“All cars, all cars,” the announcer was repeating. “Inspect all automobiles closely. Be on the lookout for Victor Randall. He has disappeared, and it is suspected that he has been kidnaped from headquarters. Stop all cars that look suspicious, inspect the occupants. Mr. Randall must be found. It may be that his kidnapers will attempt to move him in a car. Watch all cars.”
The Agent smiled as the announcer began to repeat the order. He was glad that they did not suspect his impersonation of Randall. He was also glad that they thought Randall had been kidnaped in that way. It would give him an opportunity to return to headquarters if necessary, once more in the guise of the banker. He would, of course, have to drop the personality of Arvold Fearson for the present, for it was apparent that Doctor Blood knew who Arvold Fearson was. “X” thought it quite possible also, that Doctor Blood knew he had impersonated Randall. For that master of evil would no doubt also be listening in on the police broadcast, would be quite sure that Laurento had not kidnaped Randall from headquarters.
Suddenly the voice of the police broadcaster was drowned out by a loud buzzing sound, that was repeated five times in quick succession. “X’s” hand tensed on the wheel, though he did not slow down. Immediately following the buzz, Bates’ voice came over the radio, saying: “Station X calling. Station X calling.”
Bates must have something important to communicate, for he never used his short wave sending set unless it became imperative. It was an arrangement which the Agent had found quite convenient, for it gave Bates the opportunity of getting in touch with him, no matter where the Agent was. They used the police band, but employed a variety of codes which made it impossible for the police to understand the content of the messages.
After the station call, Bates’ voice continued, delivering the message. The Agent immediately recognized which code Bates was employing, and his nimble brain deciphered as it came over the air waves. He needed no paper or pencil. It was a short message, but Bates kept repeating it and repeating it. He would do so until he received a phone call from the Agent. The message was:
“Important developments at headquarters. Our men cannot discover what is happening, as utmost secrecy is being maintained by Commissioner Foster. How shall I proceed?”
The Agent stopped at the nearest store displaying a telephone sign, entered and called Bates.
“Glad you called, sir,” Bates said. “The man I have stationed at headquarters tells me that there’s a lot of excitement down there. A good deal of running around. It seems that another murder has been discovered, for they phoned the medical examiner. But they wouldn’t disclose what it was, wouldn’t even give the reporters any information.”
“I know what that is,” the Agent told him. “It was up on Spuyten Duyvel Road. You needn’t bother any more about getting on the trail of Langknecht. It’s he who was murdered up there.”
THERE was a moment’s silence. Then: “Good Lord, sir,” Bates exclaimed. “This Doctor Blood is bad medicine.”
“Have you got any further trace of Grover Wilkerson?” the Agent asked.
“No, sir. But I’ve got some important information about him. One of our operatives from the middle west has just come in by plane. He tells me an item that has been kept secret from the public all this time. Did you know that Grover Wilkerson has only one hand?”
“What?” the Agent asked.
“Only one hand, sir. It seems that about eight or nine months ago he got an infection of the left hand, and it had to be amputated. This was done in a private hospital, and the physician who did it kept it a secret from the newspapers. As Wilkerson disappeared soon after that, none of his friends or acquaintances ever had a chance to learn about it. The way our operative discovered it, was through the certificate of the Board of Health. As you know, every amputation must be reported by the operating surgeon. The certificate that our man found out there, indicates that Wilkerson’s left hand was amputated at the wrist.”
“That is very important information, Bates,” the Agent said slowly. “You must bend all your energies now to locating Wilkerson. Keep your men out on the job day and night. Pay them double wages. And have them search down every possible clue that might lead them to Wilkerson. And warn them to be careful. Wilkerson may be dangerous.”
“I’m quite sure he is, sir. The man is certainly mentally deranged, and he has a terrible hatred for society.”
“I am going to be very busy for the next three or four hours, Bates. I may not have a chance to communicate with you. If anything of importance turns up, flash it over Station X. Use code ‘M’ the next time.”
