Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 4 Page 16

  There was a dead silence in the room as the mayor hesitated. Then he went on grimly: “Lewis Forman is not to be the last to die. There is some being in this city, a man presumably, who calls himself by the name of Doctor Blood. He is the one who has caused the deaths of your friends—of my friends—by some inhuman means that we cannot fathom. He has compiled a list—a long list—of names of prominent men. And he promises death for every one of them.” Mayor Sturgis’ eyes swung around the room, came to rest upon Gilbert Patterson, the rosy-cheeked private banker. He raised a hand, pointed a shaking finger. “You, Patterson—are next on Doctor Blood’s list!”

  The plump, well-fed, immaculately dressed private banker sat rigid, gripped tightly the arms of his chair. He exclaimed falteringly: “You mean I’m going to be killed?”

  Mayor Sturgis nodded. He picked up a folder from the desk, extracted from it a sheet of paper. He handled the paper gingerly, almost with revulsion.

  “X’s” eyes, fixed on that sheet, were the first to note the peculiarity about it. The mayor held it low, so that they could all see. And a slow gasp of horror rose in the room. For the sprawling, boldly shaped writing was in red—and the red was unmistakably blood.

  “Yes, gentlemen,” the mayor said in a choked voice, “this is written in blood—probably the blood of one of those ten men who have already died!”

  He held the paper before him, glanced around the room, and said: “Let me read it to you.” His voice was low, almost inaudible as he read the contents of that message.

  My dear Commissioner Foster:

  You will doubtless be relieved to learn that the unfortunate occurrences which have been taking place during the last ten days can be stopped—at a price. I am enclosing herewith a list which contains three hundred and sixty-five names. You will find that the first ten names are those of the men who have already died. The next three hundred and fifty-five will die just as surely, one every day for the balance of the year.

  However, there is one way in which those three hundred and fifty-five men may avoid having their blood drained from them. Each of them may buy immunity for the modest sum of twenty-five thousand dollars. This money must be paid in cash by each individual on the day he is scheduled to die.

  In order to prove to you that I can do what I say, I will cause number eleven on the list to be killed in the same fashion as the others today. It is too bad that number eleven must die, but it is necessary that I convince you that this letter is no fraud.

  Please communicate my terms to the rest of the men on the list. They will be instructed how to arrange to make their payments.

  Yours for a long life,

  Doctor Blood.

  There was a hushed silence in the room when the mayor had finished reading that remarkable letter. Even the mayor’s face was drawn and haggard. He said in a sort of choked voice: “You must understand, gentlemen, that we are doing everything in our power to apprehend this criminal known as Doctor Blood. I am vitally interested—for a reason which you will soon understand.”

  Norman Marsh said speculatively: “This Doctor Blood of yours is certainly an ingenious man, Mr. Mayor. Say only fifty percent of the men on that list that he talks about should pay on the line—let’s see, how much would that make?”

  Mayor Sturgis frowned at him. “You may take this lightly, Mr. Marsh, but wait—” He took another sheet of paper from the folder on the desk. “Here is the list that Doctor Blood speaks of. You all know the names of the first ten—those who have already perished with their throats clawed open and their blood drained from them. I will now read you the list of the next seven.”

  HE had said the last very slowly, incisively. Suddenly a hushed silence fell over the room. Secret Agent “X” had been studying each of the men present. His eyes had especially sought the tall, lean, cadaverous figure of Oscar Stanton, the stock speculator, who sat across the room facing Gilbert Patterson. He turned his eyes now toward Mayor Sturgis. That official began slowly to read from the list. “Number eleven—Gilbert Patterson; number twelve—Norman Marsh; number thirteen—” he gulped, then said quickly—“number thirteen—John F. Sturgis.”

  There was a gasp from the assembled company. Gilbert Patterson’s face had become a pasty white; Norman Marsh, who had been pacing up and down, had stopped suddenly at the mention of his own name. He started to speak, then stopped, clamping his jaws hard as the mayor went on.

  “You see, gentlemen,” the mayor said with an obvious effort to control his voice, “I am on this list with you—so you cannot question my interest in unmasking this fiendish Doctor Blood—for according to the list, Patterson here dies today. Marsh tomorrow. And I, on Thursday.”

