He was conscious again of a scream from Vivian de Graf. He felt the breathing of the man he fought. His opponent had dropped the whip now, was trying to break loose from the Agent’s hold. But “X’s” hands, vicelike, did not yield.
This was no darkness he was fighting now. No whip that struck treacherously from behind a curtain his eyes could not penetrate. This was a living, vicious man — one of the raiding gang. And “X” fought with the bitter anger of one who remembered the pain-racked screams of those innocents outside. He fought with punishing blows, craft and science disregarded for the moment in the primitive joy of meting out justice to one who had caused the torment of others.
Then his right hand, lifting for an instant to clutch at the other’s throat, tensed uncertainly. He had felt something — a mask or hood made of a substance that felt like pliant rubber. It covered the man’s shoulders and head. And across his face were heavy goggles. In a flash Agent “X” had the answer, incomprehensible as yet, as to how the raiders saw their way about in the darkness. Somehow they had protected themselves against the night they created.
With fierce eagerness “X” sought to tear that hood from the man’s head. He was sure that without the hood his opponent would be as helpless as he himself.
But the other apparently sensed his purpose, and began fighting like a living fury. Lifting a knee, he gave a savage, treacherous blow, twisted and turned on the carpet. Agent “X” thrust his knuckles against the man’s heart in a jiu-jitsu blow, which, if he had not been handicapped by his cramped position, would have ended the fight then. As it was, it struck with only half strength, and his own movements weakened. Air whistled from between his teeth.
Then, through the thunder of his own pulses, “X” heard the clatter of feet on the tiled corridor outside. He strove desperately to deliver another blow. He must knock this man out, take off his hood before help came. If the hood enabled him to see, he might be able to do something. The labored breathing of his opponent told him that victory was almost within his grasp.
But at that moment a new voice snarled an oath, and before the Agent could leap away in answer to the warning of his senses, something struck him heavily beside his ear. Something that made lights dance before his eyes, and seemed to bring the black room crashing down about his head. He stiffened, gave a choked gasp, and collapsed senseless over the man he had almost mastered.
Chapter V
A SWAYING vibration accompanied the slow struggle of the Agent’s senses back out of the black pit into which they had been plunged. The dark in his brain, coming on the heels of that other dark in Banton’s office, had left a blank page in his memory. He was dazed, uncertain.
Then, without conscious effort, his will fought to regain its poise, aided by the balanced nerves of a perfectly coordinated body.
The swaying which seemed part of some hideous nightmare became gradually familiar. His ears picked up sounds that registered in his brain. He was in an auto, traveling swiftly. The swish he heard was the sound of tires. That rumble was the throaty voice of a heavy engine. He was in an auto, and these criminals who worked behind the black fog were taking him away, bound hand and foot.
“X” discovered then that he still was unable to see. But it was not the unearthly darkness this time — only a prosaic strip of adhesive taped across his eyes that shut out the light. He knew, of course, why he had been made a prisoner instead of being killed on the spot. Some one had found out that he had warned Banton of the raid. And his attack on the man with the whip, his refusal to be cowed by fear like the others, had frightened the raiders. They thought he must know something about their activities, and they wanted to find out exactly what.
Twisted and cramped on the car’s floorboards, an old wound in the Agent’s side, made long ago by bursting shrapnel in a field in France, gave him a twinge of pain. Eminent doctors had told him at the time that the wound must kill him. Yet he had gone on living, his magnificent vitality triumphant. The pain from that wound invariably acted as a spur to a steely grimness of intent. And, curiously enough, the cicatrix of the wound took the form of a crude “X”—a living, pulsing symbol of the Secret Agent’s indomitable spirit.
His fingers curled tensely, reached back and touched the ropes binding his wrists. Given time he could get those bonds off. But there was no time for that. The auto was slowing already. The rumble of the motor diminished and the vehicle turned lurchingly with a grate of shifting gears. It entered some sort of drive or alley, and stopped. Garage doors rumbled back, the car plunged forward a few feet, came to a standstill. The doors clanged shut.
Voices sounded, clipped and indistinct. A second of silence, then rough hands abruptly reached in and yanked the Agent out. He made no attempt at struggle. Feigning complete unconsciousness, he let his body sag.
Every sense was active, every nerve alert as they carried him into a building and down a flight of steps. A short, straight passage was traversed, a door was opened, and warmer air told him that they had entered an inside room. His captors dropped him to the floor as though he had been a sack of grain.
He lay inertly while other doors slammed and feet moved by. Then voices sounded behind an adjacent wall. He strained his ears, but even to his acute senses the words were unintelligible. If only he had his hands free, and could use some of the strange devices he carried. Pressing his elbows experimentally against his sides, he could tell that these things, worn in secret pockets inside the linings of his garments, were still intact.
Swiftly, surely, his finger ends touched and tested the knots that bound him. But before he could loosen even one, a door opened close at hand. A heavy tread crossed the floor toward him. “X” lay still, not knowing who it was that stood above him. It might be some grim murderer commissioned to blot out his life with knife or bullet. But “X” was gambling on the premise that he wouldn’t have been brought here unless his captors wanted him alive.
Not by a single quiver did he betray himself. He was as one plunged in an abyss of sleep. The man moved to the wall of the room, returned, and flung a bucketful of icy water into “X’s” face. The Agent did not stir.
An outthrust toe followed the water. It prodded, then delivered a brutal kick. Dizzying pain almost drove the breath from his body. But the groan that escaped his lips was calculated; the groan, apparently, of a man whose senses were still lost in a daze.
A voice above him sounded, barking a sharp order.
Shuffling footsteps responded, those of at least three men. They entered the room, walked to “X’s” side. He was jerked roughly to his feet and flung into a chair.
“Wake up! Wake up!” He was shaken roughly.
This time the Agent didn’t even groan. He let his head hang forward, lolled and slumped in the chair.
“Maybe he’s finished,” a cold voice said. “That bruise behind his ear—”
THE man who seemed to be in charge spoke again. The Agent recognized the voice as the one he had heard in Craig Barton’s office.
“Don’t be a fool. Untie his wrists. Work his arms and get him breathing. And look out for tricks. You, Fritz, shoot him in the leg if he tries anything. We don’t care if he’s crippled.”
There was utter callousness in the tone. Yet neither this voice nor those of others, were the voices of underworld criminals. No slang was here, no thickness of accent. It was the smooth, precise speech of educated men.
The Agent’s arms were freed and moved forcibly from side to side as though he were drowning. He could feel blood coursing through his veins, prickling in the stiffened flesh of his wrists. Keeping up his part, he groaned again. The working of his arms continued. Slowly he let his body stiffen, closed his mouth which had been hanging slackly open.