Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 4 Read online

  Outside, the Agent hailed a cab and said: “Gotham Theatre.”

  Secret Agent “X” was going to keep the appointment which Stanton had told him he had with Doctor Blood.

  Chapter XII

  ENTER—THE CLAW MAN!

  THE Gotham Theatre was an old house which had long been devoted to the production of legitimate plays. Musty, with the plush and gilt grandeur of another day, it now stood forlornly yearning for the old triumphs when Mansfield had trod its boards. Until recently it had been empty, with only the ghosts of its old celebrities passing wraithlike up and down the narrow aisles. Now the old house was lit up, rejuvenated—with the glittering North American Varieties.

  The performance was more than halfway through when the Agent arrived. The orchestra was well filled, as were the balcony and the mezzanine. “X” was conducted to a balcony box. When he was seated his eyes sought the stage, but he paid little attention to what was going on there. His gaze swung back to the fashionably attired women and the well-groomed men among the audience.

  Here were hundreds of people, assembled in the usual way to seek entertainment, intent on spending an evening of pleasure despite the grisly menace which they knew was overhanging the city. Tomorrow another man was slated to die, to have throat torn, his blood drained from him by mysterious human vampires; and every day thereafter for a year another man would be doomed to die in the same way. Yet these people came here to be amused.

  But “X’s” attention was suddenly drawn to the stage. The chorus line of flashing legs backed away from the footlights, and the music struck up a lively tune. The spotlight focused upon the wing. A gorgeous creature daringly draped in a gown of silver cloth pirouetted upon the stage.

  It was Lola Lollagi.

  Her beauty was dazzling as she bowed with liquid grace. A series of complicated steps carried her directly beneath “X’s” box. The setting of this scene was an old Moorish castle. The men and women of the chorus were Spanish grandees and their ladies. Lola Lollagi seemed to fit into the scene as if she had been born for it. The glittering silver cloth dress clung to her sinuous body, cut low at the neck, revealing the alabaster skin of a perfectly formed throat. Two jade earrings were the only ornaments which she wore. Her hair was combed high upon her head. She danced with incomparable grace and beauty. The simplicity of her attire made a striking contrast to the ornate settings and the glittering raiment of the other actors.

  Several times she glanced up toward the box in which “X” sat. The fixed smile which she wore for the benefit of the audience remained there; but the Agent detected something else in her startling coal black eyes—something that might have been uneasiness, fear—almost terror. Was this because she resented Stanton’s attentions?

  Betty Dale had said that Stanton had been paying constant attendance upon the dancer; this was evidenced by Stanton’s statement that he frequently visited the theatre and sat in this box. Was Lola Lollagi afraid of Stanton, or was she afraid that some third party would resent her going around with him?

  That the woman must have superb control of herself was indicated by the fact that she was appearing here, able to go on with the show, after what had happened back at Professor Langknecht’s house.

  Lola finished her number, and retired from the stage amid crashing applause. Her last glance was leveled at the box in which “X” sat. And subsequently, while other performers held the stage, the Agent thought he could detect her peering out from the wing—inspecting him, studying him. Was it possible that she had pierced his disguise? It is harder to deceive a woman than a man. He was posing here as Stanton—a man whom she apparently knew well. Perhaps she had been able to detect some subtle difference of appearance which indicated to her that the person who sat in that box was not Oscar Stanton.

  When the finale went on, the Agent took from his pocket the package of newspapers which he had cut to the size of dollar bills, and placed it in his hat on the floor.

  He watched the curtain drop after the final encore, then sat quietly while the house emptied. Soon the big dome lights in the ceiling went out, leaving only the pilot light on the center of the stage. His box was shrouded in darkness.

  ALL was quiet in the theatre. Five minutes passed, six, seven, eight, nine. Nothing happened. For the tenth time the second hand on “X’s” wrist watch made a complete circuit.

