Before Randall could open his mouth to utter a protest, the Agent had picked up the hypodermic from the table, and drove the plunger home into the other’s arm. Almost at once Randall’s head dropped back upon the couch, his eyes closed, and he began to breathe regularly, stertorously.
The Agent waited until he was sure that the drug had acted properly, then he released Randall’s wrists, turned out the light, and left the apartment as quietly as he had entered.
Chapter II
24 HOURS’ IMMUNITY!
THE newsboy’s face was excited, flushed. His armful of papers was dwindling fast; he was doing a rushing business. His thin treble of a voice was raised to its highest pitch as he displayed his wares. The paper read:
MAYOR APPEALS TO SECRET AGENT “X”!
Read all about the mayor’s letter. Read about Murder Number 10!
The lunch-hour crowds were buying his papers as fast as he could hand them out. And at every other spot in the city where newspapers were sold, the same thriving business was being done. The men and women who bought the papers scanned them avidly.
The little newsboy’s last paper was bought by the tall man of dignified bearing who had descended from a taxicab at the corner. Anyone familiar with the features of the dominant figures of the financial district would have recognized this man of imposing mien as Victor Randall; and might have wondered that so important a figure as Randall should be traveling about the city unescorted. It would have astounded such a person even further to have learned that the true Victor Randall was a prisoner in an obscure section of the city, and that this impersonator was none other than Secret Agent “X”.
“X” gave the boy a quarter, waved the change away, and spread the paper open. As thousands of others were doing at the very moment all about him, he read the blaring headlines thrown across the top of the front page:
LEWIS FORMAN MURDERED
Tenth victim in ten days
The tenth grisly murder to take place in this city within the past ten days was discovered early this morning. Lewis Forman was found by his housekeeper with the jugular vein ripped open and the blood drained from his body in the same fashion as the other victims of the inhuman monsters which are terrorizing the city.
Commissioner Foster and the entire police department are without a single clue as to the nature of this horror that has descended upon the city.
Since the day Blaine Prescott was killed in similar manner, exactly nine days ago, every available man in the police department has been patrolling the streets, searching every odd, out of the way place in the city, in an effort to locate the mysterious monsters which have been perpetrating these deeds.
Thus far, the situation has remained a bloody enigma, with all the forces of the law in a frantic scramble to break the mystery before more murders occur.
The slogan of these beasts seems to be—A murder a day!
The Agent ceased reading at that point, and his eyes swung to the column where a last-minute flash had been set in big eighteen-point type:
MAYOR STURGIS APPEALS TO SECRET AGENT “X”!
Below is a copy of an open letter to Secret Agent “X” released by Mayor Sturgis to all the newspapers in the country. The message will also be broadcast over a nationwide network at 5 P.M. tonight. The letter speaks for itself:
OFFICE OF THE MAYOR
To the Man who is known as Secret Agent “X”:
Our city—in fact, the entire nation, is faced by a terror ghastlier than any which could be imagined. Each day one of our prominent men is done to death in grisly fashion, his blood removed for some inhuman purpose. All efforts to discover what band of beasts is perpetrating these horrors have been futile.
You, Mr. Secret Agent “X,” have always been viewed as a super criminal. Many people, however, have other opinions about you. They seem to feel that you are on the side of the law.
As a last resort I am making this appeal to you. If you are not a criminal, if you are really on the side of the law, this is your opportunity to prove it. You admittedly have qualifications and abilities which are far above the average. If you wish to clear your reputation forever of any taint of criminality, come forward now and offer your services. I have instructed the entire police department that you are to be granted immunity for a period of twenty-four hours beginning at 6 P.M. tonight, Eastern Standard Time. From 6 P.M. tonight until 6 P.M. tomorrow, you may present yourself to me personally, to Police Commissioner Foster, or to Chief Inspector Burks at any time, at any place which you may designate. You may come in any disguise which you prefer to assume, and I will guarantee to you that no effort will be made to penetrate that disguise, to discover your true identity.
If you should thus volunteer your services, taking advantage of this immunity which is offered to you, we will lay before you all the facts of the case, and entrust its solution to you. I realise that this is an unprecedented move for an official of the city to make, but the situation is so desperate that it warrants it.
This is your opportunity, Secret Agent “X,” to prove that you are no criminal, that you have the interests of law and justice at heart
Will you accept my challenge?
JOHN F. STURGIS, Mayor.
The Agent read this letter carefully. Then he gazed down the busy street over the shoulders of the hundreds of scurrying people, many of whom were reading the amazing letter of the mayor of the city to the person known as Secret Agent “X”. His eyes had detected a young woman who was hurrying toward the corner. She was slim, blonde, with a creamy youthful complexion, and a look of fresh innocence that brought a spark of momentary admiration to his eyes.
THIS girl approached the corner more or less hesitantly, glanced at the Agent, and then approached him. “Mr. Randall?” she asked diffidently.
He nodded.
“I was told to meet you here,” she went on, “by a—a friend. He suggested there was something you can tell me which I could use for my paper. My name is Betty Dale.”
“This friend,” said “X”, “What is his name, Miss Dale?”
