His keen eyes were studying the professor, watching for the slightest reaction, for some sign of betrayal of his innermost thoughts. But the professor’s face was a mask, his eyes inscrutable behind those glasses. He said: “You speak in riddles, my friend. I know no one by the name of Laurento.”
“Perhaps,” said the Agent still watching him closely, “you know him by some other name. I will describe him for you. He is a young man, short of stature, not over twenty-five years old; thin features, dark-haired, mild mannered. But his mild mannered aspect is deceptive — for today you saw him hurl a gas bomb into Commissioner Foster’s office, and afterward you saw Gilbert Patterson dead on the floor, with his throat ripped open!”
Langknecht still retained full control of himself. Only his face darkened a little, and his lips parted slightly, showing two rows of even white teeth. “I am still unaware of what you speak, my friend. You are very annoying, and I am busy. I shall have to ask you to leave at once. I know of no Laurento.”
“Not even,” the Agent persisted, “if I should tell you that I know where Laurento is now? Wouldn’t you be interested in learning his whereabouts?”
For a long moment the professor stood rigid, staring at the Agent. Then a long sigh escaped through his teeth. “Who are you?” he asked.
The Agent was tense now, ready for action. He had deliberately goaded the other into a half admission. “You can see my name on that card. I am a private investigator. If you are interested in learning Laurento’s whereabouts, perhaps we can talk business.”
The professor pondered for a minute or two. Then he said very low: “Yes, perhaps we can do business — but not the way you think!”
His hand darted to his shoulder, inside the white coat where there was a bulge. It reappeared in a moment, with a flat automatic. The professor was snarling.
BUT “X” gave him no chance to use the gun. With a movement so fast that it was almost imperceptible, he stepped in, brought his left hand down, palm open, in a slashing blow which caught the professor’s arm at a point between the elbow and the shoulder. This was an effective, paralyzing blow which the Agent had learned many years ago. It was knowledge and skill such as this that often made an unarmed man the equal of one equipped with the most dangerous weapon.
The professor staggered backward; the automatic dropped to the floor from fingers rendered numb by that paralyzing blow.
With a furious cry, he hurled his entire weight at the Agent, bore him backward, gouging mercilessly at “X’s” face. The Agent twisted his head to escape those clawing fingernails, sidestepped, bent a little to the right and twined his left arm around the other’s waist. Then he pushed hard with his right shoulder, at the same time twisting the other’s body around. The professor was thrown off balance and crashed to the floor. He started to struggle upward again, but the Agent knelt, twisted his arm in a hammerlock.
Sweat began to break out on the professor’s forehead; his small eyes glared viciously up at the Agent through the thick convex lenses.
The Agent was breathing evenly. “I am sorry, professor—” He stopped short. For he felt something cold and hard boring into the back of his neck.
A feminine voice behind him, low and desperate, ordered: “Release him at once, and stay where you are.”
The Agent relaxed his grip on the professor’s arm, permitting the other to roll away and scramble to his feet.
The professor said, panting: “You have come just in time, Lola. The man is made of steel!”
The Agent rose slowly to his feet with the gun still boring into the back of his neck. The professor hurried to a closet, came back with a length of wire.
“Put your hands behind your back,” he commanded coldly. His thin lips were pressed tightly together, his eyes lancing hatred at the Agent.
“X” obeyed under the compulsion of the woman’s gun, and the professor wound the wire about his wrists, and twisted it tight.
“Now,” he said, “we can talk.”
The pressure of the gun was relaxed, and the Agent turned slowly. For the first time he beheld the woman. It was the one he had seen in the sedan outside of headquarters; the one who had followed him to the apartment where he had taken Laurento. He bowed to her in courtly fashion, saying with a half-smile:
“My compliments, madam. You entered this room with the silence of an expert.” His eyes strayed to the opposite wall where a section of the filing cabinet had been swung open on a pivot, revealing a passageway through which the woman had come.
The woman held her gun steady, still pointing at the Agent. Her expensive fur coat was open, revealing a nile green dress which set off the whiteness of her long, slender throat. Under the bright electric lights she was as beautiful, as mysteriously bewitching as she had been in the shadows of the sedan.
The professor wiped perspiration from his face, pointed to the Agent, saying: “He has just told me — that he knows where Laurento is!”
Lola exclaimed, “Wait, Hugo. Come here, Hugo. I have something to tell you. I, too, know where to find Laurento!”
Hugo backed away from the Agent to where the woman was standing. She turned to the professor and whispered in his ear so low that the Agent could not hear what she was saying. All the time, however, she kept her eyes glued to the Agent.
When she finished her whispered message, the professor exclaimed: “That is different, Lola. We will go at once then. Let us put this man in a safe place until we return.”
He ran his hands over “X’s” clothing, frisking him for weapons. The Agent’s various implements were securely hidden, safe except from a thorough search, but the professor found the gas gun in “X’s” holster under his coat, drew it forth. He apparently thought it was an ordinary revolver, for he threw it carelessly on his desk.
Then he seized the Agent by the arm once more, led him out into the hall to a small door. The Agent could see that the door to the room next to this was open, revealing a complete laboratory.
The professor took a heavy key from his pocket, opened the small door before which they were standing, and thrust the Agent in. Then he slammed the door, locked it.
“X” was now in complete darkness. He listened closely for any sound from the hallway, but could hear nothing — not even the receding footsteps of the professor and Lola. This told him that the door of the room into which he had just been locked was not only heavy, but also sound-proof. The Agent waited quietly until his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and until he had become assured that there was no one else in this room with him.
He manipulated his wrists against the wire which bound them, loosening it slowly. It was a long, arduous task there in the darkness. Soon he had the wire loose enough for him to slip his hands through. His wrists were cut and bruised. In the darkness he set about the task of inspecting his prison.
He took his fountain pen flashlight from his pocket, and sprayed the beam around. He was in a small closetlike room, no more than four feet square. It was absolutely bare.
“X” approached the door, knelt before it and took from his pocket the small, compact leather kit which contained a complete set of chromium tools. He held the flashlight between his knees, and went to work on the lock. It was not long before he heard a click as the tumblers yielded to his coaxing. He laid down his chromium tools, turned the knob and pulled on the door. But it did not give. The professor must have shot home a bolt or another fastening of some sort on the outside. He had not placed all his reliance on the lock. The Agent tugged at the door, but to no avail. He was effectually imprisoned in that little room.