Agent “X” heard a faint rattle as the unseen rower shipped his oars. He drew cautiously closer, and saw a porthole, near the waterline, darken for a moment. Either the Terror’s man had slipped through that, or some one had reached out to take the satchel from him.
Grimly Agent “X” approached the yacht. He circled it once. Faint strains of music reached him. Monte Sutton was having a party again. Men and women were dancing, drinking, laughing, not knowing how close to the black mystery of death they were. For if the stolen loot was taken to the Osprey the man who called himself the Terror could not be far off.
Agent “X” saw the row boat tender swinging at the end of the painter. The tide had pulled it out behind the anchored yacht. The rat-faced man had gone aboard. The lee side was the place for “X” to land. But a sailor was patrolling the deck above. Coming close, Agent “X” could see the man’s outline against the painted woodwork of the boat. Clad in pea-jacket and knitted cap, the man was dressed against the December chill. He was stationed on regulation watch.
The Secret Agent maneuvered the sharp nose of his kayak close. He edged silently along the yacht’s side, pulses hammering. Then he stopped, shipped his paddle carefully. He grasped the end of a thin silk painter in his teeth, and swung up the vessel’s side, using the ports as toe and hand holds. In a moment he stood on the yacht’s deck, and made his slender painter fast to the boat’s brass railing, using an expert seaman’s knot.
But as he raised his head, a low voice called a sharp command. The next instant the patrolling sailor leaped toward him, and in the man’s hand was the gleaming outline of a gun.
Chapter XX
AGENT “X” stood quietly as the man approached. He did not attempt to run. Did not speak. His attitude was deceptively careless. He slouched against the railing.
But, when the sailor was close, gun thrust menacingly forward, eyes peering at “X”, the Agent ducked and plunged forward. So lightning quick was he, that the sailor was unprepared. A chopping uppercut of the Agent’s left hand sent the gun spinning over the rail into the water. The Agent’s right fist connected with the man’s jaw with a swift, clean crack that made the sailor sway on his feet, then collapse groggily to the deck. He rolled over, lay inertly, completely out.
Agent “X” stooped, shoved his unconscious body into the shadows by a coil of rope. Then the Agent glanced up at the yacht’s funnel again. The smoke told him that the boilers were being fired. The oil-burning furnaces must be heating fast. Steam was almost up. It was nearly eleven now. Perhaps the yacht was to leave at midnight as many liners did. And it could not, must not, leave, with the Terror upon it.
The Agent acted quickly. The time for a showdown had come. He was convinced that all the stolen loot, collected in a score of murderous robberies, was somewhere below decks. He was certain that the Terror was on board.
He turned and raced silently along the deck toward the nearest entrance-way. Through a lighted window he got a glimpse into the main saloon. The dancing couples were there again. Agent “X” bent forward intently. He saw many people that he recognized. There was the puffy, troubled face of Mayor Ballantine. There was the tall grim form of Police Commissioner Foster. There, too, was Harrigan, immaculate in evening clothes, with Monte Sutton beside him, and a black-haired laughing girl on his arm.
There were many from the city’s wealthy, political set. This was evidently a farewell party. Ballantine himself possibly was among the traveling guests.
Agent “X” studied Harrigan’s face. The munitions man looked white, strained. There were furtive shadows in his eyes. The smile that came to his lips at something his girl companion said was mechanical.
Agent “X” slipped on, passed the lighted saloon, until he came to another entrance. Here he listened for seconds, then opened the door, and entered upon a carpeted passageway inside the luxurious yacht. Familiar with all types of ship design, he made his way forward, surely, swiftly. Any instant he might meet someone — a guest, or one of the yacht’s crew. There was no possible explanation he could make. He must count on quiet, secrecy, or a quick, knockout blow if he were caught.
He passed the doors of a half dozen luxurious staterooms. Voices issued from one. He listened a moment, went on; then he came to the door he sought. Behind this was obviously the yacht’s wireless room. It was in the forward part of the ship. But there was no sound from inside, no spark in attendance at the moment. The Agent opened the door cautiously to make sure, slipped inside.
He switched on the light, shut the door behind him. There was no bolt. He propped a chair under the doorknob, turned his attention to the radio set. It was modern, complex, complete in every detail; but it offered no problem to the Agent. Radio engineering was one of the subjects he had delved into profoundly.
This was the ship’s radio for long-distance sending and receiving. It had keys for the sending of code, a microphone for voice broadcasting. Glittering dials and tubes were mounted on a huge black panel.
FOOTSTEPS sounded in the corridor outside as the Agent stared about. Some one passed the door. Any instant he might be interrupted. The message that he had to send was imperative. He and his staff of organized investigators had worked for days outside the law. Now it was time for the law to be summoned.
And he had the means to do it. Bates had been instructed to listen for messages from his employer. He would be prepared to receive one now, wherever he might be, because he carried on his person one of the Agent’s vest-pocket receiving sets.
With deft, experienced movements. Agent “X” switched in the transmitting apparatus, started a generator whirring, saw a bright spark leap across the gaps. He turned down to the short wave-length that would reach Bates, and began tapping the rubber-topped key, sending out the dots and dashes of the secret 26G code. If Hobart should pick up this, it would mean nothing to him. It was for Bates’ ears alone.
“Get in touch with police,” tapped “X”. “Have harbor patrol surround and board steam yacht Osprey. Daring criminal and many thousands in loot on board. Speed imperative. Boat leaving soon.”
He repeated the message again and again, fingers moving mechanically on the keys, eyes wandering curiously about the room. There was a panel on the side of the wall which he had not at first noticed. He reached up, opened this with his left hand. Inside was a cabinet, filled with more radio mechanism. Squat tubes with silvered caps gleamed in a Bakelite base. Odd-type condensers were visible. A coil of black wire, some sort of a power unit, rose in the center. In front of the whole thing was a metal grille, locked at the bottom.
Agent “X” bent forward tensely, his hand leaving the key of the transmitting set, cutting off Bates’ message. And at that instant, as Agent “X” stared aghast at the interior of this mysterious cabinet, the mechanism of which carried a message to his scientifically trained mind, the door of the radio room was thrust inward.
In one and the same movement Agent “X” slammed shut the panel he had opened and whirled to face the door. The top of the chair slipped off the knob. The door swung inward, and “X” saw the faces of two startled sailors framed in the entrance.
He did not give them time to think or question him. He plunged toward them, yanking his gas gun from his pocket. One went down, but the other ducked, shouted — and almost instantly three men in the uniforms of ship’s officers appeared. Monte Sutton’s boat was well-manned. Agent “X” plunged into the corridor and saw that he was trapped.