“X” hastened down the little corridor and emerged through a side door which let him out into Lafayette Street.
He carried his inert burden down the street, and stopped before a police squad car which was parked at the curb. There were no officers in it, in accordance with Mayor Sturgis’ orders to leave the coast clear for the arrival of Secret Agent “X.” The Agent thrust the young man into the car, went around to the other side and got in under the wheel. There were no keys in the lock, but the Agent drew from his pocket a ring of keys, selected one and inserted it in the ignition. He stepped on the starter, and the motor turned over.
In a moment they were off, had turned the corner, and were headed east. After driving two blocks, “X” headed north four blocks, and drew up before a garage in the middle of a sleazy tenement block.
The Agent left his unconscious captive in the squad car, and entered this garage. In a few moments he emerged, driving a small coupé. This was one of the many cars which he kept planted at strategic spots throughout the city in readiness for just such an emergency.
The young man’s unconscious body was a heavy, inert weight, but it took “X” only a few moments to transfer him to the coupé. He then drove away from there, leaving the squad car at the curb to be found by the police.
Eight blocks away, the Agent braked his car to a halt in a quiet block along the river front before a small two story building set in between two large, darkened warehouses which were closed for the night.
This little building was one of the many retreats which the Agent maintained throughout the city.
Once more “X” maneuvered his unconscious guest out of the car, slung him over his shoulder and carried him into the darkened doorway of the little building, and up a short flight of narrow stairs.
If he waited outside for another minute or two, he would have seen the small sedan which turned into the block right after him. This sedan was driven by the dark, beautiful woman whom he had observed sitting in the parked car in front of police headquarters.
She had followed him all the way, had watched while he made the transfer at the garage, and then had continued to follow him to this retreat. Her face as she drove past the small building between the two warehouses was inscrutable. But her eyes darted from the parked coupé to the building.
She drove past as far as the corner, turned into the next street, and parked her car. Then she got out, crossed the street and stood in a darkened doorway, watching the house into which the Agent had led his captive. In the darkness, her face showed white and drawn, and her black eyes burned with an intense fire.
Chapter VI
WITHIN the house, the Agent was unaware of the woman who watched outside. He carried the unconscious man up the stairs, and into a room on the top floor. This room contained some strange appurtenances. Here, cunningly concealed, were emergency kits of make-up material, a complete assortment of clothes for changes of character, and various instruments and gadgets which the Agent found useful in his continuous battle against crime.
In other rooms of this house there was a completely equipped chemical laboratory, a filing system which catalogued the names of thousands of underworld characters, and a library of several hundred books. This was one of the Agent’s main retreats — a place where he often retired to work on particularly baffling puzzles.
The Agent deposited his captive in an armchair, and went to the window. The street outside was deserted. He could not see the woman who had followed him for she had not stayed to watch, but had hurried around the corner to an all-night lunchroom up the middle of the next block, and was busy at that very moment making a telephone call.
She spoke long and earnestly into the telephone, her eyes alight with a strange fire. When she was through, she hurried out of the lunchroom and returned to her vigil across the street. But it was in that interval when she had been gone that the Agent had looked out of the window. Now he was busy with his captive.
That young man was just beginning to regain consciousness. He stirred, batted his eyes. “X” slipped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists; went through his clothes quickly. There was not even a scrap of paper to indicate his identity. There was a large bump on his head, and there were flecks of foam upon his lips. “X’s” eyes were inscrutable as he observed these things. What strange kind of being was this, who tore open men’s jugular veins, drank their blood?
The young man’s eyes were open now, were regarding “X” with a strange sort of terror. It was unbelievable that this timid, harmless looking youth had leaped in to make his kill like a jungle beast.
The Agent demanded of him: “What is your name?”
The other hesitated a moment, then answered sullenly: “Laurento.”
“Who sent you to headquarters to pose as Secret Agent ‘X’?”
Laurento’s voice was monotonous, as if he were making stereotyped answers to stereotyped questions. “Doctor Blood sent me.” He said it as if that explained everything.
“Why did you kill Patterson?”
A slow smile spread over Laurento’s countenance. His bloody lips made the smile a thing of horror. “That is a question which you must ask of Doctor Blood.”
“X” asked him softly: “Where can I find this Doctor Blood?”
Laurento veiled his eyes, and his mouth assumed a stubborn set. “You will have to find that out for yourself.” He twisted his head around, rubbed his nose against the lapel of his coat as if it itched. The action was entirely natural, such as any man might make while handcuffed.
The Agent continued patiently, disregarding the subtle appeal to remove the handcuffs. “You are not an American?”
Laurento shook his head. “No. But I’ve lived in this country for a long time.”
“Look here,” Secret Agent “X” urged. “You realize that you’ve just committed a terrible crime. You were under some sort of strange influence when you did it. Now you are more or less normal. This Doctor Blood has made a criminal — a murderer — of you. Why do you protect him? Tell me who he is!”
THE Agent suddenly stopped talking, extended a hand to support the young man. For Laurento’s head had dropped upon his chest, his body sagged, and he would have fallen from the chair if the Agent had not caught him.
Laurento’s breath was coming regularly, though a trifle slowly. He was falling into some sort of coma. His lips moved weakly, and “X” caught the words: “Doctor Blood will — take care — of everything.”
The words died away into silence as the young man lost consciousness. His body became a dead weight on the Agent’s supporting arm. The Agent betrayed no sign of exasperation at this sudden checkmate. But he could not figure by what method Laurento had been suddenly thrown into this coma. Though he had done extensive research work in chemistry and the allied sciences, he knew of no drug whose action was so delayed that it could be administered at one time so as to produce an effect like this at a later hour. He forced open Laurento’s mouth, sniffed his breath. He perceived no betraying chemical odor.
But his hand on the young man’s coat suddenly felt a peculiar wetness on the lapel. He bent closer to examine the cloth, and a peculiar odor assailed his nostrils. Laurento’s coat lapel had been saturated with some sort of drug. And the Agent had breathed it.
A staggering thought flooded his brain. Laurento had lost consciousness within five minutes of brushing his nose against that coat lapel. The same thing would now happen to the Agent.
Already “X” could feel a strange sort of dizziness in the back of his head. Peculiar spots were beginning to dance before his eyes. There was no knowing how long this drug would keep him in that comatose condition.