“Be ready for a quick get-away, Jim,” “X” ordered. “I’m going into a house after that girl I spoke of — and I don’t know whether I’m coming out alive. But if this girl is in there and I get her out, you rush her to safety and don’t take chances trying to help me”
“You’re the doctor, A.J.,” said Hobart “But I’d like to go along, too, and take a crack at some of those DOAC palookas. I’ve been getting mad at them for a long time.”
The Agent waved to his operative, and sped down the sidewalk to the number he’d got from central. It was a peaceful looking place, two stories, brick, with a small trim lawn.
Boldly the Agent went to the front door and pressed the button. He was ready for violence, for sudden happenings. Immediately approaching footsteps answered his summons. “X” stood tensely, though outwardly he maintained a casual attitude. But he didn’t maintain that attitude long.
The door opened. “X” gave a start of utter amazement.
A woman stood in the hallway, a slim, beautifully gowned creature, with chestnut hair and delicate features. She stared at Agent “X,” now disguised as A.J. Martin, uncomprehendingly.
The woman was Greta St. Clair.
Chapter XIX
BEFORE he could speak or recover from his astoundment, the Agent heard footsteps crunching on the graveled driveway. He recovered himself then. Trouble was coming. There was fire in the Agent’s eyes. The woman shrank back under his fierce gaze.
“Where’s Betty Dale?” he demanded harshly, forgetting for the moment all subtlety of approach. “I want to see Betty Dale. What are you doing here? Don’t stall. I want the truth.”
All color drained from Greta St. Clair’s face. She shrank back as though he had struck her, but her voice came huskily.
“Who are you? How dare you address me in such tones? You must be mad! Betty Dale — who is she? I’ve never heard—”
Two hooded men bounded up the front steps. “X” turned and dodged just in time to avoid a gleaming knife spinning through the air. The wicked blade crashed against the brick wall. The woman uttered a cry of terror, clutched at her throat, and cowered back into the hallway.
“The DOACs!” she cried. “The hooded men! They will kill — kill!”
“X” leaped into the house, but before he could slam the door one of the hooded men had thrown his bulky body inside. He was armed with a set of brass knuckles. They didn’t use guns, apparently for fear of attracting the cops.
The Agent swayed under a murderous swing from a brass-armed fist. The DOAC’s arm curled over his shoulder. “X” sank a paralyzing blow wrist-deep into the man’s stomach. The hooded killer doubled up, breath gushing forcibly from his mouth. He tried to clinch the Agent, but a set of hard knuckles rammed against his chin.
The pile-driving smash made him spraddle-legged, but before the Agent could slug in a finish punch, the man’s accomplice sprang on “X’s” back.
The two sprawled on the floor. The DOAC got a strangle hold on the Agent and was applying merciless pressure. For a moment “X” thought he was through.
The blood was pounding in his head. Suffocation was poisoning his body with fatigue. The DOAC had the bony part of his forearm against “X’s” windpipe, and every gulp of air that went into the Agent’s tortured lungs wheezed through a closing channel.
The other DOAC was recovering. He drew a knife from a sheath under his coat and raised it for a murder thrust.
“Cut his heart out, comrade!” snarled the garroter.
And the Agent could see that the comrade intended to do just that. Death was but a split-second away. “X’s” strength had been sapped by the DOAC’s choking clutch. But he mustered all his waning power in a terrific kick. His foot flung out like a catapult, catching the hooded man in the stomach. The DOAC uttered an agonized grunt. His knife flew from his grasp. The battering-ram smash knocked him sprawling. He struck his head against the wall and lay still.
The long, slim blade flipped in the air a few times, flashing like a leaping trout and then plummeted down, deadly point first straight for “X’s” body! The DOAC had the Agent’s neck cramped in a hold as agonizing and dangerous as a grizzly’s bone-crushing hug. “X” felt his senses failing him. Sparks and black dots danced before his eyes. He thought his head would explode from pain.
It all happened in the tick of a watch. The Agent saw that wicked knife descending, realized he was about to swoon from lack of oxygen. But his iron will asserted itself. He hurled his tattered strength in a desperate lurch to the side, saving himself from the falling knife, and striking at his foe, as he did so. His fist landed on the man’s neck. The garroter howled in pain. The sudden shock made him release his death hold. That was all the Agent needed. He rolled free, pressed a dent out of his windpipe, filled his burning lungs with fresh air. The oxygen sent strength coursing through his system.
The DOAC leaped up, grabbing the knife again, and swinging it overhead for murder. But he was too late. The Agent struck another fierce blow. Knuckles cracked against flesh.
The DOAC staggered a moment like a day-old calf, then fell forward, completely out. “X” plunged down the hallway, burst open a door, paused. He was in a handsome drawing room, heavy curtains drawn across the windows. His eyes, bright and cold as chilled steel, roved quickly.
One of the curtains moved, infinitesimally — enough for the Agent’s trained eyes to note. He was close to it in two strides. His hand thrust forward, drew it aside — and clamped over the wrist of Greta St. Clair!
He swung her out forcibly, whirled her around, pushed her across the room. The woman cowered back and sank on a divan, trembling under his spellbinding, hypnotic glare.
“Now,” he said, “talk quickly! You’re supposed to be a prisoner of the DOACs. Your house was raided. You were captured along with Betty Dale. I know now that you are one of the DOAC gang. Where is Betty?”
GRETA ST. CLAIR shook her head. “You are mad,” she said. “That is the only explanation. I have never seen you before. I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Don’t lie!” the Agent said, his voice low and harsh. “Don’t lie — do you hear! The DOAC leader in Washington called this house a few minutes ago. You are here — free — not a prisoner at all. You pretend that you have never heard of Betty Dale. That is proof enough for me that you are one of them. Tell me where she is, I say. If she dies—”
The dark eyes of Greta St. Clair had become glistening pools of fear. She stared at the man before her with nostrils dilated.
“I understand,” she said slowly. “I see now. You are — Secret Agent ‘X’! It was you who came with her — as Claude Erskine. You are disguised now. You were disguised then.”
“Yes,” he said hoarsely, admitting his identity for once. “Yes — that is the truth. And it will do you no good to lie. You posed as Carney’s fiancée. You made him think you loved him— but all the time — you were one of them. It was his money you were after. And when they raided the prison—”
“I had nothing to do with that,” she said. “I did — love him. They forced me to join them — after I was captured. They promised not to harm him, if I would help them get his money.”
The Agent saw treachery in the woman’s eyes, saw that she was not telling the truth; saw that she was hiding something. He shook her arm fiercely. Then spoke with irrefutable logic.
“If you had joined the DOACs after the raid you would not have risen to such a high position so soon. The Washington leader would not have called you to relay a message to the Master. I know you are lying. Tell me quickly where Betty Dale is.”