Doctor Blood’s plans had worked far better than even that ingenious criminal had anticipated; for now, within five minutes, the one man who might possibly be able to frustrate his fiendish plans would be impotent, lying as inert and helpless as Laurento now was.
But the Agent did not lose his wits as another man in that predicament might have. He crossed the room swiftly but without panic to the opposite wall. He placed his thumb at a certain spot in the molding and pressed hard. Instantly a small panel about three feet square opened downward like a tray. Set upon this panel, and held to it by suction cups were dozens of small vials of vari-colored liquids, together with a hypodermic syringe.
The Agent’s knees were beginning to shake, sweat was breaking out upon his brow. He was feeling the powerful effect of the drug which he had inhaled — knew that it would overcome him within a matter of minutes. Even now he was keeping on his feet by a supreme exercise of will power.
Jaws pressed hard together, his whole body straining in every fibre to resist the drug, his fingers nevertheless moved swiftly as he filled the syringe from one of the vials. Then he stripped off his coat, did not wait to roll up his sleeve but tore it from wrist to shoulder. And without stopping to swab off his arm with antiseptic he quickly drove home the plunger of the hypodermic. The syringe contained a powerful dose of adrenalin. “X” did not know the nature of the drug which he had inhaled, but was hoping that the adrenalin, which served the same purpose with other coma producing drugs would counteract the effect of this one.
He replaced the hypodermic upon the tray, waited tensely for the results. His whole body was in a cold sweat now, the light was dimming before his eyes, and he experienced a queer watery weakness in his legs. He clenched his hands, pressed elbows against his sides, and forced himself to stand stiffly erect.
The blood raced through the arteries, carrying the adrenalin to his heart, which pumped it back through his entire body. If only the adrenalin could become operative before that deadly drug took full control of him. It was a battle of will against matter — the powerful will of a man who had schooled his body to obey every impulse of his mind. He must hold out now — for how long?
Slowly he began to sway on his feet. The room had begun to dance about him. The floor seemed to be tipping, the walls to be slanting. His eyes sought the window where he seemed to see gray shapes in the black of the night outside.
Still he stood there stiffly, defiantly, a man fighting against the elements. And then suddenly, the walls stopped slanting, the floor stopped tipping. He could feel his heart beating faster and faster, recovering from the strange lassitude which had gripped him. The spots began to clear from before his eyes, and he uttered a deep sigh — the only sign of the tremendous, almost unendurable strain under which he had labored for the last three or four minutes. He had won.
Weakly he crossed to the window, swung it open, and breathed in deep gulps of the fresh night air. Then he sought a chair, sat back in it, relaxing and closed his eyes. For the moment he gave no thought to Laurento who had slipped from the chair and now lay in a huddled heap on the floor.
The Agent’s only thought now was to regain quickly the strength which had been melted from his body. It was five minutes before he managed to stand once more. He smiled grimly. Only a man of his tremendous recuperative powers could have regained his full strength in so short a time after such an ordeal.
Chapter VII
IT was a half hour later that a middle-aged inconspicuous sort of man stepped out into the street from the doorway of that little building between the two warehouses. This man in no way resembled the Victor Randall who had carried Laurento in only a little while before. He had bushy eyebrows, a broad nose, and dark hair which was beginning to gray at the temples.
Secret Agent “X” had assumed a new personality — that of Arvold Fearson, a disguise which he had used on occasions in the past. As Arvold Fearson, Secret Agent “X” was known to many people in the city, including the police officials, to be a private detective in the employ of the Hobart Detective Agency. The Hobart Agency was run by a redheaded young man, an ex-policeman who had been befriended by Secret Agent “X.” Now the Agent made good use of Hobart’s organization.
As Arvold Fearson, there were many things which “X” had to do now. He had left Laurento upstairs, after having placed him on a bed, securely tied against the time when he should wake up from the coma. Now he looked up and down the street before entering his coupé.
But he did not see the woman who had followed him there. For she had left her post of vigil across the street only a few minutes before, after making another hurried telephone call.
The Agent drove west for several blocks, and pulled up in front of a drug store. He went inside and entered a telephone booth where he dialed a secret number which was known only to himself.
In a moment a precise, military voice spoke over the phone: “Bates talking.”
Bates was the head of another organization controlled by the Agent, similar to the Hobart Agency except for one important difference — no one knew about it. For this organization the Agent had drafted men from all walks of life after investigating them thoroughly. The existence of Bates and his vast network of operatives was entirely unsuspected by the public, and the number which had just been dialed was one that was never used by anybody but Secret Agent “X.”
The Agent said quickly: “Report on Oscar Stanton.”
“Right, sir,” Bates said. “Stanton left headquarters this morning in great excitement. He was followed to his home, where we have a dictograph installed. I have a transcript of everything he said at home. He made a number of telephone calls. They were to his brokers, instructing them to buy certain stock when they hit certain low prices. These instructions are the same as he has been giving for the last ten days, except that he added to the list of stocks that he wished to buy the common stock of the Pacific Bank, of which Mr. Gilbert Patterson was the head.”
“Tell me quickly what happened at headquarters this morning,” the Agent ordered.
“Why, sir, a man came to the commissioner’s office claiming to be Secret Agent “X.” He threw some sort of bomb into the room. And under cover of the smoke, Gilbert Patterson was murdered as Doctor Blood had promised. It seems that Commissioner Foster had called a conference of seven or eight of the leading citizens of the city. We can’t get any definite information, but it is suspected that the commissioner had some sort of inkling that these men were the next to be murdered by the blood drinkers. We are sure of one thing — that Gilbert Patterson was slated for today, and that Doctor Blood succeeded in murdering him. In some way they managed to admit the beasts into the commissioner’s office. The man who threw the bomb escaped and carried off with him Mr. Victor Randall, who was also present at the conference. I have men out—”
“You need not work on that,” the Agent interrupted him. “Mr. Randall is safe. There was another matter that I asked you to look into — this business of Grover Wilkerson. What have you got on that?”
“I don’t know what put you on the track of Wilkerson, sir.” There was admiration in Bates’ voice. “But he certainly ties in with these murders. I have a short résumé here. Shall I read it to you over the wire?”
“Go ahead.” The Agent inserted another nickel in the slot as the operator told him that his time was up, and he listened carefully while Bates read from the résumé in a clear precise voice.