  And then the drapes at the rear of the box parted only an inch or two at the bottom.

  Out of the corner of his eye “X” saw a slim, black-gloved hand reach in, pick up the package from his hat on the floor, and disappear. The drapes fell back in place.

  Instantly he became galvanized into action. Moving quietly in the box, he parted the curtains and slipped through. No one was in sight. The person who had taken the money had already disappeared.

  A narrow staircase led down to the orchestra. To the left, a short corridor curved around in the direction of the stage. “X” knew that the person who had taken that money had not descended by the stairs. He therefore followed the corridor, found that it ended in an iron spiral staircase. The floor above would contain the dressing rooms of the chorus. On the floor below the dressing rooms of the stars and the office of the stage manager.

  Looking down into the dimly lit well of the spiral staircase, the Agent could discern a figure disappearing into the regions backstage. All he could discern was a swiftly moving flash of white skin and cloth of silver. Then the figure was lost to sight in the gloom below.

  “X” descended swiftly, silently, on his rubber soled shoes. He was now on the level of the stage itself. Everything was quiet. He crossed the open space backstage, came into a wide corridor. There were several rooms along this corridor, and just as he turned into it he heard a door farther down slam shut.

  He heard voices to his left, heard several “good-nights” exchanged, heard the stage door open and shut. The personnel of the play had already departed.

  “X” heard the doorman tramping around somewhere at the other end of the stage. He would soon be making his rounds to make sure that everything was shipshape for the night, and that everyone had gone home. There would be a few minutes before that tour of inspection.

  The Agent knew which door had opened and closed. It was the third one down in the corridor, and he was sure whose room it was. For that glimpse he had got of the silver and white had identified for him the person who had taken the money—Lola Lollagi. She must, then, be acting under the instructions of Doctor Blood.

  The Agent drew back into the shadows around the bend in the corridor, waiting for Lola Lollagi to change her clothes and come out again. He felt sure that she would go at once to deliver the package. And he intended to follow her, to find just how she contacted the party who was eventually to receive that package.

  As he stood there watching the door through which Lola had disappeared, his back was toward one of the darkened wings of the stage. Immediately behind him was the huge backdrop upon which was painted the representation of a golden Spanish sunset. In front of this was the tin structure which had been painted to represent the turrets of a Moorish castle. No soul moved upon the stage. He no longer heard the movements of the doorman. That worthy had probably decided that it was unnecessary to make a tour of inspection and had gone into the little cubbyhole beside the door for a snooze.

  Five minutes passed. The Agent began to wonder whether there was not some other exit from Lola’s room, whether she had not already departed with the package.

  He set himself to wait. Perhaps she was opening the package herself. Perhaps—the thought struck him with stunning force—she was not taking it to anyone.

  Although his ears were keenly attuned to sound all about, he did not hear the stealthy footsteps of the figure that crept behind him in the darkness while he watched. This figure had materialized apparently from nowhere. It crouched over, with head lowered, stalking silently; it came nearer, step by silent step. As it approached within three feet of the Agent, its head raised, revea
ling a queer sort of covering over the face that might have been a Halloween mask. Out of this mask, two eyes peered at the Agent

  Slowly, silently, it crept upon him. The right hand held a knife. The left was a claw—a four taloned hideous-looking claw with curved, sharp-pointed talons that were poised as if ready to tear open “X’s” throat.

  And suddenly that sixth sense which had often come to the aid of the Agent at critical moments made him whirl about. And the masked figure leaped upon him, the taloned claw reaching for his throat!

  Chapter XIII

  FIVE MUST DIE

  DEATH stared at Secret Agent “X” out of those two murderous eyes hidden behind the mask of horror.

  The Agent dropped to one knee, twisted his shoulder about to avoid the swiftly plunging point of that glittering knife. The claw swished past, missing him by a scant hair’s breadth. The talons on the monster’s left hand missed “X’s” throat, tore into his shoulder, ripping away the cloth of his coat, digging with agonizing pain into his flesh.

