X-7 The Octopus of Crime by Brant House

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

The Way of the Octopus

THE terrific blast of the bomb was followed by a second of silence. Then bits of metal from the shattered plane rained down making a spatter like hail on the trees. The motor whine of the dark ship was plainly audible. It was circling overhead.

“Don’t move!” hissed Agent “X.”

The biplane dived low, so low that its tail assembly almost fanned the foliage that concealed them. Three times the plane circled. Then the drone of its motor faded into the distance.

“God!” breathed Hobart. He wiped sweat from his face, turned wide eyes on “X.” “There must be something big going on, Mr. Martin. They tried to knock us out of the air. You cracked up a plane worth more dough than I’ll ever have if I live to be a hundred. What the hell’s it all about?”

“I don’t know exactly myself, Jim. I flew out to Chi to find out.”

“Did the paper send you or did you come on your own?”

Secret Agent “X” smiled, tapped the lanky ex-dick on the shoulder. “Don’t ask too many questions.”

Hobart’s steady eyes met “X’s.” He flushed, spoke with quiet vehemence. “I ain’t trying to stick my mug into your affairs, Mr. Martin. Any dope you want to hand me, O. K. But you’re the boss—and I know you’re on the level. All you gotta do is tell me what to do, and you can count on me to do it. I’d just like to get a line on who these damn killers are.”

The Agent rose, faced the other soberly for a moment. “Those men up there were small fry, Jim—just paid gunmen. Get that. Somebody hired them to do a job. It’s that somebody I want to get the low-down on.”

Jim Hobart nodded, dusted loam off his clothes, and followed as the Agent struck off through the woods, suitcase in hand. “X” was careful to keep in the thickest cover till they were a good distance from the spot where the Oriole had crashed. He turned suddenly on Hobart.

“We’ve got to get to Chi now. Those birds think we’re dead. They’ll report to their boss that they got us. That gives us the start on them.”

There was a highway about a half mile from the spot where the Oriole had blown up. Cars lined it and several men, attracted by the noise of the explosion, were running across the fields to investigate.

Agent “X” turned and walked in the opposite direction, motioning Hobart to follow. At the end of half an hour they came to another road leading into Chicago, followed it to a suburban village and there chartered a taxi.

“X” directed the driver to one of the better known hotels in the heart of the city. He spoke quietly to Hobart as the cab rolled through the streets.

“We’re a couple of traveling salesmen from New York, Jim. Your name is Calvin Prentiss, mine’s B.J. Morgan. Those are the monikers we’ll sign on the register.”

“You should have been a dick instead of a news shark, Mr.

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