He made two coordinated movements. He wrenched the gun from the giant’s hand and at the same moment clapped a palm over the mouth that parted to let out a bellow of surprise. Then, before the disarmed guard could begin a hand-to-hand struggle which might result in noise and the upset of all his carefully laid plans, Agent “X” doubled up his knuckles and delivered a famous jiu-jitsu blow — the deft thrust directly under the heart, as taught by Tatsuo Shima, instructor to the bodyguards of His Imperial Highness Hirohito in Tokyo. A man could be killed by that blow, or merely knocked insensible, and Agent “X” was a master of the lighter, stunning thrust.
The big guard went as limp as though a bullet had crashed into his brain, and “X” lowered his unconscious body to the carpet.
No noise had disturbed the quiet of the room, and the way was clear. Agent “X” tiptoed on toward that door from behind which came the sound of voices, one of which was harshly raised.
Chapter IX
THE loud voice was a man’s, the other a woman’s, and in the latter the Agent recognized the drawling, cultured accents of Vivian de Graf.
He tiptoed closer, found the door into the room slightly ajar, and cautiously widened the opening, bringing into his line of vision the couple at the far end of the room.
Vivian de Graf, sumptuously clad in furs, was seated in a deep, brocaded chair, her slim legs crossed, gloved hands toying with a jade cigarette holder. She looked utterly bored.
Roswell Sully stood before her. His face, with its clipped and bristling mustache, was red beneath its thatch of white hair. Anger showed in every line of his dapper figure. A big diamond on one well-manicured hand flashed as he gesticulated.
“Vivian — I can’t stand it!” he was saying thickly. “All afternoon I’ve been waiting, counting the minutes, expecting that you would keep your promise to stay and dine with me. Now you say you can give me only half an hour. Really, I—”
Vivian shrugged, sniffing delicately at the spotted orchid pinned to her coat. She spoke languidly: “Do you expect me to dance attendance on you all the time, Roswell?”
“All the time!” Sully’s voice rose jaggedly. “All the time — when you’ve only let me see you twice this week. To discuss business matters!”
Vivian de Graf fumbled in her bag, shrugged again. “A cigarette please, Roswell. I seem to have run out.”
Sully ignored her request. “You forget,” he went on furiously, “all I’ve done for you. The money you’ve made through me, the prestige my name has given you — the people you’ve met! What would you be without me? Nothing! And yet you—”
A sigh fell from Vivian de Graf’s lips. Without replying, she rose languorously and crossed with swaying hips to a table where she helped herself to a cigarette from a red lacquer box.
Sully stared at her insolently turned back. “By God, Vivian,” he began passionately, “if you’re playing around with some other man — If you leave me after all I’ve done for you, I’ll — I’ll—”
She turned slowly, touching a match to her cigarette. Her tapering fingers were steady. Her soft laughter was faintly derisive as she let smoke trickle from her nostrils.
“What?” The drawled word was a challenge. “What will you do, Roswell?”
“Kill you!” Sully shrieked. “Kill you — even if I go to the chair for it. Kill you — and tell the world what you are. A damn, calculating gold-digger!”
Vivian de Graf leaned against the table, and laughed in his face. “Kill me! You? Why — you haven’t that much nerve left! You’re afraid — afraid to leave this house. Even to show your face in the streets.”
Sully stepped close to her, his fingers raised and tensed as though he would clench them about the woman’s white throat; but his hands were shaking like withered leaves in a wind.
Vivian de Graf laughed again, but the amusement had left her voice. “Don’t be a fool! And don’t touch me! It’s you who are in debt to me. I’m a young woman and people say I’m beautiful. What have you to give me? You’re getting old, Roswell — old — old! If you must know, you bore me, and — I have other friends.”
Her words seemed to stun Sully. He stood swaying on his feet, staring at her. His clenched hands fell laxly at his sides.
Vivian de Graf ground out her cigarette, gathered her furs about her.
“Well, shall we say good-by?” She moved toward the door.
At that, a change came over Sully’s face. The red flush of anger faded, leaving it dead white. “Vivian — Vivian, for God’s sake don’t leave me like this! Forgive me for speaking as I did. I’m just an old fool. But I’m insane about you—” With frightened, abject remorse, Roswell Sully dropped suddenly to his knees, caught the hem of her dress, and kissed it.
Vivian twitched sharply away. “Don’t be dramatic, Sully,” she said scornfully. “It makes you ridiculous. And besides, it’s so — tiresome.” She walked away toward the door.
“X” QUICKLY left his observation post and slipped out of the house as he had entered it. He heard Sully’s voice still pleading as the front door opened. But Vivian de Graf went out and down the drive; her head arrogantly high.
“X” crossed the lawn to the wall, scaled it as he had before, and crouched in the shadows. Apparently, Vivian de Graf had a key to the gate, for it opened and closed silently, and she appeared in the street. There was the click of high heels as she walked toward her car.
Agent “X” edged nearer, silent as a shadow. He was debating whether to speak to the woman now, or follow her, when he drew in a sudden sharp breath. For some one else was watching Vivian de Graf.
Across the street another shadow had detached itself from the hedge bordering an estate opposite Sully’s. It moved cautiously along the walk, then started across the street toward the car. There was a furtive tenseness in the man’s movements. And something glittered in his hand.
Just as Vivian opened the door of her car, and was bending to climb in, the man sprang toward her. She turned her head and a startled, terrified cry came from her lips. She crouched as though she were facing a wild beast. The man’s arm drew back.
Agent “X” leaped forward out of the shadows like a hurtling catapult. His clenched fist struck at the thing gleaming in the man’s raised hand, sent it shattering to the street.
Vivian de Graf swayed against “X,” and while he steadied her the man ducked around the car like a startled rat and fled. The woman straightened then, and “X” sprang in pursuit of her attacker. The man had disappeared through the hedge across the street. When “X” pushed through, his quarry had lost himself in the dark maze of trees covering a wide lawn. The Agent knew there would be no use in further pursuit.
He went back to Vivian de Graf. Something had splashed onto his wrist from the thing in the man’s hand, and it burned like a spark of fire. He reached down to rub it off on a strip of grass by the curb, and his nostrils tingled with an acrid smell that rose from the sidewalk.
Vivian de Graf had regained her poise. Her dark eyes met his calmly. “Who are you?”
The Agent tapped his camera, smiled. “Just a newshound who happened to be passing. And it’s lucky I was!”
The woman poked with her toe at a jumble of broken glass on the sidewalk.
“What is that?”
“That,” said “X” gravely, “is acid. Somebody wanted to mar your beauty, I’m afraid.”
“Well—” her voice was cool, “you saved me from a nasty situation, anyway, and I want to thank you.”