The Agent’s eyes had been trained to work in semi-darkness — to see things that other men missed. There was an iron ladder up the side of the building beyond. Someone was climbing it swiftly — a figure which, even at that distance, had something macabre and sinister about it.
Agent “X” started in pursuit. He was ahead of the police, one jump in advance on the trail of a would-be murderer. As he reached the higher building, he looked behind him across the roof of the Bellaire Club and saw the head and shoulders of the cop. Then his hands were on the ladder and his feet had found the rungs.
It ran straight up, a sheer hundred feet, to the roof above. It passed by unlighted windows, and, as he mounted, it was as though he were hanging in space.
THEN, far behind him, he heard a cry. A pinpoint of flame blossomed in the darkness. There was a sharp, whiplike report. Something struck the bricks beside him and screamed away into the night like a frightened banshee.
The Secret Agent smiled. It wasn’t the first time he had been under fire. The cop on the roof below had glimpsed him just as he had glimpsed the man ahead. But there could be no accurate shooting. The policeman’s second bullet went wider of its mark than the first. The cop was being blinded by the flash of his own gun.
Agent “X” continued to climb. The cop below turned on a flashlight, but its beam wouldn’t reach. Agent “X” was too high up. A moment later, however, the iron ladder gave out faint vibrations, warning the Agent that the man below had reached it and was mounting, too.
“X” traversed the last rungs at dangerous speed. He vaulted over the edge of the roof and stood there like a man on top of the world. The twinkling lights of the city lay below him, peaceful as though murder were not stalking through the night
He turned and looked along the roof. All seemed quiet. He could see no movement now; but with quick, silent strides, he skirted the edge of the roof, then leaped forward.
At a point opposite where he had come up, another ladder went down. It had become a mad game of hide-and-seek on the rooftops of the city. There was no place up here for a man to hide. “X” tried the one skylight window and found that it was locked on the inside. The man ahead, whoever he might be, was showing that he knew his ground. His fiendish act tonight had been as deliberate as it was diabolical, planned with the cunning that characterized every movement of the “Torture Trust.”
Agent “X” grasped the top of the second ladder and began the descent as quickly as he had climbed. Six stories below, his feet touched another, lower roof. He crossed it, reached the fire escape that mounted on the next building. He was moving along the block on the rooftops. He looked back again, and, far above, outlined against the high office building, he saw movement. The cop was close on his trail.
A sense of menace seemed to descend on him out of the night. He could outwit the police, but he was pitting himself against criminals as fiendish as they were cunning. He reached under his coat, drew out a pistol. It was one of the weapons he sometimes used in moments of emergency — not an ordinary gun. The Agent did not kill. To slaughter a man was a crude way of dealing with a situation. The Agent operated with finesse, ingenuity, and impetuous daring. The chambers of this gun contained concentrated anesthetizing gas of a high speciflc gravity. Even in the open, fired into a man’s face, it could cause unconsciousness.
He gripped the pistol, climbed still faster. He was on the last flight of the fire escape now, with the roof of the third building ahead. He stared up twelve feet. And, as he did so, a black shape suddenly blotted, out the stars. So quickly that the Agent didn’t have time to raise his gun, a man’s arm flashed out.
With that instinctive response which had more than once saved his life, the Secret Agent twisted his body sidewise. He hung by one hand and foot, swaying perilously away from the iron ladder, out over dizzy space.
Something hissed by in the air close to his face. The stench and reek of chemicals made his nostrils quiver. Burning, acrid fumes made his eyes blink and smart. Then the flesh of his left wrist felt as if a red-hot brand had suddenly been pressed upon it. The pain was so excruciating that his muscles contracted and he almost let go his hold. The silhouette above disappeared.
Biting his lips with pain, the Secret Agent continued to climb. By a few inches only he had missed the liquid torture from the roof above. A few drops of the acid thrower’s torment had struck his wrist, showing what terrible thing he had escaped.
His eyes glowing like points of steel, he went on up, peering cautiously over the roof, the gas gun in his fingers. But the roof was deserted now.
The Agent saw why. With a bound he crossed the tarred space to a heavy trapdoor cover. He tugged at it with tense fingers, but it was bolted inside. Then, stooping down, he placed his ear against the sheet metal. From below came the faint stir of descending footsteps. The acid thrower had made good his escape.
Philosophical always in defeat, biding his time, the Secret Agent stood up. He couldn’t go back the way he had come. He walked across the building to the fire escape at the rear, and quickly began the descent.
This one seemed to end in a vacant courtyard below. He paused a moment listening. All was quiet.
He reached the bottom, dropped to the flagstones and started toward a fence in the rear, then suddenly crouched back. A bright beam pierced the darkness close ahead. The ray of a flashlight made his eyelids narrow.
“Stand still, guy,” a harsh voice said.
Against the glow of a street light beyond the court Agent “X” got a sudden glimpse of the visored cap of a city cop.
Chapter VI
IT was a situation that he hadn’t anticipated — a dangerous turn of events. The cop’s voice held deadly purpose. The Agent knew that a gun was trained on him. He knew also that the police were nervous, fearful, and ready to shoot at the drop of a hat. Calmness would be necessary and brilliant strategy.
A slow smile spread over the Agent’s face. He made his voice drawling.
“Don’t be hasty, old man. Nothing to get excited about, you know.”
With aggravating deliberation, he dusted his palms together, wiped a speck of dust from the front of his tuxedo and reached toward his vest pocket.
“Keep yer hands in sight,” snarled the cop. “Go for a gat and I’ll drill yer.”
“Really!” said the Agent, poised and unruffled. “I don’t think you fully grasp the situation.”
With the tips of his fingers, he delicately drew his eyeglasses from his vest. He breathed upon them, wiped the gleaming lenses on his sleeve, and placed them carefully on his nose. Then he raised his head. Looking straight at the cop he spoke arrogantly.
“Now, my good man, I’d appreciate it if you’d take that light of yours out of my eyes. It’s quite annoying.”
The cop came closer, still tautly alert.
“What were yer doing on that roof? Who the hell are yer?”
“Names Claude Fellingsfort,” said the Agent. “Thought I saw a fellow running around up top. Went up for a bit of a look. Heard that the police were having a man hunt. Thought I’d aid them.”
“Yeah?”
“Quite — and now, if you’ll just step aside, I’ll be on my way.”
“You’ll be on your way right enough. You’re gonna have a talk with the inspector. He’s up the block. I’ve got my orders and I’m gonna follow ’em.”
“The devil you say! You’d better give me your number. I intend to register a complaint about this.”