“My son,” he said, “I hear and understand what this one speaks of to you. It seems that he is an enemy. Do you want him removed? I have but to raise a hand to Sung, who is behind him, and the lowly vermin will no longer trouble your footsteps.”
“NO, no,” the Agent said hastily. “It is important to me that he shall remain alive. He is but a minor tool of the fiend whom I must overcome. But there is something that I would ask of you.”
“It is granted, my son.”
“At the Belleville Apartments on Twenty-third Street, resides a young lady who is known by the name of—” he paused, then spelled out, slowly and laboriously in Cantonese, an English name. The name he spelled was — B-e-t-t-y D-a-l-e.
“I would ask you, Father,” he continued, “to send there one of the tong brothers. Let him say to her that a certain friend of hers is sending for the bag of tools that is in the secret compartment of the closet in her bedroom. To prove to her that he is truly my messenger, let him tell her how that compartment is opened — by pressing upward on the shelf in the closet as one stands with his feet on the threshold. And then let him bring the bag of tools back here as quickly as he can, lest this one who is with me should become suspicious.”
Lo Mong Yung nodded, raised his hand and spoke to the big Chinaman at the door. “You have heard, Sung. Go and tell one of the brothers to do this at once. Be sure to remember the name and address of the white lady on Twenty-third Street.”
Sung bowed in a dignified manner, glowered at Gilly, and left the room.
“Now, my son, while you are waiting, you will have refreshments. My niece, Anna, will attend to your wants.”
As if it had been a command, the girl who had been typewriting stopped her work, and arose from the desk. “If you will please to step this way, honorable sirs,” she said in English, with a dainty hint of a lisp, “I shall be happy to serve you.”
She led them into an alcove behind a screen at one end of the room. Here was a table beautifully inlaid, with richly lacquered chairs bearing upon their back, a coat-of-arms representing a dragon’s head holding a man in its teeth. This was the insignia of the Ming Tong.
Gilly seated opposite “X,” saying surlily, “What’s the play now? What we waitin’ for?” His suspicions had been lulled to the extent that he had put his gun away, but he was not thoroughly at ease.
The Secret Agent explained to him that it was necessary for his Chinese friend to send for the tools, as he did not keep them on the premises.
“How long’ll it take?” Gilly demanded, munching one of the soft, buttery almond cakes that Anna had placed on the table.
“About a half hour. We might as well make ourselves comfortable.” “X” lit a cigarette, drew a deep lungful and allowed the smoke to exhale slowly from his nostrils. Then he took a sip of tea from a transparent, blue, paper-thin china cup that Anna had placed before him. He was at home here, among friends. Under the name they knew him by, he was a welcome guest in any of the tong’s headquarters throughout the country.
Gilly allowed himself to be beguiled by the tea and cakes, and shortly he was in a better humor. After the tea, the Chinese girl served them tiny glasses of a thick amber liquid, sweet and strong and heady. Gilly’s eyes began to sparkle. “Boy!” he exclaimed. “This is the real McCoy. Talk about cordials! It’s got ’em all beat!”
“X,” too, relished the flavor of the drink. It was a cordial distilled in small quantities in China, from macerated poppy-seeds, coriander, and a mixture of rare herbs and perfumes. Nothing like it was available in the Western world because of the limited quantities in which it was produced.
As they were finishing a second glass of the cordial, “X” heard the door open. Lo Mong Yung’s voice called to him, “Come in, my son. Our messenger has returned.”
He arose from the table, and went around the screen with Gilly. Sung was just placing a black bag on the desk.
“X” asked in Cantonese, “Was the lady home, Sung?”
THE big Chinaman shook his head. “No, O Brother. But there is something strange that I must tell you — the lady’s apartment was broken into and searched before I came!”
“X” took a quick step forward, forgetful of the presence of Gilly, seized Sung by the sleeve. “Tell me what you found, quick.”
“It was this way, O Brother. I rang the bell of the lady’s apartment, but no one answered. The door, however, was open to my touch, and when I entered the apartment I saw that trouble had been there. Every room was upset, seemed to have been thoroughly searched. Pictures were removed from the walls, the couch and chairs were ripped open, the rugs were torn up. There had been a struggle there, I could see, for the telephone lay on the floor where it had been thrown over. Some one must have carried off this lady who is a friend of yours.
“There was nothing I could do, so I went to the closet in the bedroom, followed your instructions, and got the bag from its hiding place. I am sad, O Brother, because I must bring this sad news about one who I can see is dear to you.”
Mechanically, “X” nodded his thanks, picked up the black bag.
Gilly said to him, “Do we go now, Fannon?”
But he scarcely heard him. His mind was occupied with the news. Betty Dale had been taken away from her apartment by force. He cast around for possible motives, for a mental clue as to who might be behind it. That it was connected in some way with himself, he was sure. He had many enemies. Some, or one of them, could have learned of her association with him. They would consider it an excellent means of striking at the Secret Agent through her.
There was only one thing to do — get done with the present job as quickly as possible, go to Betty’s apartment and see what clues he could pick up there. He started toward the door, followed by Gilly.
Lo Mong Yung called after him, “My son, I see that you walk in sorrow. Remember that the men of the Ming Tong ever stand ready to aid you.”
“I will remember, Father of the Ming Men,” said Secret Agent “X.” “I thank you. But this is a matter that only I can attend to, I am a man who has always thought himself to be sufficient unto himself; but now I learn that no one of us — not even myself, who have trained my body and mind for many years — is above the human instincts that have been planted in our race.”
Chapter VIII
AS they sped uptown in a cab, Secret Agent “X” paid little attention to Gilly. His mind was not on the immediate mission he and Gilly had to accomplish.
He was sorely tempted to stop off at Betty Dale’s empty apartment and look the place over. But that would have interfered with, possibly have wrecked, all the elaborate steps he had taken to worm his way into the Skull’s organization.
The mind of Secret Agent “X” always worked along clear, logical lines. He refused to jump to conclusions, to indulge in guess work as to who had taken Betty away, unless he had something definite to go on. To speculate at random would only lead to the wrong conclusion, would be a waste of time.
Recently he had engaged in a struggle with an organization known as the DOACs. Some of these DOACs still were at large, and they knew of his connection with Betty. This might be a manifestation of their desire for revenge. There were many others in the past who had reason to remember the Agent with bitterness, and it was futile to try to guess haphazard at the identity of her abductor.
By a deliberate mental effort he turned his thoughts to other things for the time being. And hardly soon enough. For Gilly had been watching him in a peculiar way. Now he said suddenly, “What the hell’s eatin’ you, Fannon? You ain’t said a word since we left the Chink’s house!”