“Right, sir,” Bates acknowledged.
“One thing more,” the Agent added. “Do you happen to have any information in the file on a Paraguayan dancer who may be in the city at this time? Her first name would be Lola.”
“Just a moment, sir. I recall clipping some items on that subject. Will you hold the wire?”
In a few moments Bates was back. “Here it is, sir. Lola Lollagi. She was a star dancer in Asuncion. It seems from these clippings that she suddenly decided to come to the United States. She arrived the same week that Professor Hugo Langknecht arrived from Germany.
“I don’t know if that has any significance. She is now playing at the Gotham Theatre in the North American Varieties. I also have a clipping here from La Paz, an Asuncion newspaper which states that she left rather hurriedly, with little baggage. She had one brother, a young man who suffered from some sort of mental ailment, and had been confined in an asylum in Paraguay. That is all the information I have on her.”
“That is plenty,” the Agent told him. “You have given me more than I expected. Continue with the search for Wilkerson, and report to me as instructed.”
The Agent was about to hang up when Bates suddenly exclaimed: “Just a moment, sir. One of the other phones is ringing. Will you hold on a minute? It may be something of importance.”
“I’ll wait,” the Agent said.
It was several minutes before Bates returned to the phone, and the Agent had to insert another nickel in the slot to keep the connection.
Bates’ voice betrayed a slight tinge of excitement. “It’s one of my operatives, sir, who has been shadowing the men who were present at headquarters today. We’ve got dictographs planted in their homes and this operative who has been working on John Lacey, overheard him telling his wife the contents of a message which he had just received from Commissioner Foster. It appears that Foster wants all of them to meet him tonight. It seems that there is some development that is so important he can’t even tell them about it in the letter.”
THE Agent thanked Bates, instructed him: “Continue to have all those men shadowed. Will get in touch with you again.”
After he had said good-bye to Bates, the Agent dialed Betty Dale’s number at the Herald. Though it was quite late, she had not gone home, but had waited for his call.
“I can’t meet you now, Betty,” he told her. “But there is a point you may be able to help me on. Do you know anything about Lola Lollagi, the Paraguayan dancer?”
“Yes. I handle most of the interviews with women, and it happens that I was getting up a little feature article on her for next Sunday. There isn’t much known about her. She has been very reticent since she came to this country, not disclosing much about her past life. Of course we know that she was a great attraction in Asuncion—”
“I know about that,” the Agent told her. “What do you know about her doings since she arrived here?”
“She’s very beautiful. Many men have been interested in her, particularly Oscar Stanton, the stock speculator. For the last month since she has been in this country, he has managed to meet her every night when the theatre closed, but she never permits him to take her home. They go out a little together, but that is all. The doorman at the stage entrance told me that much about her. Beyond that, little is known about how she spends her spare time. I was anticipating having a tough job dragging information from her.�
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“You say,” the Agent repeated thoughtfully, “that Oscar Stanton has been very much interested in her?”
“That’s right. But it doesn’t seem as if she returns his interest.”
“Thank you,” the Agent said. “Suppose you go home now, and get some rest.”
Betty’s voice was eager, lively. “I’m not the least bit tired. If you think I can be of any further use, I’ll gladly—”
“No, Betty. I think that the matter I am working on will rush through to a swift conclusion now. Your aid has been invaluable.”
“Well then, if you don’t think you’ll need me any more, maybe I’ll run over to the Gotham Theatre and try to get that interview from Lola Lollagi.”
“No, no,” the Agent said hastily. “Suppose you put off getting that interview for a day or so. In exchange, I’ll promise you a first page scoop.”