  The masked monster was upon him now, and he could hear its wheezing breath. The claw flashed upward once more, the talons reached for him again.

  The Agent warded off the blow with his elbow, crashed his right fist into that hideous mask. His knuckles smashed the cardboard nose, hurling the figure backwards. But in its backward fall, the claws of the taloned left hand caught in the Agent’s shoulder once more, held firm and dragged him after the falling body. The two of them hit the floor together, the Agent on top. The murderous hand was powerless for the moment, being held helpless under the Agent’s body. But those claws were free; they came down in another ripping blow. “X” knew now how those victims had felt when they died, what Langknecht and Patterson and the others had faced.

  “X” thrust up a hand, met the other’s left arm just above the taloned claw. The Agent’s powerful fingers dug deep into that arm, warding the claws away from his throat. The monster struggled and twisted under the Agent’s grip, exhibiting amazing, almost fanatic strength. It heaved powerfully, threw the Agent off, and scrambled to its knees.

  Down came the claw once more in a vicious slash. “X” barely rolled away in time, heard the thud of the knife as it buried itself in the soft wood of the floor. Then he lashed out with his feet, directly at the face of the monster. His heels caught the other squarely in the face, hurled him backward.

  An unearthly sound that resembled a shriek of fury burst from the hidden lips behind that battered mask. The Agent scrambled to his feet, set himself to leap upon the other. From the direction of the stage entrance he heard hoarse shouts, the sound of running feet.

  His eye caught the figure of Lola Lollagi suddenly rushing out of the dressing room which she had entered before. Her eyes opened wide as she saw the masked figure of the monster upon the floor, saw the person whom she believed to be Stanton about to leap upon it. Her mouth opened wide and she uttered shriek after shriek, high pitched, terror stricken. She still wore her silver gown, over which she had thrown a cloak. Under her arm she clutched the package which she had taken from “X’s” hat.

  The Agent caught only that single glimpse of her, and was about to disregard her, to turn and leap upon the monster, when Lola’s shrieks turned into intelligible words.

  “Police!” she screamed. “The police are coming!”

  The masked monster struggled to its knees, and “X” turned, saw that the doorman was running across the stage toward them, followed by two uniformed policemen with drawn revolvers. He had apparently heard the struggle, had gone out to summon help.

  The monster leaped to its feet, hurled itself at “X,” disregarding the threat of the police. Hatred, intense and burning, gleamed from the two eyes behind the mask.

  One of the officers shouted: “Stand still, or we’ll shoot to kill!”

  THE Agent had no wish to be cornered here, and questioned. Once more he was compelled to ward off that gleaming talon with his left arm, to protect his throat against the claws of death.

  The police were almost upon them when the claw-man suddenly seemed to realize the danger. He cast a single glance at the threatening revolvers, turned a hateful gaze upon “X,” and then swung about, fled down the corridor. Lola already had disappeared.

  The Agent gave up all hope of capturing the claw-man. The police were close now, and their attention was all for the escaping monster rather than for him. This was quite understandable, as it would appear to them that “X” was a respectable man who had been attacked by the monster. They dashed past him, and one of the officers fired his heavy service revolver. The explosion reverberated through the theatre, but the officer must have missed, for the claw-man disappeared into the darkness.

  The doorman shouted: “Get after him quick! There’s a side exit there. He’ll get away!”

  The two officers hastened after the fugitive, and the doorman, after casting only a single glance at “X,” hurried after them, eager to be in on the kill.

  The Agent was left alone upon the stage. He turned, crossed quickly, made his way to the stage door, and slipped out into the alley. He heard two more shots from within the theatre, and then the frantic shrill of the patrolmen’s whistles. Apparently the monster had escaped them.

  The Agent hurried down the alley, out into the street which was more or less deserted by this time, walked quickly to the corner and hailed a passing taxicab.

