One of the bluecoats went around and sat in front beside the driver, while Mace and the other two officers climbed in to the interior of the van.
As they drove away, the single electric bulb in the wire cage in the middle of the roof of the truck cast a dim light which showed “X” the strained countenances of his companions. Larkin showed most the strain that they had been under.
“You — you think,” he said to Norman Marsh, “that we’ll get there safely? It’s after midnight. Maybe this Doctor Blood will — attack us on the way!”
Mayor Sturgis laughed shortly. “I doubt it. If he should be foolhardy enough to try anything like that, it would probably be the end of him.” He gestured toward the bluecoats sitting near the door. Each one was grimly holding a sub-machine gun in his lap, while Sergeant Mace kept looking back through a small porthole in the rear door.
“This is really an armored car,” Sturgis explained. “Doctor Blood would have to have a small howitzer to stop us. And if he attacks us with anything less than that, those machine guns will mow him down — with his beasts!”
Lacey sighed deeply. “Well, in a few minutes we’ll be safe in jail. But I’m afraid I won’t get much sleep tonight.”
They drove in silence now for perhaps ten minutes. Then the van slowed down.
Sergeant Mace turned and announced to the mayor: “Here we are, sir.” He wiped his broad face with a dirty handkerchief. “Whew! I’m glad that ride is over. I sure thought something was going to happen!”
The truck was backing up now, and in a moment the doors opened. Two of the bluecoats descended first, holding their sub-machine guns in front of them. “X” could see that they were in a sort of alley which ended in a small door at the far end. The two bluecoats walked around to the front, reconnoitered and returned, reporting that they had not been followed. It was not till then that Sergeant Mace said: “All right. I guess it’s safe.”
He got down together with the last bluecoat, and stood alertly while “X” and the others got out. Then he led the way down the alley toward the small door at the back.
“X” recognized the building as the old jail behind the Morrisville Station House. Its use as a jail had been discontinued about a year ago, when the new Morrisville Detention House had been erected right next to the police station. “X” had been here several times, knew that this old building backed up right against the station house.
Sturgis, who was walking beside him, whispered, “This was pretty clever of Foster. No one would suspect that we were hiding in this old jail. I begin to think we may have put it over on Doctor Blood!”
The Agent would have felt much better if he could have shared Sturgis’ confidence. He had too great a respect for the unknown individual who used the name of Doctor Blood, had seen too much of how he operated, to feel that they would be unmolested throughout the night. But he said nothing. There was no sense in undermining the courage of the others.
They entered through the small door which Mace held open for them, and the four bluecoats filed in after them.
“All right, Joe,” Mace called out to the driver of the van. The gears clashed, and the van drove out of the alley as Mace closed the door behind them.
They were in a small, antiquated receiving room. A long corridor led from here into the gloomy interior.
“How about the guards?” Mayor Sturgis inquired.
“There’s a half dozen inside, sir,” Mace informed him. “And about fifty posted around the building. There’s not a chance of anybody’s breaking into this place tonight.”
He led the way down the corridor. “If you will step this way, sir, I’ll show you and the other gentlemen the quarters that have been prepared.”
They followed him down into the jail proper, with the armed bluecoats behind them. One of the bluecoats remained at the door, on guard with a sub-machine gun in the crook of his arm.
On the way, they passed two more uniformed men, armed with riot guns.
“You’ve certainly taken plenty of precautions,” Mayor Sturgis commended.
“Thank you, sir. We’re doing our best.” Mace opened another door. “If you will step in here, I will show you the accommodations. They were the best we could do on such short notice, sir.”
They filed in, one after the other.
The room was square, equipped with a table and several chairs. On the table was a small lamp which cast a dim light.
“You’ll be safe in here,” Mace called out to them from the doorway. “The windows are all shuttered so no light can leak out.”
“But where do we sleep?” the mayor demanded. “I say—”
His words were drowned out by the sound of the heavy door clanging shut. A key grated in the lock. They were alone in the room.
SECRET AGENT “X” stood tense, his eyes sweeping the room. Mayor Sturgis ran to the door, pounded upon it. “Mace, Mace!” he shouted. “What’s the matter with you! We want something to sleep on!”
The others all stood around, slightly bewildered by the sudden shutting of the door. There was no answer to the mayor’s shout. Sturgis turned away from the door, looked at them queerly. His eyes, deep sunk, looked from one to the other. “Gentlemen — I am afraid I do not understand this.”
Norman Harsh said puzzledly: “Neither do I. What’s this — a practical joke of yours? If so, you’ve picked a damned poor time for a joke!”
Secret Agent “X” stood between them. “This is no joke, Marsh. I’m afraid I understand it too well.”
Larkin and Lacey crowded about him, as did the mayor and Marsh.
“What do you mean?” Larkin demanded, his voice trembling.
“I mean,” the Agent explained, “that we are not here under the protection of Commissioner Foster, or of the police. My guess is that Sergeant Mace is no police sergeant, and that his bluecoats are not policemen. It is a superb masquerade. Gentlemen, I am afraid that we are in the hands of Doctor Blood!”
As if to verify his words, a small wicket in the door was suddenly flung open, and a burst of demoniacal laughter pealed into the room from out in the corridor.
A distorted, ugly face peered in at them through the bars. A twisted claw of a hand, with talons flecked with blood, waved at them wildly.
The laughter that issued from that ghastly mouth was tinged with wildness, with madness. It filled the room, struck sharply at the eardrums.
Frank Larkin put a hand to his throat, staggered backward and slumped into a chair. Then he covered his eyes with his hand and began to moan.
Suddenly the grisly laughter ceased. The claw pointed at them one at a time; and a tight mad voice shrieked at them; “You’ve guessed it. You’ve guessed it. You’re in the hands of Doctor Blood. Doctor Blood always gets his man!”
The Agent knew that claw. He also noted the battered condition of those hideous features. This was the man he had battled with in the Gotham Theatre — unmasked now. And he also recognized the face. It was the face of Grover Wilkerson — the demented financier, whom Bates’ men were seeking everywhere, whom the police of the entire nation were on the hunt for.
The Agent’s eyes were clouded as he listened to the madman’s ravings. For he was convinced that Wilkerson could not be Doctor Blood. Wilkerson was a demented, dangerous, murderous paranoiac. But his very demented condition made it impossible for him to have acted in the cold, cruel, calculating way that Doctor Blood had exhibited. Wilkerson could never have planned this ingenious kidnaping trick. Wilkerson was no more than a tool.
“X’s” hand was in his pocket, on his gas gun. But he did not use it. He could have rendered Wilkerson unconscious, but they would be in no better position than now. For they would still be in the power of Wilkerson’s master.