“It’s a bargain,” Betty laughed lightly. “I’ll go home. But don’t forget your promise. And—” her voice lost its banter, grew suddenly serious—“you will be careful? If anything should happen—” a close listener might have detected a hint of a sob—“I—”
“You must not think of those things, Betty.” The Agent’s voice was hard, deliberately stern. He had schooled himself long ago to repress every softer emotion within himself, to kill it, to subordinate it, to the duty he owed to society.
He walked slowly from the store, reëntered his coupé.
Chapter XI
RANSOM FOR BLOOD
SECRET AGENT “X” drove to another one of his apartments, changed his disguise back to that of Victor Randall. He left by a side door, and did not use the coupé again, but took a taxicab. If he had been followed without his knowledge, the watcher would continue to keep an eye on that coupé.
Once in the taxicab, the Agent gave the address of Oscar Stanton’s home. Stanton was the one man who had refused to stay at headquarters for the conference with Secret Agent “X.” It was Stanton who had announced his intention of paying Doctor Blood rather than rely upon police protection or upon the assistance of Secret Agent “X.” The fact that Stanton was interested in Lola Lollagi further made him a focus of interest for the Agent.
When he arrived at Stanton’s imposing home, “X” was admitted by the manservant who recognized him at once as Victor Randall. Randall and Stanton, of course, knew each other well.
Stanton was apparently in a state of great excitement. He greeted “X” loudly and effusively—a little too loudly, and a little too effusively, the Agent decided.
Stanton’s face was flushed, his collar wilted from perspiration. His eyes did not meet “X’s,” but kept wandering about, never resting upon any one object. However, the hand with which he offered a whiskey and soda to the Agent was quite steady. “X” wondered if he was really as excited as he appeared.
“What’s been happening to you, Randall? What’s this about your being kidnaped from headquarters after Patterson was killed?”
“X” shrugged. “I don’t know any more about it than you do, Stanton. He knocked me unconscious, and carried me out—must have been as a shield for him, because I came to about an hour later lying in an alley not far from headquarters.” The Agent watched Stanton carefully as he told him this story, to see if he believed it
Apparently the stock speculator did, for he said casually: “You were pretty lucky, Randall. The others didn’t get off so easy when they got in his hands. But maybe he only kills on schedule, and you’re number seventeen. You have another week to live.”
They sipped their drinks in silence for a few minutes. Then Stanton said in a queer voice: “What brings you here anyway, Randall? I should think you’d be traveling around with a police guard, or staying safely at home.”
“X” appeared to be hesitant about speaking. Then he said: “I’ll tell you, Stanton. Ever since I came to in that alley, I’ve been thinking about this business, wondering whether it pays to defy this Doctor Blood. You’ve been talking about paying up—”
Stanton nodded. He said slowly: “I’ve already made arrangements to pay.”
“That’s why I came,” “X” told him. “Suppose I also wanted to pay. Could you arrange it for me?”
Stanton held his glass arrested in mid-air. For the space of perhaps two minutes, he did not speak, but his eyes suddenly lost their shiftiness, studied “X” as if he would probe to the very depths of his innermost thoughts.
He said, rather as a statement than as a question: “So you want to pay, too. I think—it can be arranged.”
“X” acted the part of Randall to perfection. He assumed an air of terrified anxiety. “Do you think he’d take my money—and leave me alone?”
Stanton nodded slowly, still studying his guest “Yes.”
“When—would I have to pay it over?”
“Tonight, Randall. If you can get the money and bring it over in an hour, I will pay it over for you.”
“Everything—is arranged? You’re sure it’ll be all right?”
“Quite sure.” Stanton nodded toward a theatre ticket that lay on the end table beside him. “See that ticket? It’s for the balcony box at the Gotham Theatre tonight. I go there often.” Stanton’s eyes again avoided “X’s.” “There’s an actress there that I’m especially interested in—and Doctor Blood seems to know it. I’m to sit in that box, and place the package of money in my hat which I will put on the floor. After the show, I am to stay in the box for ten minutes. During that ten minutes, some one will reach in and take the money from the hat. If you bring me your cash, I’ll put it in with mine, and place a note there saying it’s from you.”