  On the West Side, “X” dismissed the cab and walked two blocks to an apartment house. Here he ascended to the third floor and entered another one of his retreats.

  It took him almost a half hour to remove the disguise of Stanton, to wash the deep cut in his shoulder with antiseptic, and then to build for himself once more the personality of Victor Randall.

  He must once more use that disguise, for it was imperative that he learn what plans the commissioner was making for the protection of Norman Marsh and the other doomed men.

  When he was almost through with his work, the radio in the room suddenly came to life. The voice of Bates announced: “Station ‘X’ calling. Station ‘X’ calling.”

  Then in code, Bates proceeded to deliver a message over the air which the Agent deciphered without difficulty.

  Important meeting called at home of John Lacey for 11:50 P.M. Commissioner Foster has requested Marsh, Sturgis, Larkin and Randall to be present at Lacey’s home at that time. I have no means of learning purpose of meeting, and my operative reports he cannot get into Lacey’s home. What shall I do?

  The Agent snapped off the radio, glanced at his watch. It was 11:40—ten minutes before the time of the meeting.

  He hastened downstairs, stopped in at a phone booth and called Bates. Otherwise, Bates would have continued to broadcast the message until assured that the Agent had received it. “X” then summoned a cab and gave the address of Lacey’s home, which he knew to be located on Central Park West. He was ringing the doorbell of Lacey’s apartment in the ornate building on Central Park West on the dot of 11:50.

  “X” had had no means of telling whether the house was being watched by Doctor Blood’s men or not; for opposite the building lay the gloomy expanse of Central Park, thickly wooded at this spot. A hundred eyes might have been peering out of the shrubbery along here without being perceived.

  LACEY himself opened the door, and when he saw “X,” he uttered an exclamation of astonishment. “We hardly expected you, Randall. Foster phoned your home as a matter of course, but we really didn’t think we’d ever see you alive again. What happened to you? Were you kidnaped? How did you get away?” He fired the questions at “X” one after the other with breathless rapidity. Then, shuddering, said: “We were almost afraid you’d had your throat clawed like the others!”

  The Agent made no immediate answer, but allowed himself to be led into the comfortable, high-ceilinged living room. The others were already present. Mayor Sturgis was there, as well as Norman Marsh and Frank Larkin. The original eight who had been present in the commissioner’s office t
hat morning had been reduced to five now. Patterson and Langknecht were dead, and Stanton had deserted them.

  Marsh, Sturgis and the others crowded around “X” eagerly, hurling questions at him. They touched him, squeezed him, acting like hysterical schoolboys. They insisted on his telling what had happened.

  He gave them a short explanation, telling them in substance the same story that he had told Stanton, taking as few words as possible.

  “And now,” he finished, “what is this meeting for?”

  Immediately a pall of gloom descended upon them. Sturgis spoke reluctantly. “Commissioner Foster has received another letter from this devilish Doctor Blood. Read it yourself.”

  He extracted an envelope from his pocket, and gingerly drew forth a folded sheet of paper which he gave to “X.” Like the other missive of the doctor’s, it was written in blood, scrawled in a bold, large handwriting. It read:

  Commissioner Foster:

  You will no doubt be interested to hear that I have made a slight change in my plans. I have suddenly decided that I need one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. I have therefore selected the names of the next five surviving men on my list, and I request you to inform them that they must make their payments to me not later than midnight today.

  If they do not pay I shall, with great regret, be compelled to order that they all perish at once. Either I receive the sum mentioned before midnight, or they will all die tomorrow. If they decide to pay, you may get in touch with Oscar Stanton, who already knows what arrangements must be made.

  Yours, for a long life,

  Doctor Blood.

  The others listened attentively while “X” read the missive, though they apparently were already aware of its contents. When the Agent had finished it, he studied the grisly sheet of paper for a long minute, noting where the blood which had been used for ink had left stains upon the edges of the sheet.