He turned fiercely and floundered on through the marsh. But he could not outdistance the wind. It drove the flames coiling through the dry reed stems like red, hungry serpents. The fire gathered fury with every foot it covered.
The Agent came to a hummock of hard ground. On his toes, he stared forward across the marsh. He groaned. As far as he could see, the waving tops of the dry cat-tails continued — an undulating plain, lurid now with the red glow of the fire.
A billowing breath of smoke swirled about him. He choked, stumbled on toward a slight break in the reeds ahead. Here he sank waist deep in the water. A channel cut through the marsh at this point.
He started to climb out, turned back. The roaring of the fire had shut out the Malay’s chanting now. The Agent was alone in a world of smoke and flame. Only a thin barrier of reeds stood between him and a blazing inferno. The flames were fast devouring that. On each side, where the reeds were thinner, arms of the conflagration shot out. He was being encircled in a fiery embrace — an embrace of death.
The water in which he stood was his only hope — and the Agent’s mind flashed back. Years ago, as a boy, he had been caught in a forest fire. He remembered how he and an old woodsman had saved themselves.
With quick tense fingers the Agent drew his knife. He bent forward, slashed at the reed stems, drew one out. With his knife blade he trimmed the ends. The reed was hollow. He put it to his mouth, drew air through. A grim smile made his eyes grow bright. A human life hung upon that slender reed — and a nation’s destiny, perhaps.
The fire was close now — thirty feet. Clouds of hot air swept forward. The Agent wet his reed in the channel’s water, then lay down on his back. Raising himself on one elbow, he kept his face above the surface of the water.
The fire swept onward in a roaring, red glare. Reeds on the channel’s edge began to smoke and curl. The top of one burst into flame, dropped as the stem bent and broke.
Heat quivered above the water. Blazing stems and gray ashes hissed as they fell. Then like a red, destructive wave, the full force of the fire advanced.
The Agent wet his reed again, put it between his lips. He lay flat, submerging his face now, sucking breath through the hollow stem. He opened his eyes. Water made his gaze blurry. But overhead all was brightening. The red glow intensified to orange. Wavering arms of fire swept across the channel.
Smoke beat down. The Agent drew in a lungful through the reed and choked. Terrible seconds followed in which it seemed nothing could survive that flaming holocaust. Acrid smoke cut his lungs like knives; the water above his face grew warm.
But the reed stems were consumed quickly. When it seemed that he could no longer live without a breath of clean, cool air, the fire glow began to fade. The air he sucked down through the reed became purer. At last “X” raised his head.
The channel now was rimmed with coals. Reed roots still smoldered. Powdery white ashes sifted down. He could hear the fire behind him, still roaring downwind. But he was alive. He had beaten Tuan again.
Far off across the river, he heard the chanting of the Malays. He could not make out the words, but he knew they must be reciting a victory song for the devil god. They believed “X” was dead.
He waited till even the ashes of the fire began to die. Then he rose from the channel that had saved him. Slowly he followed in the charred wake of the fire. There was danger that he might be silhouetted against its glow. Bnt he took that chance. The Malays were probably too far away to see him.
He must get back to Washington now. He must learn all that happened at the raid. The green-masked devil priest had told his followers that they would soon take a ship across the water. Did that mean he had the plans?
Fire was still burning far back along the marsh. There might be other channels and deep bogs to cross. The Agent walked parallel with the river, then turned downstream. A half mile below the spot where his canoe had landed, he again approached the shore.
After the hot fire a long swim held no terrors. He slipped into the cold water and struck out. Long swift strokes brought him at last to the farther side of the river. Somewhere here Betty Dale had also landed.
He followed the river shore upstream for a mile, passing the sinister island which lay peacefully beneath the starlight now. The Agent continued to the spot where he had moored Senator Foulette’s speed boat. Here was a ready means of getting back to the city. The thundering roar of its motor woke echoes along the dark river. The blast of cold night wind cleared the Agent’s faculties. His eyes were alert as those of a hunting hawk as he sped up the dark river toward the nation’s capital.
THREE quarters of an hour later a swift roadster turned into the driveway of Senator Foulette’s estate. A nattily-dressed army officer was at the wheel, an officer with the insignia of General Staff upon his collar. Papers in his pocket bore the name of Captain Stewart Black. The Agent had gone to his hideout and made a quick change in his disguise.
It was one-thirty, yet lights still showed in the senator’s big mansion. Sleep was impossible in that household where crime’s black shadow had so lately fallen. Washington’s greatest jewel robbery had taken place — and more. Inspector Clyde had men still stationed on the spot. The Foulettes’ servants had been grilled for hours.
The Secret Agent quickly parked his car beside the others in the drive. His eyes were penetratingly bright. There were things he must learn quickly. What conclusion had the police reached? What had been the aftermath of the brown-skinned Malays’ raid?
A group of reporters were congregated on the porch. No longer allowed admittance, they waited, hoping for fresh developments. Their cigarettes made red pin points in the darkness. Agent “X” walked swiftly toward them. Here was as good a way as any of learning the facts.
He spoke abruptly, playing the role of brusque and hard-boiled army officer.
“What’s going on here?”
Silence followed his inquiry. Then a chuckle sounded.
“Where have you been, general?”
“I know there’s been a robbery,” said “X” impatiently. “But tell me about it. I’ve just arrived in the city.”
“Robbery’s right,” a reporter said. “Enough sparklers were lifted tonight to cover a circus queen’s wedding dress. But that ain’t all! A guy and two janes has disappeared. There’s a mystery a mile wide and twice as high. The police are playing left-handed poker with stacked cards. This will be hot copy for a week.”
The reporter’s colorful description brought more chuckles from his comrades. But Agent “X” tensed with interest.
“Three people disappeared? Who were they?”
“A senator’s daughter, her girl friend, and a spik named Sancho. It looks like some guys were going into the wholesale kidnapping racket.”
“What senator’s daughter?”
“Old man Blackwell’s. The crooks knocked everybody out with giggle gas. They took the janes and the spik along with the rocks they lifted. But we ain’t got nothing out of Blackwell. He’s been hit hard and won’t open up. His dopey son was bumped off tonight, too.”
“What — Ferris?”
“Yeah, you know him? Sorry if I made a break, general. But he was parked at a sanatorium where they hand out cures to snowbirds. A nurse heard him screeching and thought he had the D.T.’s. She got a doctor. His door was locked and when they got in he was all scratched up and dead.”
The light of interest in the Agent’s eyes became like a snapping flame. “Scratched up?”
“Yeah! And a guy in a green mask was seen making a get-away. The same guy, I guess, that bumped off Senator Rathborne’s hired man last night. The bird they call the ‘fiend killer.’ Tie that if you can! Washington’s getting as good as Chicago used to be. How do you figure it, general?”