  He sighed, bent his eyes to the list. “But let me finish reading. I think you all can get what follows.”

  Oscar Stanton, the lean, gaunt-faced stock broker, raised his head and caught “X” watching him. He lowered his eyes quickly, turned to the mayor. “Yes—it means we’re all on the list. The only question is, what day are we scheduled to die. Hurry, man, read the rest of the numbers!”

  Sturgis went on more speedily now. “Number fourteen—Hugo Langknecht; number fifteen—John Lacey; number sixteen—Oscar Stanton; number seventeen—Frank Larkin; number eighteen—” his eyes lifted from the paper, met those of Secret Agent “X”—“Victor Randall!”

  When he had ceased reading, a buzz of excited comment arose among the doomed men.

  Commissioner Foster exchanged glances with Inspector Burks across the desk at which the mayor was seated, and raised his hand. “Excuse me, everybody.”

  He waited until the buzz of talk had subsided, and then turned to the only other man who had remained silent during the entire conference—Professor Hugo Langknecht, the German psychiatrist.

  “Professor Langknecht,” the commissioner said, “You must not misunderstand me when I say that in a way I am glad you are among those mentioned on Doctor Blood’s list. You are as vitally interested as we are in discovering Doctor Blood’s true identity. As a psychiatrist you may be able to study this note and arrive at some idea of what sort of person this bloody executioner is. In your profession, you’ve had occasion to study many queer kinds of people. Is there any hope you can give us—such as indicating what kind of man we ought to look for in searching for this Doctor Blood—anything what might put us on the right track?”

  Professor Langknecht was quite a young man, considering the international reputation which he had already established for himself. His thin sharp features, his high forehead, proclaimed him a scholar. His eyes seemed to be lively, black, constantly flashing behind the extra thick-leased spectacles which he wore. His thin lips were pursed thoughtfully as he seemed to be giving the question weighty consideration before answering. Then he finally spoke:

  “There are many things that we must take into consideration here, commissioner. In our clinic in Vienna—” he stopped, waved his hand impatiently—“but you will not be interested in that. What you want is concrete conclusion. Well, we must first look at the curious way that these murders have been committed—the tearing open of the jugular vein, the draining of the blood.” He spoke in a cold, precise voice. He was a typical scientist, treating the problem as if it were an abstract theory of mathematics, rather than one which might involve his own death.

  “Who,” he went on, “would be apt to do these things to a man? In Cambodia, in Indo-China and in some of the wilder portions of South America, there are, I understand, beasts which subsist upon human—”

  He was interrupted by Norman Marsh who suddenly snapped his fingers. “Of course!” the archeologist exclaimed. “I remember, in 1914 in my expedition to Brazil—”

  Professor Langknecht stopped him. “Yes, yes, Mr. Marsh. But you must not jump to conclusions. There are other creatures that drink human blood, too—creatures which the mind of man refuses to believe, but which have been thought to exist from the beginning of mankind. Vampires, ghouls—”

  It was Oscar Stanto
n who stopped him. “Damn it!” he shouted. “Are you going to begin telling us fairy tales now! Here we are, slated to die. There’s Patterson—he’s marked for today. There’s Marsh for tomorrow, Sturgis for Thursday, and the rest of us—Lacey, Larkin, myself, and Randall.” He jerked his thumb at Secret Agent “X.” “Randall is the luckiest of us. He has a week to live. And here you are telling us about vampires and ghouls.”

  HE swung on Commissioner Foster: “Why don’t you arrange with this Doctor Blood for us to pay him? He seems to have chosen you as intermediary. All right, I’m ready to pay!”

  Professor Langknecht wiped his forehead with a large, yellow-bordered handkerchief. He subsided into his seat, looking slightly bewildered at the sudden vehemence of Stanton.

  Norman Marsh suddenly started to laugh.

  The others looked at him open-mouthed.

  Marsh stopped laughing as suddenly as he had begun, his lean, tanned face setting into grim, stubborn lines. “I don’t know how you others feel about it, but Stanton is all wet. I think this Doctor Blood is mad. Why, it’s impossible to kill one man every day for a year—especially when we know who’s scheduled next. I’ve faced worse things than this Doctor Blood’s wild beasts in my life, and I’ll take a chance!”

