The fingers of his right hand began to move. A quivering set their tips in motion. They curled up slowly until his fist was clenched. Then his arm moved also, beginning at the elbow, drawing toward his chest. The fingers plucked the note that the brown man had left. His eyes scanned the words that the note held. And the words seemed to burn into his senses like fire, eating away the coma that held him.
“You cannot win, Agent ‘X,’” the note said. “You saw Saunders die, and were horrified. You were horrified, too, when I killed Rathborne’s man, Peters. But you have not seen all. It is terrible to die, but a living death is worse. There are poisons that act quickly. There are others that gnaw at the nerves themselves — destroying what can never be repaired. And my slaves are masters of their art. I have your friend Betty Dale, who came to Washington to aid you. Through her I issue a command. Make no further investigation into this case. Leave the city at once — or my slaves will practise their art on her. She will be stricken, paralyzed for life, her mind and body shattered forever. Take warning and obey. The Green Mask.”
A groan came from the Agent’s lips. Horror pressed upon him. But the note was the last thing needed to drive him to a frenzy. He had seen the green-masked man’s tactics. He knew that even if he did drop the case and leave, Betty Dale would not be safe.
His other hand was moving now. His legs were beginning to obey. He was fighting the battle of his life. Even before he could stand, he crawled toward the door through which Betty had been taken. It opened on a tiled porch with the lawn beyond.
HE reached the door, thrust his head into the darkness. The chill of the night air helped him. He felt new life coming into his veins. Clutching the side of the door, he drew himself to his feet, stumbled out onto the lawn. Once he fell on his face, striking his head on the ground, but he was up in an instant.
Through shrubbery he saw a glint of water and then he understood. Beyond the lawn was the river, and it was toward this that the dark-skinned men had gone. It was from the river that they had come.
He crept forward toward the spot where the senator had a boat wharf, and he saw skulking figures ahead. There was a dark shadow at the right of the wharf. The figures merged suddenly with this. Then came the sound of a muffled engine. The dark shadow moved out.
It was a boat, long and low to the water. It backed away from the wharf, turning in a half-circle. White foam, appeared under its bow. A white wake showed behind it. And the sight of it moving away spurred Agent “X” to fresh action.
At the left of the wharf was another shadow. Senator Foulette himself was a yachtsman. “X” leaped along the wharf, eyes stabbing the darkness. Water lapped against a polished hull. A runabout was moored to the wharf, securely fastened with ropes.
The Agent drew a knife from his pocket. No time to untie lines now. He slashed, freed the moored craft, and jumped down into it.
Familiar with all types of engines, he slid into the padded seat up front. Then a harsh exclamation came from his lips. A locked ignition switch met his groping fingers and each second of time was precious. Face set, eyes burning, he fumbled under the seat, drawing out an engine wrench. He leaned forward over the rounded wind glass and smashed at the plywood deck. He struck at it like a man in a frenzy till the thin boards gave way. Then he tore at the wood with his bare hands and reached inside.
Under the decking, in front of the instrument board, he found what he sought — the wiring of the ignition. He pulled two flexible cables out, joined their ends together and completed the circuit. As he did so his eyes strained off across the water. He could still hear the engine of the boat ahead.
Then he pressed the starter, heard its muffled whine. He moved the spark forward, drew the throttle back, and his own engine broke into life. Afraid that its starting roar might be heard, he let it idle for a moment, backing slowly from the wharf.
He eased the runabout’s nose around toward the white wake that the other boat had left. His eyes burned with a hot, tense light. His fingers pushed the throttle forward, and the boat he was in moved ahead.
He followed the white wake that showed on the water. His eyes sought each bit of foam, each breaking bubble. He could no longer see the other boat. It had no lights. But he was following it, following Betty Dale. He swept on to where the river widened and the shores became less populated. On by salt marshes and tiny islands.
IT was toward one of these, grass-grown and covered with dense shrubbery, that the wake of the boat ahead led. “X” cut his speed and crept along. A minute after he had done so he heard the engine roar of the other boat diminish in volume.
He kept out of its wake now, afraid that his own craft would be seen as a black shadow in the foam. With his engine barely turning over, he nosed in near enough to see the other boat thrust between shrubbery that grew close to the water’s edge.
Five hundred feet distant he circled the island. Caution was all that would save Betty now. Beyond the island the mainland showed. A channel separated the two. The Agent crossed this and brought his boat among the trees. To one of them he tied it, and slipped out of his coat and shoes.
If there were eyes watching, he dared not take the boat to the island. It would be too great a risk — for Betty Dale. Instead he dropped over-side, silently as an otter. In long swift strokes he swam ahead, slowing when at last the thick vegetation of the island loomed up.
Then his feet touched; he moved up to a narrow sandy shore. Bushes higher than his head grew here. He skirted them, moving along the beach until they thinned.
His eyes were growing used to the faint light of the stars. He could see more plainly now, and as he pushed forward toward the island’s center the dark bulk of a building rose. It seemed a huge old barn.
Then Agent “X” stopped dead in his tracks. A shadow rose before him. Green Mask was behind all this and Green Mask did not do things by halves.
A Malay word was grunted at him. He answered in the same language; but what he said did not seem to be the right thing, for the shadow moved toward him inquiringly and “X” backed away.
His muscles were tense as coiled springs. He knew that death was close at hand. But for Betty Dale’s sake he must not die. Deliberately he drew the man away from the building. If there were other guards “X” did not want them to hear.
The Malay spoke again. “X” was almost at the water. He crouched behind a bush, waited, and the brown-skinned man came up slowly. Then abruptly, as though his eyes could penetrate the dark, the Malay turned and leaped. As he did so, he pulled something from his belt. A curved knife glittered wickedly in his hand.
Chapter XIV
THE man’s attack was like the death lunge of a hooded cobra. He struck for the Agent’s heart, seeking to bury the knife blade to its hilt; struck with the quick ferocity of some jungle creature to whom killing is a natural act.
The Agent’s sidewise lurch was all that saved him. He saw the knife flash by, clutched the wrist that held it, and with his free hand gripped the Malay’s face, pressing his palm across the brown-skinned killer’s mouth. There must be no outcry. Any disturbance would cause a murderous horde to descend upon him.
But the Malay was a cyclone of destructive fury. He twisted like a snake, tried to bury his teeth in the Agent’s hand, tried to wrench his own fingers loose and slide the knife along “X’s” straining neck.
The Secret Agent’s fingers clamped like steel over the man’s jaw. They dug into his cheek, bent his head forward. But bushes cracked and rustled beneath their moving bodies. This sound, too, would bring disaster.