The Agent caught only that single glimpse of her, and was about to disregard her, to turn and leap upon the monster, when Lola’s shrieks turned into intelligible words.
“Police!” she screamed. “The police are coming!”
The masked monster struggled to its knees, and “X” turned, saw that the doorman was running across the stage toward them, followed by two uniformed policemen with drawn revolvers. He had apparently heard the struggle, had gone out to summon help.
The monster leaped to its feet, hurled itself at “X,” disregarding the threat of the police. Hatred, intense and burning, gleamed from the two eyes behind the mask.
One of the officers shouted: “Stand still, or we’ll shoot to kill!”
THE Agent had no wish to be cornered here, and questioned. Once more he was compelled to ward off that gleaming talon with his left arm, to protect his throat against the claws of death.
The police were almost upon them when the claw-man suddenly seemed to realize the danger. He cast a single glance at the threatening revolvers, turned a hateful gaze upon “X,” and then swung about, fled down the corridor. Lola already had disappeared.
The Agent gave up all hope of capturing the claw-man. The police were close now, and their attention was all for the escaping monster rather than for him. This was quite understandable, as it would appear to them that “X” was a respectable man who had been attacked by the monster. They dashed past him, and one of the officers fired his heavy service revolver. The explosion reverberated through the theatre, but the officer must have missed, for the claw-man disappeared into the darkness.
The doorman shouted: “Get after him quick! There’s a side exit there. He’ll get away!”
The two officers hastened after the fugitive, and the doorman, after casting only a single glance at “X,” hurried after them, eager to be in on the kill.
The Agent was left alone upon the stage. He turned, crossed quickly, made his way to the stage door, and slipped out into the alley. He heard two more shots from within the theatre, and then the frantic shrill of the patrolmen’s whistles. Apparently the monster had escaped them.
The Agent hurried down the alley, out into the street which was more or less deserted by this time, walked quickly to the corner and hailed a passing taxicab.
On the West Side, “X” dismissed the cab and walked two blocks to an apartment house. Here he ascended to the third floor and entered another one of his retreats.
It took him almost a half hour to remove the disguise of Stanton, to wash the deep cut in his shoulder with antiseptic, and then to build for himself once more the personality of Victor Randall.
He must once more use that disguise, for it was imperative that he learn what plans the commissioner was making for the protection of Norman Marsh and the other doomed men.
When he was almost through with his work, the radio in the room suddenly came to life. The voice of Bates announced: “Station ‘X’ calling. Station ‘X’ calling.”
Then in code, Bates proceeded to deliver a message over the air which the Agent deciphered without difficulty.
Important meeting called at home of John Lacey for 11:50 P.M. Commissioner Foster has requested Marsh, Sturgis, Larkin and Randall to be present at Lacey’s home at that time. I have no means of learning purpose of meeting, and my operative reports he cannot get into Lacey’s home. What shall I do?
The Agent snapped off the radio, glanced at his watch. It was 11:40—ten minutes before the time of the meeting.
He hastened downstairs, stopped in at a phone booth and called Bates. Otherwise, Bates would have continued to broadcast the message until assured that the Agent had received it. “X” then summoned a cab and gave the address of Lacey’s home, which he knew to be located on Central Park West. He was ringing the doorbell of Lacey’s apartment in the ornate building on Central Park West on the dot of 11:50.
“X” had had no means of telling whether the house was being watched by Doctor Blood’s men or not; for opposite the building lay the gloomy expanse of Central Park, thickly wooded at this spot. A hundred eyes might have been peering out of the shrubbery along here without being perceived.
LACEY himself opened the door, and when he saw “X,” he uttered an exclamation of astonishment. “We hardly expected you, Randall. Foster phoned your home as a matter of course, but we really didn’t think we’d ever see you alive again. What happened to you? Were you kidnaped? How did you get away?” He fired the questions at “X” one after the other with breathless rapidity. Then, shuddering, said: “We were almost afraid you’d had your throat clawed like the others!”
The Agent made no immediate answer, but allowed himself to be led into the comfortable, high-ceilinged living room. The others were already present. Mayor Sturgis was there, as well as Norman Marsh and Frank Larkin. The original eight who had been present in the commissioner’s office that morning had been reduced to five now. Patterson and Langknecht were dead, and Stanton had deserted them.
Marsh, Sturgis and the others crowded around “X” eagerly, hurling questions at him. They touched him, squeezed him, acting like hysterical schoolboys. They insisted on his telling what had happened.
He gave them a short explanation, telling them in substance the same story that he had told Stanton, taking as few words as possible.
“And now,” he finished, “what is this meeting for?”
Immediately a pall of gloom descended upon them. Sturgis spoke reluctantly. “Commissioner Foster has received another letter from this devilish Doctor Blood. Read it yourself.”
He extracted an envelope from his pocket, and gingerly drew forth a folded sheet of paper which he gave to “X.” Like the other missive of the doctor’s, it was written in blood, scrawled in a bold, large handwriting. It read:
Commissioner Foster:
You will no doubt be interested to hear that I have made a slight change in my plans. I have suddenly decided that I need one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. I have therefore selected the names of the next five surviving men on my list, and I request you to inform them that they must make their payments to me not later than midnight today.
If they do not pay I shall, with great regret, be compelled to order that they all perish at once. Either I receive the sum mentioned before midnight, or they will all die tomorrow. If they decide to pay, you may get in touch with Oscar Stanton, who already knows what arrangements must be made.
Yours, for a long life,
Doctor Blood.
The others listened attentively while “X” read the missive, though they apparently were already aware of its contents. When the Agent had finished it, he studied the grisly sheet of paper for a long minute, noting where the blood which had been used for ink had left stains upon the edges of the sheet.
He asked the mayor: “Has this been examined for fingerprints?”
“Of course,” Sturgis assured him. “But those smudges show nothing. The man who wrote it must have worn rubber gloves.”
The Agent returned the letter to the mayor who folded the sheet, and methodically replaced it in the envelope, returned the envelope to his pocket. Norman Marsh threw himself into an easy chair, and lit a cigarette.
“We’ve been arguing this thing pro and con for the last ten minutes before you came, Randall,” he said. “Larkin and Lacey want to pay. Sturgis and I have absolutely refused. It looks like you have the deciding vote.”