  Stanton glared at Marsh. “You wouldn’t talk like that, Marsh, if you’d seen what I’ve seen. Lewis Forman was the last to die—and I was a guest in his house last night.” He shuddered. “I’ll never forget how he looked this morning. The bed was soaked with blood. His throat was torn—clawed, ripped horribly. And—and his body was drained dry of blood. He was nothing but skin and bones. And you want us all to take a chance on having that happen to us—when twenty-five thousand dollars would square it. We’re all wealthy here, we can all afford it easily. Why tempt fate?” Stanton swung on Inspector Burks, whose face had been growing redder and redder every moment. “You, Burks. Why don’t you get something done? Why don’t you arrange for these payments? Why do you call us all here for these useless conferences? There’s only one thing to do, that is, pay up.”

  Inspector Burks shrugged, turned away from Stanton in contempt. John Lacey, the real estate operator, number fourteen on the list, placed a soothing hand on Stanton’s shoulder. “Don’t take it so hard, Stanton,” he soothed. “Burks may catch this Doctor Blood before it’s our turn to pay. Patterson here is the one who really has to worry. He’s due to get his today—and there’s no way out for him!”

  Patterson came out of his reverie. His hunted eyes sought Mayor Sturgis. “What—what steps are you taking to protect me?” he asked.

  Commissioner Foster answered for the mayor. “We are going to give you a police guard or, if you prefer, it would be better for you to remain in headquarters—where you should be comparatively safe. You other gentlemen—and you too, your Honor—would be well advised to do likewise.”

  Stanton snorted. “You’d be doing much better if you arranged to get these payments started. You know damn well that nobody is safe—not even in headquarters. You haven’t been able to get the faintest idea of how these murders were committed, or of who did them. You haven’t even gotten a glimpse of these beasts of Doctor Blood’s. And yet you want us to take a chance. After all, we’re all important men in this town. None of us wants to die yet. Maybe Marsh doesn’t care. He’s risked his life so often that it’s come to mean nothing to him. But most of us others here have families, have important interests. We want to live. As far as I’m concerned, I hereby state that I’m ready to pay—unless Commissioner Foster can show me anything concrete which he has done to protect us from this threat!”

  The Agent maintained silence during all this time. He continued to study Oscar Stanton. Stanton was known as a plunger in the market—a bear raider of great daring, who had amassed a fortune by his ruthless tactics. It was interesting to note how a man, who could be so merciless as he had been to others, acted when his own life was threatened.

  It was Mayor Sturgis who quieted him. The mayor raised a soothing hand, and said: “Gentlemen, as you may know from having read the evening paper, I have taken a step which I hope will be of help to us. I have issued a public letter to—”

  “Yes, yes,” Stanton shouted, “I know all about that. I saw the paper.” He sneered. “Set a thief to catch a thief, huh! This Secret Agent ‘X’ is probably the one who’s behind all these murders—and you call him in to help us! Is that the best you can do? Come on—think, man—your own life is in danger here as well as ours!”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Stanton,” Norman Marsh interrupted coldly. “I have studied the career of this strange man whom you call Secret Agent ‘X’ with great interest. It is my profound belief that this man is not a criminal. In view of the gravity of our present situation, I heartily approve of the step that Mayor Sturgis has taken.”

  Inspector Burks, who had been listening to Stanton’s diatribe with beaming approval, now made a gesture of impatience. He took a long black cigar from his pocket, lit it, and puffed furiously. He growled: “Mayor Sturgis is the boss, of course, but I’d never have done anything like that if it was left up to me. Why, this Secret Agent ‘X’ is the slickest crook in the country—in the world for that matter. I ought to know. I’ve been up against him dozens of times. If you think he is going to walk in here because he’s been offered immunity, you’re mistaken. He’s probably laughing up his sleeve at us all right now!”

  And it was at that moment that the inter-office ’phone on the commissioner’s desk rang.

