand?”
“X” shook his head. He knew that the Ghoul was simply trying to distract his attention from the fact that the pack of criminals was slowly forming a circle about him. “Don’t get much of this,” he said, stalling for time. “How can you get money from these rich slobs after you’ve given them the Amber Death?”
The Ghoul laughed. A note of pride crept into his whispering voice as he said: “Few understand that. The common extortionist threatens his victims with death, if they do not pay. But I have learned that men will pay money to be allowed to die — when one makes the burden of life more terrible than any conception of death! The secret is combining life with death. The statues you see around the room are living brains within dead shells. Even you must understand the torture of living within a sarcophagus of your flesh!”
Like wolves circling the dying fire, hungry eyes on the hunter they will tear to shreds, the Ghoul’s murderers moved restlessly about Secret Agent “X”
“You will notice,” the Ghoul went on, “that the right hands of all these living statues are as yet unaffected by the Amber Death. This enables them to write orders of my own dictation and sign them with their names. Such orders direct the payment of money and negotiable securities to my own agents. Each time they pay, they are promised release from life. But eventually, the creeping Amber Death claims them all.”
Out of the corner of his eye, “X” watched the men who were closing in on him. He could see that they did not relish the prospect of meeting the broad-shouldered Morgan in open fighting. Yet they feared the Ghoul above everything else, and they would obey him.
“Why don’t your victims hear what you’ve just said to me and refuse to pay, knowing that you have no intention of living up to your promise?” asked “X”. His right hand was in his pocket, fingering with his cigarette lighter.
Again the Ghoul laughed. “Their torture is increased by the fact that I have carefully sealed their ears. They hear only when I desire to speak with them. And they are blind. Dead bodies, living brains, eternal darkness. It is little wonder that they pray for death!”
“X” knew that in another moment, the criminal horde would be upon him. He took out his lighter, fingered it absently. Suddenly, he leaped upon the nearest man. A mere puff of vapor from the lighter, and the man bowled over.
A command shrieked from the loudspeaker in the ceiling. “Take him alive!”
A horde of yellow and white humanity suddenly descended upon “X”. He snapped out the automatic he had taken from Morgan. Much as he disliked lethal weapons, he shot quickly and accurately. His first bullet crashed through the thigh of an ugly Chinese. He twisted in the grasp of thin, steely hands, dealt powerful blows with his left fist, tried to wrench his right arm free from the hold of another man in order to get in more telling shots.
And mingling in the general turmoil, behind the line of danger, “X” glimpsed another figure — a man whom he had not seen in the room before — a man whose entire head was swathed in a yellow veil that concealed his features. He saw, too, even as he fell to the floor, a tiny, round black button fastened to the lapel of the veiled man. And the veiled man’s hands — one was white, and the other the sickly yellow of the Amber Death! The mystery of the Ghoul was solved — too late?
For at that moment, a sharp pain knifed through “X’s” left leg. The Ghoul’s voice came again — not from the speaker in the ceiling but from the man with the yellow veil.
“Vardson, you fool!” The Ghoul shouted. “You’ve used the wrong needle! That one contained the old form of the Amber Death — not the new! You’ve made a mistake. Morgan may die before we can complete our experiment!”
A strange numbness was creeping over “X’s” body. His blows were becoming less effective. There was cold pain in his left leg as though muscles were gradually knotting. Many times in his career he had knocked at the door of death. But now the door had opened. The Amber Death, the death that was worse than death, was upon him. Minutes marched, approaching that time when he would no longer be a man, no longer Secret Agent “X,” but a helpless, living, yellow mummy.
Chapter IX
HIDDEN behind his minions, the Ghoul shouted his orders. “Clear the room. To the cells with Vardson. He shall taste torture! Put Morgan in the second laboratory! Go — all of you!”
“X” felt himself dragged across the room. A door sprang open, and he was thrown to the floor. The door closed. He could hear men running before the furious commands of the Ghoul; could hear the screams of the half-mad Vardson as he was dragged to the place of his punishment. Then, all was silent.
“X” stared about him. This second laboratory was smaller than the other. At one end he saw the black panel of a radio transmitter. Evidently, it was from here that the Ghoul’s warning messages originated. He saw, too, apparatus for transcribing phonograph records. Experimental chemical and electrical apparatus littered the room. Shelves were laden with drugs and chemicals. It was toward these shelves that “X” looked for some tiny ray of hope.
With a mighty effort, he dragged himself to his feet. The pain of the contracting muscles in his left leg would have been unbearable to the average man. He limped to the shelves that lined the wall. His feverish eyes devoured the labels one by one and paused on a small vial of adrenalin. Rummaging in a drawer with hands that were already unfeeling, he found a hypodermic needle. Hastily, he filled the syringe, rolled back his sleeve, and made the injection. Almost instantly, the natural stimulant began to take effect. But it could not halt the creeping death.