“X” flung another bomb. Then a third one. The mobster saw the motion of his hand. He spat out ugly oaths. Then he gasped, choked. A stream of fire and lead poured from the Tommy gun, but the missiles plowed into the dirt road. For the Agent’s bombs had struck the gangster. The hophead was already succumbing to the powerful fumes as he triggered the gun. Now he sprawled out on the road, senseless.
Giving the gas time to waft away, “X” then hurried to the truck. On it were loaded a dozen ash cans, heaped up with ashes. The Agent rolled a can off the truck and dumped the contents on the road in front of the headlights. At the very bottom were several small packages. “X” picked the bundles up and hefted them. Probably ten pounds or a little more.
In a few minutes he had the other cans emptied. Each had contained, under the ashes, the same amount of dope as the first. A hundred and twenty pounds, “X” estimated. He gave a shrill whistle of amazement. More than ninety-two thousand dollars’ worth of dope. The Big Boss certainly had a business that made the old-time bootlegging of liquor look like a catch-penny enterprise.
While he was working on the cans, “X” had heard the low put-put of motorcycles. Now gleaming spotlights were trained on Long Meadow Road. The motorcycles were coming at racing speed. The Agent hurried to get the narcotics into his car.
He glanced behind the truck. Four motorcycles plunged toward him. The drivers wore olive-drab uniforms, carried guns in holsters. Cops. They swerved around the truck just as “X” was shifting into high. The Agent’s car was constructed for a rapid pickup. The motorcycles were close when he jammed down on the accelerator. The car leaped ahead. The cops fired warning shots. The Agent gripped the wheel grimly, kept his gleaming eyes fixed on the road ahead. The officers opened up on the rear of the ear in deadly earnest. If they punctured “X’s” tires, he was through.
Chapter XVI
THE Agent had one thing in his favor. His car could travel at great speed more safely on a dirt road than the motorcycles. If one of the cops got in the way of a large stone, he likely would find himself in the brush the next second, with a few broken bones. But those men were dare-devils.
On the next turn, “X” started down a steep slope. Every hundred yards or so, he careened around a sharp turn. Not once did he ease up on the gas. The motorcycles had to slow down. It would be suicidal for the cops to take those turns at the Agent’s speed.
The firing was infrequent now, because the officers had to keep their hands on the bars. “X” swung recklessly around the curves. The terrific driving played havoc with his tires, but that did not matter. All he asked was that they would last until he got out of this danger.
He reached the bottom of the hill. The cops were out of sight, but he could hear their machines. He struck a straightaway. The wheels hit a large plank in the road. The car leaped. It landed with the wheels turned, headed for a ditch. “X” clamped his jaws and fought for control of the car. One wheel went slightly over the edge. He swung hard to the left, brought the auto back into the road.
The cops were just reaching the straightaway when the Agent swerved onto the paved highway. He traveled at roaring speed until he reached the suburbs. Then he slowed to the limit, and headed up a side street. He had thrown off pursuit.
A few minutes later he was in the laboratory of Howard Fenwick, and the great chemist was working over the dope “X” had confiscated. At the Agent’s insistence, he was lavish with the narcotic, running a dozen tests in as many tubes simultaneously. When he finished, he was frowning and shaking his head.
“It’s beyond me, Mr. Martin,” he said apologetically. “I’ve tried every known test, looked for all the known alkaloids. There seems to be only one explanation. It sounds nutty, but it must be true. The dope is synthetic, made by some method of which I’m ignorant.”
“X” frowned, tensed. The chemist’s conclusion had almost the effect of a physical blow. Synthetic. No wonder the Federal narcotic men and detectives had failed. No wonder they could not check the poisonous flood of dope when they were looking into the wrong source. They were hunting for smugglers bringing it into the country, whereas the drug was a home product. The Agent spoke harshly, staring straight before him.
“That means the stuff can be manufactured in tremendous quantities and at a low cost!” he said.
Fenwick nodded. “Undoubtedly. The raw materials, whatever they are, likely cost far less than crude opium. The method of synthetic production probably requires much less labor. Besides, the risk of smuggling is eliminated, and also transportation expenses from the Orient.”
The Agent was appalled by this astounding revelation. Compared to the man who controlled the synthetic manufacture of dope, the smugglers were dwarfed into mere public nuisances. With this weapon of synthetic narcotics, a person with a twisted, criminal mind could reduce the entire country to his will, unless his evil activities were stopped almost at the beginning. And the gang “X” was fighting was getting ready now to launch its tremendous sales campaign.
FROM the laboratory the Agent hurried to the office he kept under the name of A. J. Martin. His desk was stacked with news stories of the drug menace that had been delivered by a clipping bureau. The story heads explained how the law forces were bungling, how the blight was spreading.
BORDER PATROL CLASHES WITH DOPE SMUGGLERS
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FEDERAL MEN NAB CHINESE OPIUM CHIEF
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MORPHINE BROUGHT IN VIA AIRPLANE
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DOPE-CRAZED BANK PRESIDENT EMBEZZLES $150,000
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NARCOTICS INVADE THE SOCIAL REGISTER
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DRUG HABIT CAUSES DEBUTANTE SUICIDE
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Smugglers, opium, airplanes. The whole detective force was wrong. There were smugglers, yes — and drugs brought across the border by airplane. But the dope plague was not the outgrowth of pioneer methods. The longer the federal men searched on the wrong trail, the stronger the Big Boss was becoming in his bid for despotic power in America.
“X” thought of Twyning then, the chemist killed in Whitney Blake’s penthouse. Now that he knew the drug was synthetic, the Agent had a sudden idea of the motive for the homicide, a motive that had little to do with self-defense. Undoubtedly Twyning had been connected with the manufacture of the drug. Could it be that the man had actually discovered the formula?
Suppose he had fought against the illegal use of the synthetic dope? The Big Boss might have made him a drug addict to break his will. “X” recalled that hectic night in the Blake penthouse. A moment before his sudden death, Twyning had headed directly for Silas Howe. That, in the light of his new knowledge, seemed to add weight to his suspicion that Howe might be a possible member of the drug ring.
In any case, the dead Twyning was “X’s” next lead. He called Jim Hobart at once, ordering him to learn all he could of the slain chemist. He suggested that Hobart detail Walter Milburn and the nervy Allan Grant, formerly a newspaper legman, on the same lead.
They were skilled operatives, relentless when trailing down information which their boss wanted. “X” ordered that Silas Howe, the reformer, be shadowed also. He set the grimly efficient Bates organization to watch Karloff’s headquarters. He was doing everything he could, throwing all his resources into this greatest fight of his career.