De Ronforf shrieked when he saw the river so near.
“Mon Dieu!” he cried in a voice shaken by terror. “Stop! Stop! Have mercy, m’sieu! I will be killed! I do not want to die!”
A low snarl escaped the Agent. The Count was more abject than a terror-stricken child. He was covering his face with his hands. His disgusting cowardice sickened the Agent. He did not want to die either. To him life was a source of unending interest. But a man who lived as hard as he could not expect to die of old age. Long ago he had schooled himself to fight against odds, no matter how overwhelming they seemed, but to accept defeat, when it came, without flinching. To the Agent defeat had but one meaning — death.
The car shot onto the rickety old dock. A triumphant outburst of profane jeering came from the other car. “X” heard the screech of brakes. Karloff’s machine had stopped. But the gunfire did not cease.
“X” reached the end of the wharf. De Ronfort uttered a scream and collapsed. The car crashed through the flimsy wooden railing. The Agent clamped his jaws grimly and clung to the wheel. Maybe it was the end. Remy de Ronfort did not want to die, because he feared death, and life offered great wealth. The Agent did not want to die — because there was still so much to do.
The car leaped high, shivering like a thing in agony as it catapulted through the darkness. Then, in a shower of machine-gun lead, it hurtled to the rippling waters of the river.
Chapter XIII
WHILE the auto was in mid-air the Agent got a grip on de Ronfort and the suitcase. The instant the car struck the surface, “X” dived from the open door, tugging the Count with him. The engine stalled the moment the water got into it. There was a vicious hissing as steam rose from the hot metal.
“X” was under. He made a shallow dive, coming up immediately for air. The water revived de Ronfort. The Count was gasping and spluttering. Lights from the Karloff auto shone on the river. The two men were caught in the glare. Wild shouts came from shore. Bullets lashed the water around them.
“Take a deep breath!” the Agent rapped out crisply.
Instead, de Ronfort uttered a shrill scream. The mad, frenzied outburst suddenly choked off. The Count groaned, and then became as still as death. That abrupt silence alarmed “X.” In the gleam of the light from the car, the Agent looked at the man. There was a dark, crimson blotch on the side of de Ronfort’s head. “X” gnawed at his lip, muttered.
Inhaling deeply, he disappeared again, pulling de Ronfort with him. A superb swimmer, able to hold his breath nearly three minutes, “X” was safe from bullets while he submerged. As he swam downward, encumbered by the limp Frenchman, he kept his eyes open. Looking above, he could see the reflection of the searchlight combing the water. Lead still whipped against the surface. Most of the missiles, he knew, would ricochet. The mobsters were in greater danger of those bullets than he.
Swimming downstream under the water, he soon got out of the range of light. Then he bobbed above the surface again. The spotlight still played over the river. He gulped a deep breath, and went under, continuing downstream, but working in toward the bank. Soon he bumped into the rotting pile of a dilapidated wharf. He shot upwards into the air, and hauled de Ronfort to the shore under worm-eaten timbers.
Leaving de Ronfort lying on his back, the Agent dived into the stream once more, and swam out to the suitcase that was floating down the river. The shooting had ceased. “X” cast a searching glance at the road. The car was gone. Karloff and his men doubtlessly believed they had killed de Ronfort and the stranger. The Agent got the suitcase and returned to the shore.
Count Remy de Ronfort lay dead.
The wound in the side of the head was from a bullet that had pierced the skull. There was nothing to regret in the man’s death except that he had taken along the answers to many questions that bothered the Agent.
He covered the body with debris, and left the place, carrying the suitcase. It was still dark, though dawn would soon be breaking. He wanted to get out of this vicinity before the light came. There was a chance that Karloff had left a mobster behind to watch for the bodies, to see if any clues were found that might lead to the killers.
He thought of Paula Rockwell. There was sorrow ahead for her, because the empty-headed girl would never believe that her Count had been a rotter and a cowardly crook. In his fight against crime, “X” often had to waive scruples himself. Later, he meant to call on the girl — as de Ronfort.
He strode along the road, keeping a careful watch so that he would not be surprised by any of the gangsters. Evidently Karloff was satisfied with the night’s work. The road was deserted. It was dawn, and his clothes were dry by the time “X” reached a well-populated suburban district. He did not want to ride into the city now, for he had de Ronfort’s corpse to consider. Should the body be discovered, it would be turned over to the police. That would spoil his plans.
So he walked into a Chinese laundry. An oriental in black pajamas greeted him with a gold-toothed smile, and gazed wisely at his bedraggled appearance.
“Allee samee fall in the liver?” the laundryman asked. “Me catchee iron and fixee you ploper. Washee shirt. Do very fine job!”
The Agent nodded. “I want that, O brother, but I come humbly beseeching a greater favor. Is there one in this worthy enterprise who knows of the venerable Lo Mong Yung?”
The Chinese ceased being the humorous little laundryman rubbing his hands and speaking pidgin English. He became a personage of dignity, the honorable head of a family, with the record of his ancestors listed in the archives of his native province for two thousand years. He bowed to the Agent, who returned the courtesy.
“Will the gracious guest who honors the house of Su Kung whisper close the word that will prove his identity?”
“X” leaned over the counter and softly spoke the secret password of the Ming Tong. Immediately the Chinaman’s eyes expressed deep respect. To him the Agent was Ho Ling, a revered and honored Mingman.
“O great white brother,” he spoke reverently, “my decrepit frame trembles with gratitude over this visit. From the lips of the august father himself have I heard praise of the noble Ho Ling, who wages constant war against the dragon of evil. My heart is near bursting with joy that I may please my ancestors by serving the great Ho Ling.”
The Agent acknowledged the honor with the proper humility and explained as much of what had happened as the laundryman Su Kung needed to know. He wanted the corpse of the Frenchman brought in and hidden. Su Kung was a poor man. There was danger of being caught by the police. Even if he was held in jail a short while, his business would suffer, and his family with it. But Su Kung did not hesitate. The honor of serving the white brother of the Ming Tong bulked far greater than the danger in Su King’s mind.
A short while later a creaking, rattling, horse-drawn laundry wagon driven by an inscrutable Chinese headed down the little-used road to the old dock. Inside the wagon was Agent “X,” disguised as a Manchu. The Agent was glad to find that the river territory was deserted except for men fishing far downstream. “X” ran along the bank to the wharf under which the corpse was concealed. He carried a huge laundry bag. He fitted this over the body, and tied the opening. Shouldering the burden, he hurried back to the wagon, where Su Kung was ready to start the horse back to the laundry.
Cold, aloof hunter of criminals though he was, the Agent was deeply affected by the contrast between this sordid finish of de Ronfort and the picture he recalled of the Count at the Blake penthouse, feigning weariness over the fawning attention of debutantes. Yet the man had been asking for trouble, dealing with drug addicts, all of whom were potential murderers.