She hesitated. “He—he wouldn’t want me to mention it.”
“Then perhaps I can name him. I see you have a newspaper.”
He gently took the newspaper which she was carrying folded under her arm, spread it open. “Is he by any chance the man to whom this letter was addressed?” His long, slender finger pointed to the open letter from the mayor to Secret Agent “X”.
Betty Dale gave an involuntary start of surprise. Her eyes grew wide with consternation. “Why—no—of course not!”
He smiled, and his voice took on a different inflection—somehow it deepened, softened. He said: “You needn’t worry, Betty. You are not giving me away.”
Betty put a slim hand to her throat, stared at him in amazement. She exclaimed huskily: “You! Disguised as Victor Randall!” Her face lit up in a happy smile. “But—but why are you disguised as Randall? What has happened to Randall?”
He took her arm, led her down the street to a quiet restaurant. When they were seated and had ordered coffee, he explained: “These murders that are being committed—there is apparently no motive, no reason for them. The newspapers hint, as you know, that more men are to be killed and there are ugly rumors going around, about a mysterious band of blood-drinking beasts.”
Betty Dale shuddered. “Yes. People are afraid to go out at night. And they’re afraid to stay home, too. These beasts attack anywhere. No one would believe it possible—that wild jungle beasts should be roving through our city—”
“There is more to it than that, Betty,” the Agent interrupted her gently. “The police are hysterical and in their frame of mind they are ready to believe anything. If I thought that this were merely a matter of wild beasts killing at random, I would not be working on it. It would then be a matter for a concentrated hunt, and nothing else. I am afraid, though, that there is something here that is far more evil—something that will test the powers of all of us to the utmost!”
Betty looked worried. “They’re talking of other things, too. They say that perhaps Grover Wilkerson has something to do with it. You know, he’s really insane—a paranoiac of the worst kind.”
“X” nodded. “That is why I wanted to talk to you. At the Herald you have every opportunity of picking up all the rumors that are floating about the city. I want you to make a complete report on these rumors—no matter how silly they sound. Keep track of them carefully. Try, if possible, to ascertain their source. I will call you later in the day.”
Betty asked: “Are you accepting the mayor’s challenge?”
“X” gazed at her somberly. “Yes, Betty,” he said slowly, “I am accepting the mayor’s challenge.”
She put her hand impulsively on his arm. “But you mustn’t. You’ll be walking into a trap!”
“What makes you think so?”
“Because,” she hurried on eagerly, “the mayor is exceeding his authority in granting you immunity. You have been accused of murder!” Her hands trembled on his arm. “I know, of course, that you have always helped the law. I know that you are good and fine and brave. But the others—Commissioner Foster and Inspector Burks—they’ll never believe you innocent. They’ll never let you get out of headquarters!” Her voice rose slightly. She was controlling herself with an effort.
“Nevertheless,” the Agent said firmly, “I shall be at headquarters at six o’clock.” He took her hand from his arm, pressed it gently. “I have already thought of everything that you tell me, Betty, but I must take the chance—if it will help to prevent more men from having their throats ripped open, and the blood sucked from their bodies.”
Betty sighed. She knew the futility of trying to swerve this man from the path indicated by his sense of duty. “What—what disguise will you assume?”
“I shall go as I am now—as Victor Randall. Randall is safe in one of my apartments, and I shall take his place. I will be there, but the mayor will not know it. I am going to accept the invitation—in my own way.”
He smiled, nodded in kindly fashion. For a moment Betty thought that she detected a glow of warmth in the depths of his usually inscrutable eyes. But it faded as quickly as it had come. It was as if he had drawn a veil across his soul. Once more he was the cold, masterful, strange man without feeling or sentiment—a superb machine devoted to the destruction of crime.
He raised his hat, bowed. Then he turned and walked swiftly away.
Betty bit her lip to keep back the tears which were welling into her eyes. She watched him until he disappeared into the throng.
Chapter III
WRITTEN IN BLOOD
THAT evening, Secret Agent “X” descended from a cab, a block from headquarters. As he walked down the short remaining distance toward the main entrance of the imposing building within which were housed all the law enforcing agencies of the city, he noted that several squad cars were drawn up along the street, but that there were no officers in sight. He glanced at his wrist watch. It was 6 P. M.
Apparently the way had been left clear in case Secret Agent “X” should choose to come. On the opposite side of the street, he noted a small, shiny black sedan at the wheel of which was seated a gorgeously beautiful woman. She was parked a little distance from the street light, but the Agent’s keen eyes noted her sharp, clearly cut profile, and the black bobbed hair which was combed back behind her ears under a smart little green hat. Hers was a dark, beautiful face, and the semi-darkness in which she sat added mystery and piquancy to her appearance.
The Agent did not slow his gait, but two things registered in his mind. One was the license number of the automobile which he would be able to recall to his mind effortlessly at any time in the future. The other was the identity of that woman. His memory for faces was one of the things that had contributed to making him a nemesis of criminals.
If he should see this woman again after a lapse of ten years, that peculiar faculty of his would at once call up to him a picture of her in the car in front of headquarters. And just so did the sight of her face now bring up to him a picture of several years back, when he had been in South America, in Asuncion.
