X-2 The Spectral Strangler by Brant House

Author:Brant House
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Guns of Death

AGENT “X” saw a stealthy figure moving across the face of the building. The figure was going away from, not toward Greenford, as would have been the case if it had been a casual passerby. It was the sinister hophead whom “X” had lost sight of in the theater crowd less than an hour before.

By disregarding Agent “X’s” warning, by failing to keep the promise he had given, Greenford had walked straight to his death. The emissary of the Black Master had slain him, thinking Greenford was the man who had shadowed him. He had been lurking in the vicinity of the hotel to destroy the life of a man he thought had tried to pry into the Black Master’s secrets.

The Agent darted in pursuit of the killer, resolved this time that he would not fail. He would shadow the hophead to his hideout and through him learn the identity of the fiend who employed him; for “X” felt certain that this drug addict was no more than a tool in the hands of the master murderer. As a criminal, he wasn’t of sufficient caliber to have plotted and carried out such a campaign of terror.

There was no chance of the hophead being lost in a crowd now. It was late. The streets were deserted. But because of this it was a difficult task to follow him without being suspected. The Agent depended somewhat on his make-up.

Behind him he heard someone come from the hotel entrance attracted by Greenford’s dying cry. He couldn’t help Greenford now. The man was beyond human aid, destroyed by his own greed and willfulness. He was the ninth victim in the terrible series of murders.

The Agent’s eyes were glowing with the light of intense concentration.

The hophead was walking purposefully now like a person who has accomplished an appointed task. He dived into a subway entrance, rode uptown, and got off in a section cluttered with theaters and cafés. Once again the Agent got a look at the man’s face. He saw that he had the features of a rat. There was cruelty in the feverish glitter of his eyes and the twist of his thin mouth.

The chase ended when the man disappeared into the servants’ entrance of a notorious night club—the Club Mephistopheles.

This club, the windows of which were curtained night and day, was known to the Agent. It was a place of evil repute, a place where gangsters hung out and where many criminals had made their headquarters. It was a place of vice and debauchery where “slummers” came also, social registerites who wanted to spend money freely and taste the city’s wild night life.

There were gambling tables inside. Here the underworld and the world of wealth and fashion rubbed shoulders. It had figured in the papers more than once. Bennie Pomarno, beer runner, had been slain here in the boom days of prohibition. In one of its luxuriously appointed rooms a well-known society matron had committed suicide after losing the last of her fortune at the roulette wheel.

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