“X” WAS tense now, his mind racing quickly. He said: “But how can you be sure that Doctor Blood will take my money, too? Or how can you be sure that he won’t take my money and then kill me anyway?”
Stanton shrugged. “You’ll have to take that chance. But I’m pretty sure it’ll be all right. I would advise you to pay.”
“Perhaps,” “X” suggested, still simulating great anxiety, “I could go along with you. Then—”
“Nothing doing!” Stanton rapped out. “If you want to do this, Randall, you’ll do it my way!”
“Very well,” said the Agent “I’ll do it your way. Anything—anything to escape the death that Patterson got!” The Agent managed to shudder in a very good imitation of extreme terror. “L-let’s have another drink. Here, I’ll pour it.”
The Agent poured the whiskey until Stanton said: “Hold it,” and then picked up the syphon of water. For a moment “X” shifted and his body screened his actions from the other. In that second, a little capsule which he had held in the palm of his hand dropped into the glass. He then poured his drink, and handed over Stanton’s glass.
Stanton leaned back in his chair, looked at “X” speculatively. “You know, Randall, it’s a damn good thing you’ve come to me. I’d hate to see you get the treatment that Lewis Forman got. It’s a damned unpleasant thing to have your jugular vein ripped open, and then have some ghoul drink your blood!” He shrugged, raised his glass. “Well, let’s drink to tonight’s arrangement!”
Stanton took a long gulp from his glass, and put it down.
The Agent sipped his drink, watching the other. Almost immediately, Stanton’s eyes began to droop, his body to sag. In less than a minute his head was resting upon his chest. He was unconscious.
Now the Agent moved swiftly but surely. First he went to the door, locked it, so that he would not be interrupted by the manservant. Then he returned to the chair where Stanton sat, extracted from an inner pocket a kit of make-up material and a triple mirror which he unfolded and set beside the kit. Quickly, maneuvering as best he could, he changed clothes with Stanton. Then his long, capable fingers set to work with furious speed, manipulating the pigments, plastic materials, and other objects in the kit.
In an amazingly short space of time he had transformed his features into those of the man who sat unconscious in the chair. He took a couple of st
eps up and down the room in imitation of Stanton’s walk, and then talked aloud for a moment, mimicking the other’s voice. Then he set to work upon Stanton. His job was easier this time as he did not have to work upon his own face but he had to rely upon memory for the features which he was placing there.
When he had finished he stood back and surveyed his handiwork. No one would have suspected that the man who sat there inertly, was anybody but Victor Randall, the man who had just come into the house. “X” had merely changed personalities with the other. The Agent now cast his eyes about the room, found a newspaper on the serving table in the corner. This he proceeded to cut into strips the size of dollar bills, and when he had a package about three inches wide, he wrapped it in newspaper and thrust it into his pocket.
Then he picked up the ticket to the Gotham Theatre, went to the door and unlocked it. Then he rang for the servant.
This moment would be a test. “X” knew that Kroon, the butler, had been with Stanton for several years. Would Kroon penetrate the disguise?
When Kroon entered his eyes instinctively went to “X,” and he said: “You rang, Mr. Stanton?”
The Agent eyed him keenly, searching for some sign that the man suspected the change. But no. Kroon was entirely deceived.
“Yes,” “X” told him. “Mr. Randall must have been very tired—must have been doing a good deal of drinking. He just took the one drink, and he’s gone sound asleep. I must go out. Let him sit there until he wakes up. Be sure he is not disturbed. Do not come in here until I return.”
Kroon bowed. “Yes, sir.”
The Agent made for the door, followed by the servant.
Downstairs Kroon handed him Stanton’s hat and coat, and the Agent left. He was quite certain that his orders to Kroon would be obeyed. The manservant had absolutely no suspicion that the man who had just left was not his master.
Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 4 Page 20