While “X” watched, the madman crunched his teeth down on the bones. There was a sickening crack. Then nature rebelled. The maniac slumped in his chains, his head lolling forward and blood dripping from his mouth.
The other victim of the sadistic Karloff kept swaying and bobbing like one in the wild ecstasy of a primitive religion. His eyes were like agate marbles. They looked as though they would pop from their sockets. His head was almost twice its normal size — from lumps caused by banging his skull against the stone wall. He stared at “X” and uttered a shrill, cackling laugh.
“I’m dying, Hazen!” he screamed at the Agent, naming the mobster who had served as the model for “X’s” disguise. “The maggots are finishing me! Look at them! Millions of them. Crawling, crawling, crawling!” The madman uttered a blood-curdling shriek, and his body shook under great sobs. “Bring Karloff here, Hazen! I want Karloff! I want the beautiful green death — the beautiful green death!”
A WAVE of nausea surged through “X.” He was about to turn away when he was aware some one stood behind him. He swung around, and looked into the evil, funereal face of Karloff. Always that hideous man approached with the stealth of a stalking cat. His dark face showed no emotion.
“Crofton wants the green death, Hazen,” he spoke in his soft, insinuating manner, “The beautiful green death! You are young, Hazen, a young, stupid rodman. You are a slug compared to Crofton. He used to be one of the most brilliant chemists in the world. But he wasn’t smart enough to know better than to work against our organization. Take a lesson, Hazen. Never be too ambitious. Come, Hazen, the master will soon be here!”
A thrill went through “X.” The master. At last, he would see the man whose cunning was devoted to the destruction of human souls and bodies. He followed Karloff into the council chamber. A score of men were congregated there. The atmosphere was tense, electric with excitement. Killers spoke in awed, subdued voices.
At the end of the room was a space partitioned off. Across the front was a sheet of thick glass, and behind the glass, a network of steel mesh such as is found in a bank.
“That is shatter-proof glass, Hazen,” said Karloff. “The Big Boss doesn’t take chances. No dopies will ever take a pot-shot at him.”
The Agent did no talking except to answer in monosyllables. During the wait, he moved quietly about the room, listening intently. He heard much talk that told him nothing of importance. Then he stood near Karloff again. The local chief was giving instructions to one of his mobsters.
“I want you to leave right after the big boss finishes his talk,” Karloff was saying. “The stuff will be hidden in ash-cans. If you’re stopped, you merely say you’re taking ashes to a farm to be used as fertilizer.”
The mob chief talked at considerable length. “X” learned that a consignment of dope was to be sent out of the city. Karloff ordered the man to take the load via the Long Meadow Road, a more devious route, but a less patrolled one.
Then a sudden stillness prevailed in the room. Men grew tense. All eyes focused on the glass shield. Behind it, a door opened. A tall, erect man appeared. He walked with an arrogant stride. A heavy black mask covered his face. Draped around him was a black cape.
For a while he stood back of the bullet-proof glass and surveyed his audience. Then he began speaking in a deep, rumbling voice.
“My message tonight will be brief, gentlemen. I wish to commend the members of this organization, and particularly Karloff, for their splendid and loyal endeavors. We have instituted an advertising campaign that has been a drastic departure from the usual methods. By giving away our product, we have created a demand that will continue to grow to enormous proportions.”
The Big Boss explained that the campaign was one hundred per cent successful. A huge market for the drugs had been built up among wealthy and influential people. Daily, police and high officials were being snared into the drug ring!
“Those in this organization who have proved their faithfulness will be amply rewarded,” continued the master. “All of you are patrons of our excellent product. If you work heart and soul for the organization, the day will come when you will be pensioned with a fortune and an inexhaustible supply of drugs.” There was irony in the man’s voice which the Agent did not miss. Beneath suave woods he was showing his sneering contempt of these poor, broken wretches. He went on more harshly:
“I need not tell you the fate of the disloyal. You have seen with your own eyes what happens to them. Remember that Karloff’s word is law. He alone is responsible to me for the actions of all the members of our local organization. And remember that you are to co-operate as never before for the big sales campaign which lies just ahead. So far, we have been giving the stuff away. Next we start selling it — and then the golden flood will come in. That is all, gentlemen.”
The Big Boss backed out the door. He had not talked long, he had not revealed much that the mobsters did not know, but his presence had been spellbinding, and his words had shocked the Agent. Soon the sale of the drugs was to start. Soon the country would be inundated with a hateful tide of narcotics.
Soon money would be pouring out of addicts’ pockets into the coffers of the dread gang. Money — thousands, perhaps millions of dollars would go to build up an organization which should be stamped out like a nest of poisonous, sinister vipers. But who was this man? “X” did not know. His voice had been too much disguised for “X” to penetrate it.
There was a long silence after the master’s departure, broken finally by Karloff, who dismissed the meeting.
KARLOFF disappeared into a room adjoining the council chamber. That was the Agent’s cue. He quietly slipped out of the big room, and hurried from the building. In the darkness, he changed to a stock disguise which his skillful fingers built up quickly. A little later, in one of his hideouts, he quickly molded the features of A. J. Martin and put on the sandy-haired wig.
He got in his fast roadster and made a swift trip far beyond the city limits. Soon he left the main highway and headed west until he reached a lonely spot on Long Meadow Road.
Stalling the car crosswise on the road about fifty yards around a bend, he waited tensely for the mobsters. A few minutes later he heard the rumble of a truck, the rattle of tin cans. His eyes blazed with excitement. His face grew grim and hard. He changed to a savage, relentless fighting man, fiercely intent on defeating the great evil that was gnawing into America.
Would the truck be supplied with armed guards? Would the odds be too great for a lone man to surmount? “X” got out of his car. He was keyed up to a high nervous tension. Maybe he had but a few seconds to live. He remembered the last time he had faced a machine-load of Karloff mobsters. Would the hopheads throw phosphorus bombs again? “X” did not carry lethal weapons. They would be armed to destroy.
The dope truck careened around the bend. Headlights glared on the stalled car. The driver uttered a profane shout of rage. He jammed on the brakes. The truck skidded half around and came to a screeching stop. The headlights had been gleaming full on the Agent. With the car turned side-wise, “X” was enveloped in darkness.
A machine gun rapped out a wicked tattoo of death. Bullets whined around the Agent. Something pulled at his coat as he threw himself off the road into the bushes. A bullet. He had missed death by a hairbreadth. In the concealment of the underbrush, he plunged toward the dope truck.
Two mobsters manned it, and they were armed with sub-machine guns. The Agent hurled a gas bomb at the driver’s face. It struck him on the forehead. The man’s wicked snarl was cut short as the potent vapors took instant effect. The second mobster dived from the car. He raked the side of the road near “X” with a fierce volley of lead! Knowing only the general direction of the Agent, he did not score.