  Commissioner Foster picked up the phone, listened for a moment, then quickly covered the mouthpiece, stared at the others with excited eyes.

  He glanced at Burks, then stooped and whispered in the ear of Mayor Sturgis.

  The mayor’s eyes opened wide with excitement, and he rose. His fists were clenched on the desk. There was a look of extreme satisfaction on his face.

  “Gentlemen,” he exclaimed, “I have to announce—that Secret Agent ‘X’ has accepted my invitation! He is waiting outside now!”

  Chapter IV

  DEATH FOR EIGHT!

  FOR several moments after the Mayor’s startling announcement, the room was the scene of astounded comment and bustling excitement. Voices were raised, everyone tried to talk at once.

  Inspector Burks exclaimed harshly: “We’ve got him now! We’ll put him in a cell and keep him there. And I bet you these damn murders stop!”

  The mayor turned upon Burks irritably. “You’ll do nothing of the kind, inspector! I’ve given Secret Agent ‘X’ my word that he is to have twenty-four hours’ immunity, and I meant every word of that. You will keep your hands off for twenty-four hours!”

  Inspector Burks lowered his head sullenly. “All right. But the minute the twenty-four hours expires, I’m grabbing him!”

  The Agent withdrew to a corner of the room where he could survey all the occupants, and made ready to view this visitor who had come impersonating him. The various occupants of the room were still raising their voices in loud discussion and protest. Only one other man in the room was silent now; that was Professor Langknecht, the psychiatrist. He sat quietly, with his knees crossed, but his small, lively black eyes behind those spectacles had been busy surveying each man in turn in the room, listening carefully to all their comments.

  The medley of voices ceased as Mayor Sturgis, turning to Professor Langknecht, said: “What is your opinion, professor? Shall we enlist the services of Secret Agent ‘X’?”

  Langknecht stirred as from a reverie. “You should certainly talk to him, Mr. Mayor. In a situation such as this, we must turn to anything at all that holds a possibility of salvation.” He added with an air of eagerness: “As a psychiatrist, I am myself extremely anxious to meet this person who calls himself Secret Agent ‘X’.”

  “All right,” the mayor exclaimed with a sudden air of decision. “We’ll have him in.”

  He turned to the ’phone, but Oscar Stanton shouted: “Then I won’t stay here! I’ll have nothing to do with t
his business. It’s bad enough that my life is in danger, and that I can’t get help from the police department. But to have to place my life in the hands of a felon like this Secret Agent ‘X’ is unbearable. I’m going!” He turned and stamped out of the room stormily before anyone could stop him.

  John Lacey said disgustedly: “Let him go. I’d rather he wasn’t here anyway. Maybe we’ll all be better off.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Commissioner Foster demanded.

  Lacey shrugged. “What do we know about Stanton anyway? His partner, Lewis Forman, has just been murdered. And Stanton was his guest last night. Stanton was in the room right next door, yet he claims he didn’t hear a thing.” He took a step closer to the Mayor’s desk, glared at Burks. “Have you investigated Stanton at all? I’ve had occasion to. Do you realize that the ten deaths that have already occurred have been deaths of men who are influential in some of the largest firms in the country? Do you realize that the stocks of those firms have gone down in the market? And do you know what’s happening? Our friend, Oscar Stanton, has been buying, buying, buying; buying the stocks of those firms at bargain prices! If they go up again, he will have made himself a million dollars by the deaths of these men!”

  SECRET AGENT “X,” standing against the wall near the window, glanced out and saw Stanton in the street now walking rapidly away past the car in which sat the beautiful Paraguayan dancer. The Agent could see the car from his point of vantage at the window; he watched closely as Stanton passed, but detected no sign being exchanged between Stanton and the woman.

  Everything that Lacey had said was already known to Secret Agent “X.” Stanton had been under observation by the Agent’s operatives for the last ten days. And the Agent knew that as soon as Stanton turned the corner he would once more be picked up by a shadow, and followed wherever he went. The Agent’s eyes were troubled, though, as he glanced out of the window. He wished now that he had taken the time to phone to his headquarters and ordered that a couple of operatives be placed on this woman who was parked across the street, to shadow her. He could do nothing about it now though.