WHEN he was satisfied that the coast was clear, the Agent slipped across the street, faded into the darkness in the direction of his parked coupé. He had escaped from the jaws of the trap. But his work was yet to be done. His unknown enemy had placed him upon the defensive, had caused him to lose valuable time in this race with death — for the Agent still bore in mind that on the following day Norman Marsh was to die. And “X’s” clue had been wrested from him; all the leads which he had been attempting to work upon had been destroyed by the quick action of Doctor Blood. Langknecht was dead. Laurento had been spirited away.
There remained the woman, Lola, and Hans, if they could be found. There was also the possibility that Bates’ men might turn up something on Grover Wilkerson, the demented financier. Beyond that there was nothing.
As he drove along now, he was careful to watch in his rear vision mirror. But he was not being followed. Apparently he had successfully eluded the watchers outside his house.
He listened now to the routine police broadcast which came over the short wave radio receiver on the dashboard. Somehow, he was sure he detected an edge of nervousness in the voice of the police announcer. Many of the orders had to do with the precautions that were being taken by the police to protect the doomed men. They indicated that the police still believed that Doctor Blood was employing beasts of prey to do his vicious work. One of these orders in particular was interesting.
“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.