He stood there for a long minute, playing the light on the face of the dead man who lay beside the princess; a face that resembled in every characteristic the face of the unconscious Judge Farrell upstairs.
His keen brain worked smoothly, clicking into place the various, apparently unrelated things that he had learned that evening. It continued to weave a startling solution, even while he grasped the cold, stiff body, and carried it up the four steps, while he laid it on the floor of the crypt.
THE body had been embalmed, and it showed a dignity in death that was consonant with the sepulchral atmosphere of the crypt.
Then he stood the flashlight on its end, so that the light was diffused upward, making it possible to read the papers that he took from his pocket. It was his first chance to go over them. They were the papers that Betty Dale had given him. There was a complete record of the career of the confidence man, Sam Slawson, and a full description.
Strangely enough, he took a good ten minutes to study the papers, though there was the danger that the troopers would come into the crypt at any moment.
Finally he folded up the papers, and stood looking at the body of the dead man, comparing it, feature for feature with the unconscious form of Governor-elect Farrell.
While he stood there, Farrell began to stir uneasily, opened an eye, then opened both.
He raised himself up on one elbow, looked at the corpse, then at “X.” All three of them might have been triplet brothers; for “X” still wore Farrell’s disguise.
“You’ve — found him!” Farrell exclaimed.
“X” watched him dispassionately as he managed to get to his feet. He came and stood over the body, looked down at it.
The Secret Agent said, “Yes. And the answer to a number of questions!”
Farrell turned to him, asked slowly, “Who are you?”
The Secret Agent answered, “What difference does it make?” Then he said quietly, “Are you ready to come — out there with me?” He indicated the door.
Farrell took a deep breath, said, “No. Not yet.” And he leaped at “X.”
The two men locked in a deadly embrace. Farrell had his left arm around the Secret Agent’s waist; with his right hand he tried to reach “X’s” face. “X” warded that right hand desperately, trying to keep it from his face. On the middle finger of Farrell’s right hand the Egyptian ring gleamed ominously in the rays of the upended flashlight. From the mouth of the ugly figure carved on the ring a murderous needle snapped up. Farrell had pressed a spot on the ring that had shot the needle out.
“X” knew now that the point of that needle was impregnated with the venom that had caused the deaths of the other men.
He gripped that right wrist, forced it back away from his face. He knew what it could do — it would scratch him, perhaps pierce his cheek, cause him to swell up like Rice and Gates and Hanscom, like the princess who lay in her watery sepulcher below.
Farrell twisted his wrist out of “X’s” clutch, stepped back, and brought his right hand, with the needle pointing out, down in a slashing slice at “X’s” head.
“X” jerked his body backward, avoided the needle, but kicked over the flashlight. It went out, and they were in darkness.
“X” felt Farrell’s hot breath in his face, felt another heave of the man’s body as he raised the hand with that deadly needle. And he put his entire weight and skill behind a blow that struck Farrell full in the face. Farrell grunted, swayed, and sank to the floor.
“X” lit a match, saw the governor-elect madly sucking at a long scratch on the palm of his left hand. Farrell looked up wildly, his face gray with terror.
He took the hand away from his mouth long enough to babble, “I scratched my own hand with the needle! God! Save me!”
“X” stood rigid, silent. He shook his head. “As you know, Slawson,” he said, “there is no antidote that we have here for the deadly venom of the giboon viper. I’m afraid you must die just as the other men died.”
The man’s whole arm was already swollen to twice its normal size. He was gasping for breath. “Kill me then,” he begged. “Kill me quickly!”
The Secret Agent said, “I have no weapon. Even if I did, I don’t think I would do it.”
There was a hard line on his lips as he turned away from the terrible sight and let the match drop to the floor. He turned his back, stood quietly, controlling his feelings with an iron will, while the man died. It took five minutes….
Chapter XXIV
OUT on the grounds, between the house and the mausoleum, a group of people were gathered about a groaning man on a blanket that had been spread for him.
Senator Thane was gasping, “Get a doctor — get a doctor!”
Betty Dale was resting his head in her lap, while one of the troopers applied a crude form of bandage to his abdomen.
Major Denvers stood beside him, frowning. Several troopers crowded about, and Sergeant Plimpton said to the major, “I’ve phoned around, sir, to half a dozen doctors in the neighborhood. One of them ought to be here any minute. Too bad, the medical examiner just left a little while ago.”
Denvers stooped, said, “Get a hold on yourself, Thane. A doctor should be here any minute. Can you tell us anything about the man who shot you?”
Thane raised himself in Betty’s arms, was about to speak, then fell back in a faint.
“I’m afraid to move him into the house,” said Denvers. “He might bleed to death.”
“Here comes a doctor, sir,” said Plimpton.
Denvers turned, saw the tall, stoop-shouldered man with glasses who approached them. He said irritably, “Why didn’t you bring your bag? This man is badly hurt.”
The doctor snapped at him, “Don’t try to teach me my business, sir!” He knelt beside Thane, cast a look at Betty, then removed the bandage. He said, “H’m — bad, very bad! He’ll have to go to a hospital.”
He folded the bandage again, replaced it carefully. “Get a stretcher,” he ordered. “If you can’t find a stretcher, find a board of some kind. We’ll have to take him into the house. Phone to Camberwell Hospital, tell ’em I’m out here, and I say to send an ambulance immediately. Max is my name — Archibald Max.”
Plimpton and another trooper went in search of a board.
Doctor Max knelt again beside Thane, took from his pocket a hypodermic syringe, which he filled from a small vial of amber-colored liquid.
Denvers asked, “Will he be able to talk soon, doc?”
Doctor Max did not answer. He proceeded methodically to swab off Thane’s arm, and gave him the injection.
IN a few minutes Thane’s eyes flickered open. They remained blank for a moment, then reflected the extreme pain of his wound. The doctor raised the wounded man’s head, looked up at Denvers, and said, “You can question him now. But be quick. He won’t last long.” To Thane he said, “Better answer this officer’s questions. You are dying.” He said it matter-of-factly, as if it were of no more importance to Thane than if he had said it was going to rain.
Denvers bent down tensely, asked, “Who shot you, Thane!”
Thane looked up weakly, recognized the major. Then his eyes slid to the doctor. “You — say — I’m dying?”
The old medico nodded.
Thane sighed deeply. “Slawson — shot me! He — killed us all off; Crome, Rice, Hanscom — I’m last!”
“Why? Why, man?” Denvers demanded. “Why did this Slawson kill you all? And where is he now?”
Thane smiled terribly. “God help me, I helped to plan it. Slawson — is posing as Judge Farrell!”