“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 steps 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.
Outside, the Agent hailed a cab and said: “Gotham Theatre.”
Secret Agent “X” was going to keep the appointment which Stanton had told him he had with Doctor Blood.
Chapter XII
THE Gotham Theatre was an old house which had long been devoted to the production of legitimate plays. Musty, with the plush and gilt grandeur of another day, it now stood forlornly yearning for the old triumphs when Mansfield had trod its boards. Until recently it had been empty, with only the ghosts of its old celebrities passing wraithlike up and down the narrow aisles. Now the old house was lit up, rejuvenated — with the glittering North American Varieties.
The performance was more than halfway through when the Agent arrived. The orchestra was well filled, as were the balcony and the mezzanine. “X” was conducted to a balcony box. When he was seated his eyes sought the stage, but he paid little attention to what was going on there. His gaze swung back to the fashionably attired women and the well-groomed men among the audience.
Here were hundreds of people, assembled in the usual way to seek entertainment, intent on spending an evening of pleasure despite the grisly menace which they knew was overhanging the city. Tomorrow another man was slated to die, to have throat torn, his blood drained from him by mysterious human vampires; and every day thereafter for a year another man would be doomed to die in the same way. Yet these people came here to be amused.
But “X’s” attention was suddenly drawn to the stage. The chorus line of flashing legs backed away from the footlights, and the music struck up a lively tune. The spotlight focused upon the wing. A gorgeous creature daringly draped in a gown of silver cloth pirouetted upon the stage.
It was Lola Lollagi.
Her beauty was dazzling as she bowed with liquid grace. A series of complicated steps carried her directly beneath “X’s” box. The setting of this scene was an old Moorish castle. The men and women of the chorus were Spanish grandees and their ladies. Lola Lollagi seemed to fit into the scene as if she had been born for it. The glittering silver cloth dress clung to her sinuous body, cut low at the neck, revealing the alabaster skin of a perfectly formed throat. Two jade earrings were the only ornaments which she wore. Her hair was combed high upon her head. She danced with incomparable grace and beauty. The simplicity of her attire made a striking contrast to the ornate settings and the glittering raiment of the other actors.
Several times she glanced up toward the box in which “X” sat. The fixed smile which she wore for the benefit of the audience remained there; but the Agent detected something else in her startling coal black eyes — something that might have been uneasiness, fear — almost terror. Was this because she resented Stanton’s attentions?
Betty Dale had said that Stanton had been paying constant attendance upon the dancer; this was evidenced by Stanton’s statement that he frequently visited the theatre and sat in this box. Was Lola Lollagi afraid of Stanton, or was she afraid that some third party would resent her going around with him?
That the woman must have superb control of herself was indicated by the fact that she was appearing here, able to go on with the show, after what had happened back at Professor Langknecht’s house.
Lola finished her number, and retired from the stage amid crashing applause. Her last glance was leveled at the box in which “X” sat. And subsequently, while other performers held the stage, the Agent thought he could detect her peering out from the wing — inspecting him, studying him. Was it possible that she had pierced his disguise? It is harder to deceive a woman than a man. He was posing here as Stanton — a man whom she apparently knew well. Perhaps she had been able to detect some subtle difference of appearance which indicated to her that the person who sat in that box was not Oscar Stanton.