His sharp, diamond-set drill ate the concrete away. But in spite of all his precautions, it made a faint whining sound — a sound that he knew might reach other ears and attract attention. Because of this he was alert, listening and watching.
But when his drill broke through into a space behind the cement facing of the wall, he forgot all else in his eagerness to find what lay there. He inserted a different blade in his drilling device, a cylindrical type saw, and cut horizontally and vertically, until he could lift a square section of cement out. Then his lips became grim with intensity.
For a sinister metal object rested inside. It was shaped almost like a small fire extinguisher. But it was painted a dull gray, and “X” knew that those strange looking gadgets on the top were for no such humane purpose as the extinguishing of flames.
This was an instrument of hideous destruction, placed there to kindle a holocaust of death and horror such as the city had never known. Its gray metal sides gave no inkling of the deadly stuff it contained. The nature of the new explosive element was unknown to Agent “X,” but the mechanics of radio-control were familiar. Such control had been used to guide battleships, airplanes, tanks and cars. Most of the governments of the earth were secretly experimenting with it. It would play a startling part if there came another war. “X” had studied many of the devices already perfected.
New and terrible as the detonating medium of this super-bomb was, the radio-impulse device was built along recognized lines. A few moments of investigation, as he held the terrible engine of death in his lap, convinced him of this.
He took out a small screwdriver, turned it slowly on the bomb’s head, knowing that if he made a slip it would spell oblivion for himself and a thousand others. But he made no slip. He removed two screws which permitted the dust-proof cover cap to slip off. Beneath this was the radio-impulse mechanism, the clockwork gear, already wound, to be set in motion by intermittent dots and dashes on a certain wave length.
With steady hands, calmly as though this were nothing more than an old alarm clock he was tinkering with, Secret Agent “X” took a bit of copper from his pocket, and with this wired the clockwork wheels so that they could not turn. The call of death might come now, unseen and sinister in the air. The Terror might try to bring this egg of doom to life, as he had the other — but this was one bomb that would not obey the invisible impulses.
Agent “X” quickly slipped the metal shell back into place, twisting the screws into it to hold it fast. And, as he did so, breath abruptly hissed through suddenly clenched teeth. His hands froze around the gray surface of the deadly bomb. The muscles of his body snapped into rigidity. His eyes flashed sidewise and remained fastened on the oblong of the door.
For, so intent had he been on not making a slip with the lethal bomb, that he had momentarily relaxed his vigilance, neglected to watch and listen. And now the door of the small wine cellar had darkened. Now four ugly, intent faces were framed in it — men of Gus Sanzoni’s gang. And in their hands were black automatics, the sinister, round muzzles pointing straight at the Secret Agent’s heart.
Chapter XIV
A SECOND of tense silence passed before one of the gangsters spoke.
“Stand up, guy — raise your mitts — and don’t go for a gat!” he said.
The gesture of a single gun muzzle emphasized the order. Agent “X” obeyed immediately. His hands went up above his head — but they were not empty. They carried the gray cylinder of the bomb with them.
A thin smile curved his lips. His flashing, penetrating eyes held a sardonic light. He remained quiet, staring at the four who had surprised him, and something about his manner held them taut.
The man who had given the order to lift his hands spoke again. “What in hell are you doin’ here? You must want a drink bad to steal from Gus Sanzoni! Put that bottle down — easy so you don’t break it — and come out. We’ll teach you it don’t pay to break into this joint.”
The Agent spoke quietly then. The sardonic hint was in his voice now. That, and his coolly precise speech, coming from the unkempt figure he presented, made the gangsters hunch forward.
“This isn’t a bottle I’m holding. Look again, pal, and see what you make of it!”
The man who seemed to be the leader of the group gave a growling exclamation. “Here, gimme that flash,” he said to a man beside him. He grabbed the proffered light, clicked it on and focused its beam on the thing “X” held. His hard, brutal face twisted into lines of puzzlement, and there was a shade of uneasiness in his eyes.
“What in blazes is it? Looks like an oxygen tank — the kind they use on guys that do flop acts at fires.”
The Agent’s laughter sounded then, humorless, harsh, seeming to mock his questioner. “Wrong again, pal. It isn’t an oxygen tank — and if you don’t watch yourselves and go easy you’ll all be blown to hell.”
Curses greeted this remark, and hoots of derision. “The guy’s nuts!” one gunman said. “Come on, boys, let’s give ’im the bum’s rush. T’row ’im out of here!”
“A dose of lead will fix ’im better,” said another.
The leader stood uncertainly, eyes focused on “X” and on that strange thing he held above his head. The Agent spoke again, driving home his point, for he saw that if they were not checked some move on the part of these men within the next few seconds might spell utter catastrophe.
“I’m handing it to you straight,” he said quietly, using language that they would understand. “This is a bomb I’ve got — a pineapple — but one of the hottest numbers you’ve ever seen. It’s the same kind that knocked Baldwin Island off the map this evening. But it’s twice as big.”
At mention of the explosion on Baldwin Island, fear came into the leader’s eyes. News of the thing had reached the underworld. The man spoke hoarsely.
“Lay off him, boys, he’s a nut all right; but maybe he’s telling the truth. We don’t want no trouble here.” He took several steps toward the Agent, his gun still centered upon him.
“Now, fella, hand over that pill you got and don’t make any fuss about it. You don’t want to get drilled even if you are cracked.”
The Agent gave a low chuckle of laughter again. The sound was as harshly abrupt as the crack of a whip.
“Turn that gun the other way! If you shoot — this bomb will drop. One bump — and there won’t be enough left of you or this building to scrape up. Stand clear — all of you — or you’ll get rubbed out.”
The Agent moved his right hand, made motions with his fingers close to the round top of the bomb. He seemed to be twisting a screw head.
“I’ll start the fuse,” he snapped, “if you don’t stand dear!”
One of the gangsters, a hophead judging by his chalk-white complexion, made a sudden whimpering sound.
“Geez! Lay off him! Leave the guy alone! A pal of mine was down by the river last night and seen the island go up in smoke. He told me about it — an’ if that’s the kind of apple that done it I don’t wanna fool wit it.”
AGENT “X” took the initiative. He moved forward with a menacing motion, and the gangsters stepped back. He was only partially bluffing. He couldn’t start the fuse by turning a screw, but, for all he knew, even a slight jar might serve to detonate it. He was using it as a means of escape, playing a deadly game with these hirelings of Sanzoni’s.