Two more blocks and the Agent saw something that made him increase his efforts. There was an all-night lunch room at the next corner. A taxi stood before it, its engine idling to keep warm. The driver was inside.
Even as he leaped into the cab’s front seat, he heard the sound of another auto starting up behind, backing out of a garage. He remembered the car that had taken Betty Dale away from the Herald office, the car in which he had ridden to MacDonough Street.
He raced the taxi’s engine, drew the shift lever back, released the clutch, and plunged forward. He heard the hoarse shout of a man behind him — the taxi driver running from the lunch room. But he had to take the cab. If anything happened to it, he’d see that the taxi company was reimbursed.
The taxi was an old one. Its valves needed grinding. The motor had poor pickup. The car was already shooting down the street, gaining. He shifted frantically, and pressed the accelerator down till the engine coughed. The taxi began to gain speed. It rumbled and jounced over the rough pavement. He spun the wheel, made a skidding turn around a corner, and roared on.
At the end of the block he heard the pursuing car duplicate his maneuver. The sound of the taxi’s engine was rising in pitch now. The big cab was rolling ahead at ever mounting speed. The needle on the speedometer showed forty, fifty, fifty-five. He took another corner, heading toward the river to get out of the rough cross-town streets. Then he found himself on a long, wide avenue running parallel with the water. It too, was deserted, until a cop’s whistle blew frantically. But the taxi lurched and roared past.
Agent “X” glanced over his shoulder through the rear window. The goggling lights of the car behind were increasing steadily in size. He pressed the accelerator down as far as it would go — and got up to fifty-five again. But the needle of the speedometer hung there, sliding forward a degree when the street slanted down, going back when there was a slight incline. The pursuing car was only a half block behind.
Then the warehouses and pier sheds to right and left echoed to the sudden staccato clatter of a sub-machine gun. Something whined by in the night. An explosive tinkle of breaking glass came from the rear window. He looked back and saw that it had disappeared. It was an old model car. Even the windshield was not shatterproof. The glass partition between the driver’s seat and the passenger’s compartment was the next to go. Then the windshield flew into crystal slivers before his face. Pieces of it whizzed by his head, pricked his skin.
The night wind beat against his eyes with a force that made them blink and burn. The cab was being torn to pieces, raked by bullets as the devilish chatter of the machine gun continued with a measured, precise regularity that had the finality of doom. In a matter of seconds only the law of averages would take effect, a steel-jacketed bullet would pierce him, and he would slump forward in his seat. The speeding cab would crash into a building, be demolished, burst into flame. The car behind had demonstrated its supremacy in speed.
He shot a glance to the left toward the river, his eyes bright as hot coals. Death by bullets was quick, painless. The old wound in his side had brought him near death often. He was on familiar terms with the Grim Reaper. But there was the cause for which he worked. There was the “Torture Trust” to be smashed, and there was Betty Dale! Unless he fought for her, saved her, she would be tracked down and hideously mutilated, perhaps killed.
He spun the wheel of the plunging cab viciously. It rocked to the left across the broad street. For an instant the raking stream of bullets left it. Then they found it again. The car behind had swerved, too. But Agent “X” pulled the wheel still farther. The fat tires squealed in protest. The cab groaned in every bolt. It skidded dangerously, then roared ahead. The yawning entrance to an open dock was directly before it; farther still the oily, chill waters of the river moved sluggishly. The cab lunged out across the clattering boards of the dock.
The machine gun ceased its chattering, but the car behind still followed. The Agent did not decrease his speed. He sat hunched low over the wheel, staring ahead through the shattered windshield.
A low protecting bulkhead rose at the end of the dock. There were capstans spaced at intervals for tugs and excursion boats to tie to. He aimed the blunt nose of the cab between them and put on a last burst of speed, holding the wheel steady.
The front tires of the cab struck the bulkhead and leaped up. The cab plunged on like a madly bucking horse, rearing its yellow shape over the end of the dock. An instant it seemed to hang in the air, then it plunged to the black river below and struck with a terrific splash. Steam hissed from the hot pipes of the engine. Yellow foam seethed and slithered sidewise. A second passed — two — and the cab filled and sank from sight.
Chapter XIV
THE heads of the “Torture Trust” were assembled again in their secret council chamber. All were there, including the sinister Professor Morvay. There was tonight a question of singular importance to be discussed. First, however, one of the gray-clad deaf-mutes entered, stood before the black-robed trio, and began making motions in the air — the motions of his strange finger language.
He told for the benefit of Professor Morvay, who had not been present the night before, just what had taken place. He told of the escape of Betty Dale, of how they had pursued the Secret Agent, riddled his car with bullets, and seen him plunge to his death in the black waters of the river.
The fast-moving hand and fingers of the deaf-mute gave a graphic account of that wild chase through the night-darkened streets.
Morvay leaned forward, his eyes glowing behind the black hood. His long fingers answered in the same language, then asked a question.
“Are you certain he is dead? Did you wait to see whether he rose to the surface?”
“Yes,” came the answer. “We waited, watched — there was no chance of his survival.”
Morvay registered grim satisfaction. The deaf-mute was dismissed. One of the hooded trio spoke.
“You have heard what our slave reports. Secret Agent ‘X’ is dead. The girl escaped, but she knows nothing. The agent has no close confidante.”
Morvay nodded.
“But to make sure,” he said, “you are having the girl trailed? You will have her punished as soon as she is found.”
The man he had questioned nodded.
“The Herald office and her apartment are being shadowed,” he said. “She will turn up at one place or the other. We will make an example of her.”
Again Morvay nodded. He hadn’t seen Betty Dale, but he had been told that she was beautiful, piquant. She had chosen to interfere with the activities of the “Torture Trust.” She was an ally of the Secret Agent. Because of that her beauty would be hideously destroyed. She would spend the remainder of her life looking forward to death. The secret strain of sadism that made Morvay the vicious criminal he was took delight in this prospect. He ran his tongue over thin, cruel lips.
“Let us forget the girl and the Agent now,” he said. “One is dead — the other will shortly be disposed of. What of the business in hand?”
The other two men leaned forward. There was the glitter in their eyes of men whose greed for money and power amounts to fanaticism. Money — power! For these they had slaughtered, maimed, and spread terror. They had extorted thousands from fear-crazed millionaires. They began to picture themselves as czars of crime, masters of death, invincible rulers of the underworld. And, scorning the citizens of the underworld, they planned to organize its riffraff into a vast disciplined legion. That would come later, however, when they had more power. Tonight there was something concrete to go over — details of the most daring crime they had ever conceived.