And, with America itself menaced, she would be eager to take any risk. He finally made his decision. On the way to his hideout Agent “X” sent a carefully worded telegram to Betty. It would bring her by plane the next day. He instructed her to proceed directly to Suzanne’s house, not letting Suzanne know that her visit had any purpose except to cover Senator Foulette’s ball.
At his hideout “X” swiftly examined the tiny dart which had so nearly imbedded its point in his flesh. He scraped the black, gummy substance from the tip and sniffed at it. Then he took a small box from the false bottom of his suitcase. It held a compact chemical outfit — miniature vials of acids for chemical tests, a tiny collapsible retort for making distillations.
He put the substance from the dart in a test tube a quarter inch in diameter and used the flame of his cigar lighter in lieu of a Bunsen burner.
TEN MINUTES of analysis confirmed his suspicions. The gum on the dart was poisonous black resin from the deadly Rengas tree, known also as Singapore mahogany. Agent “X’s” eyes reflected hot pin points of light as his mind flashed back to that tiny mark on Senator Dashman’s neck, his strangely paralyzed condition, his stertorous breathing.
The brown-skinned men spoke a Malayan dialect. The Rengas tree was found commonly in the Malay peninsula. This upheld his belief that the murderous Green Mask headed a band of Malay poisoners. The blinding powder loosed in Saunders’ car was probably Malay. So also was the Kep-shak torture which had ended Saunders’ life.
Agent “X” replaced his miniature laboratory, and shed the army captain’s uniform. He stripped the makeup from his face; with swift precision began to create a new disguise. Beneath his skillful fingers an inconspicuous-looking young man emerged — a man with a smooth-shaven face and sandy hair; a man who carried the cards of H. Martin, Associated Press reporter. He had credentials, travelers’ checks.
He left his hideout and went to a “drive-yourself” garage, hired a smart roadster with a roomy compartment in the rumble seat. He sped along the night-shrouded streets of Washington, eyes bleakly alert.
It was nearly midnight now. A chill drizzle still fell. Lowering clouds hung low over the city. Danger seemed to lurk in the darkness.
He followed Massachusetts Avenue to Stanton Square. He cut into Maryland Avenue, circled the Capitol grounds, then headed down Delaware Avenue toward that point of land bordered by Washington Channel on one side and Anacostia River on the other.
Ahead of him was the Army War College, but he stopped before he reached it, turning into a dark, nondescript side street. Here, within a half-mile of the War College, was a place known to “X” as a hotbed of espionage. Perhaps spies chose this spot because it was close to some of America’s military secrets, past and present. Perhaps it was to keep an eye on the men at Uncle Sam’s fighting college.
Agent “X” did not know. But he knew that at a certain address in this dark, badly lighted street was a clearing house for spy information. Here a sinister personage conducted a sinister traffic. Here secrets for which men risked their lives and women risked their honor were bought and sold. Here dwelt a man who was a veteran operative of espionage.
Agent “X” had long known of his existence. So had men of the D.C.I., but they did not know his address and “X” did. He had long hoped that this knowledge might prove useful. Now the time had come to test it.
He parked his roadster a block away, proceeding along the dark street as silently as a shadow. The house he sought was a wooden, three-story affair. He saw it looming darkly, no lights in its windows, something unprepossessing about its misshapen lines.
Its infamous occupant had apparently gone to bed. But one could never be sure — not with the man who used the business name of Michael Renfew. He was as cunning as a fox, as spineless as a rabbit, except—
Agent “X” knew Renfew’s character. The man was an espionage merchant. His own active days were over. He was a coward at heart, but a sly, sneaking jackal of a man; and a man still to be feared.
The Agent didn’t go to the front door. He went to the rear of the house, creeping along its side, moving like a wraith. At the rear door he took out his tool kit again. Never had he been so careful as now. A man like Renfew would have ears that would detect any sound. His dangerous work would make him fear for his life. He would take means to safeguard it.
The Agent, before he opened the rear door, took a small metal disc from his pocket. He drew from its side a ribbon of gleaming copper that was like a measuring tape. But it had no numbers on it. It served another purpose.
He thrust one end of it in the moist, rain-wet earth. With a thin tool like a knife blade he probed cautiously around the door’s edge till he heard the faint scrape of metal. There he wedged the knife blade. He attached his metal disc to it, and opened the door.
By doing this he had disconnected an ingenious burglar alarm, which operated on a broken circuit when the door was open. Agent “X” had seen to it that the circuit remained unbroken.
He entered the house and closed the door after him. He took off his shoes, laid them on the floor, and moved forward on his stocking feet.
Was it possible that Michael Renfew was not at home? Agent “X” planned to see — and wait for him if he wasn’t.
A second door he came to was closed. With the caution of a man whose dangerous life had taught him eternal vigilance, Agent “X” explored this also.
HE found two tiny electric wires, hardly larger than threads, running along the frame. The door had an alarm system, too. He scraped the insulation from the wires, connected them with a small piece from his own pocket, and opened this door. He was convinced now that the spy was at home.
A flight of stairs that had a tendency to creak gave him trouble. Once he paused, thinking he heard movement above. Then he continued upward, stepping on the sides of the stair boards to prevent movement.
He came at last to the door of a bedroom, closed like the others. It was many minutes before he found means to open it, found the location of the last electric alarm. There wasn’t a burglar alive who could have entered that house without waking the tenant. But Secret Agent “X” was no burglar.
An old-fashioned four-poster bed was in the room. A man was sleeping in it. So silently had the Agent approached, so trustful was the man of his alarm system that the Agent crept to the bed and bent over the sleeper and still the man slept on. The Agent clicked on his tiny flashlight, then leaned forward to wake the sleeper.
As he did so Renfew stirred. He was a gaunt, wizened man with a bald head and a face as wrinkled and leathery as a turkey buzzard’s. He opened his little eyes, gave a sudden scream of fear.
Quick as a striking snake his hand reached out toward a cord beside his bed. He yanked it, and in the same instant Agent “X” leaped forward, sprawling across the bed. As he did so the floor beside the bed where he had been standing a second before dropped away. A trapdoor fell downward, a yawning black hole leading all the way to the cellar opened up. How many people visiting Renfew had taken this terrible plunge?
“X” grasped the wrinkled spy’s body, held him fast by the arms, while his eyes glared into Renfew’s.
The spy screamed again, and the Agent shook him as a terrier would shake a rat.
“Silence,” he ordered, and his strangely compelling voice seemed to affect Renfew like a blow. The spy lay back gasping.
“Who are you,” he croaked, at last. “Don’t kill me. I have nothing!”