face, though partially concealed by the soft fur that trimmed the collar of her extravagantly beautiful dress. Her face was small, nearly round, and dark complexioned. Her lips slightly voluptuous, were rouged a striking shade of red that was almost like Chinese lacquer. Her nose was slightly uptilted and her eyes were actually arresting; true emerald green, they were beneath long, penciled brows that curved upwards at the outer extremities.
But what struck Agent “X” as being extremely important was the flash of green in the bracelet about her left wrist. He was certain that the woman wore the jade bracelet that he had watched Dr. Jules Planchard purchase.
The woman’s lips parted, emitting a husky, purring sort of laugh.
“X” saw that the motor of the car was running. He sprang toward it in an effort to catch hold of the spare-tire carrier, but even as he leaped, the clutch grabbed and the car scudded off down the alley.
“X” pivoted. A trim black sedan, one of the Agent’s own cars, was parked directly behind the jewelry store. He made for it, sprang into the front compartment, and plugged at the starter. The motor kicked over, thrummed smoothly. He shifted gears soundlessly and gave the great supercharged motor all the gas it would take. Like a black projectile, his car shot down the alley.
Ahead of him, the woman’s roadster nosed through a traffic lane, and turned to the right. “X” rounded the corner, his car whining in second gear. He cleared the broad bumper of a moving truck by a hair’s breadth, purposely threw the car into a skid that shied it across the track of a speeding sedan. Ahead, the cream-colored roadster wove through traffic, putting two more cars between its tail-lamp and the nose of the Agent’s car.
He accelerated, sounded his horn, and crowded the car in front of him to the curb. A comparatively clear lane ahead, the cream-colored car, with its exotic driver, pulled away. The tweet of a traffic officer’s whistle was wasted on unheeding ears. The green-eyed woman could drive, and her car was capable of taking all she gave it.
“X” had seen the green-eyed woman before. Felice Vincart was her real name, but it had given place to the alias she had made famous. Snatched from the variety stage by an ardent young millionaire who had fallen in love with her, Felice Vincart had found herself a widow after a few months. In spite of her wealth, she had not gained a position in the social register. She remained known not by her husband’s name but by the alias she had made famous. When the tabloids exploited her voluptuous beauty she was invariably called “The Leopard Lady.”
It was an appropriate appellation; for Felice Vincart had a grace and manner that was actually feline. Her act in the theater had consisted of a wild, barbaric dance, revolving about two great leopards which she herself had trained.
How had the Leopard Lady, with all the pleasures that money could buy at her disposal, become associated with the criminal who directed the activities of the sinister corpse legion? Perhaps a life of indolence had held no thrills for the woman who had tamed jungle beasts.
Agent “X” had little time to dwell on how the Leopard Lady had allied herself with the terrible group. He was fully occupied in keeping on her weaving trail that defied every traffic ordinance. Suddenly, quite as if by accident, the cream-colored car swerved to avoid a car coming from the opposite direction. Its front wheel clipped the corner of the curb and the car bounded into an alley.
“X” followed, wheeling his car across the street and into the alley. Ahead of him, the cream-colored car had slowed down. “X” spurted, and in another moment was forced to cram on his brakes with all the strength of his right leg. From a covered driveway, a huge truck had backed across the alley. The Agent was as effectually separated from his quarry as if a stone wall had suddenly been conjured up in front of him. In spite of his quick action and the superior power of his brakes he did not stop until the nose of his car had mashed against the panel of the truck.
Was this opportune intervention a coincidence? The Secret Agent thought not. Everything had fallen in too perfectly with the Leopard Lady’s plan of escape. He could almost hear her husky, purring laugh of triumph.
“X” knocked open the door of his car and leaped to the pavement. In a moment his question was definitely answered. It was no coincidence; it was a perfectly laid trap set to catch one man—Secret Agent “X.”
From the doorway of flanking buildings poured a small army of men—corpse-faced criminals from out of the past. With the confidence their numbers gave them, they rushed upon “X,” blunt-nose automatics firmly gripped in their fists. The Agent drew his gun with his right hand, at the same time sending a short, jolting left to the side of the foremost criminal’s head. The man dropped without a groan. “X’s” gas gun, that marvelous weapon of his own development, hissed like a snake. A cloud of the powerful anesthetizing vapor blasted a second criminal into oblivion.
Completely surrounded, “X” fought like one possessed of the devil. He hacked at heads with the barrel of his gun, wary of using the gas with which it was loaded lest in the mad, battling maelstrom of humanity some of the anesthetizing fumes reach his own lungs. The gang, he knew, would avoid using their automatics lest the sound of shots draw in police interference.
“X” got a grip around the waist of one of his opponents, lifted the man bodily, and would have hurled him to the pavement had he not at that moment been struck a powerful blow from behind. Off balance, he sprawled to the pavement. Like starved wolves, the mob was upon him, holding him down by sheer weight of numbers. A gun barrel crashed into his head—once—twice. Agent “X” dipped into oblivion.
1 AUTHOR’S NOTE: Followers of the “X” chronicles have probably recognized the redheaded clerk as Jim Hobart, the young man who directs the Hobart Detective agency, one of the units in the Secret Agent’s vast crime fighting organization. Though the Hobart group resembles any other private detective bureau in that it is at the service of the public, Jim Hobart’s first duty is toward Agent “X”, who befriended him in a time of need. In as much as Hobart knew “X” only in the character of A. J. Martin, a newspaper correspondent, it is little wonder that he failed to recognize his friend when “X” adopted the identity of Peter Krausman.
2 AUTHOR’S NOTE: Daughter of a former member of the police force, it seemed a natural course of events that Betty Dale should turn to police reporting when she became old enough to select a career. Though left alone in the world, she was not without friends — many of them detectives who knew her father. But her staunchest friend, and the man she admires most, is Secret Agent “X”. Together, they have encountered many perilous adventures, previously recorded. Her admiration for the Agent has grown to a beautiful, unselfish love.
3 AUTHOR’S NOTE: It should be explained for the benefit of those who meet the Agent for the first time herein, that though Betty Dale has met him often enough to know him probably more than any other person, she has never seen his true face. Her love for him is not based upon romantic dreams revolving about this man of mystery; it is the underlying, thoroughly human qualities of the man that attract her. For always, Agent “X” is kindly to those who merit kindness; never has he willingly harmed the defenseless. Even his enemies attest the quality of his mercy.
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