He had seen her there only for a few moments, in a night club where he had had an appointment with one of his operatives. This woman in the car had been dancing there—a paid performer on the stage. The Agent had never learned her name, had never heard anything about her. But that one flash had come back to his mind automatically as he saw her now in the car.
He filed the item away in the back of his mind. What was this beautiful Paraguayan dancer doing here in front of headquarters? Could she have any connection with the murders that had shocked the city for the last ten days?
Within the headquarters building the Agent was ushered in to Commissioner Foster’s office.
Here was gathered a varied group of men. The commissioner had relinquished his chair behind the broad mahogany desk to the mayor of the city. Mayor Sturgis was a stocky, florid man with an immense capacity for work, and a highly developed sense of civic duty. His square-cut, honest countenance was now pinched in worried lines as he surveyed the gathering in the room.
“X” also inspected the other men present. He nodded to several of them, who returned his greetings solemnly. These men who were gathered here at the commissioner’s invitation were among the most important men of the city.
SEATED directly opposite the mayor was Gilbert Patterson, the head of one of the largest private banking concerns in the country. Standing beside the banker was Norman Marsh, the internationally known archeologist and explorer, who had uncovered vast mines of knowledge about the early human races of the world, and had written scores of books upon ancient civilizations. In a corner behind Commissioner Foster, who was standing next to the mayor, sat a man whom “X” did not know personally, but whom he recognized from photographs he had seen recently in the papers. This man was Professor Hugo Langknecht, the well-known young German scientist and psychiatrist, who had come to this country only recently after making a name for himself throughout Europe and South America.
Then there was John Lacey, who was reputed to own more real estate in the city than any other ten men combined. Frank Larkin, the publisher of a country-wide chain of newspapers, and Oscar Stanton, the stock speculator who had cornered the market a dozen times in the past ten years, made up the rest of the group.
“X” had met Stanton only that morning at the home of the murdered Lewis Forman, but Stanton did not know it. In the suave, cultured Victor Randall whom “X” was now impersonating, Stanton did not recognize the dynamic Associated Press man who had been snooping around the murdered Forman’s bedroom that morning.
Mayor Sturgis nodded to “X”, said curtly: “We’ve been waiting for you, Randall. I have an important announcement to make, and I wanted you all together.”
“X” nodded, stood with his back against the wall, surveying the room. He found himself beside Norman Marsh, the explorer, who turned to him and said under his breath: “Sturgis seems to be all wrought up about something. I wonder what we have to do with it.”
“X” shrugged. “Haven’t got the faintest idea, Marsh.”
Gilbert Patterson who was sitting just beyond Norman Marsh, looked up at them with a worried expression. “This is an awful waste of time—”
He was interrupted by Mayor Sturgis, who said shortly: “I won’t waste your time any longer, gentlemen. I’ve called you here to make an announcement to you. Every one of you is vitally interested in that announcement. Of course, you’ve all read and shuddered at the terrible things that have happened in the past ten days. Only this morning a man whom we all knew—Lewis Forman—met the same fate. The autopsy shows that he was killed last night—before midnight. Everybody is guessing at what sort of monsters these are that steal about in the night and rip open men’s throats, suck their bodies dry of blood.”
Gilbert Patterson stirred uneasily in his seat, and cleared his throat. From his rosy, smoothly shaven chee
ks, and his almost colorless eyes, one would not have guessed that he was the head of the largest private banking outfit in the country.
“Of course, Sturgis,” he said irritably, “we read all about these murders. Lewis Forman was the federal coordinator for railroads. With him dead, all the plans which he has been building up to stabilize the railroad situation are swept away at a single blow. Some of the other men who died have been equally important. If this keeps up, the very structure of our nation will be threatened. But I don’t understand what we can do about it. The job is yours, and Commissioner Foster’s. Why have you called us here?”
“I’ll tell you why,” said Sturgis. He appeared to be tense now, his fists clenched so that his knuckles showed white against the green blotter on the commissioner’s desk. “You men here—” his gaze swept from one to the other of them—“are of great importance in the economic life of the country. You, Patterson, have put your finger upon the crux of the problem. We believe that a systematic attempt is being made to wipe out our prominent men.”
JOHN LACEY, who had been standing next to Patterson, now exclaimed vehemently: “But why do they do it in such a horrible way—why do they rip a man’s throat—why do they suck him dry of blood!” His voice trembled slightly, and he struck one fat, flabby hand into the palm of the other. “You’ve got to stop it, Sturgis. You’ve got the whole police department to do it with. We’ll contribute money, anything that will help to put a stop to it!” He suddenly relaxed, patted his soft paunch. His face was gray, and his double chin shook. “God! Some of my best friends were among those ten men. I can still see them lying there, just a skinful of bones—with the blood all drained out of them!”
“Gentlemen,” the mayor’s voice was dry, tight. “I know just how you feel. But we have no time for talk like this. There is something I must tell you. I have called you together, not to seek any financial assistance, but to give you a piece of news. It is not fair to keep the information from you any longer.”
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