At sight of him the cheers rose to a frenzy. The band broke into a lively military march. But, as Agent “X” approached, even the music was drowned out in a wild clamor of voices.
“Vaughton — Vaughton — Vaughton!”
A woman, tears streaming down her face, ran forward to kiss his hand. A man, overcome with emotion, grasped his arm. Doctor Traub’s publicity had taken effect. The people of Branford looked upon Doctor Vaughton as a human savior — a man who would lift the curse of the sleeping sickness from their loved ones.
Pale strained faces about him showed the ravages of fear, of restless nights, of worry. He was heavy-hearted as he looked about him. He was fighting for these people — but not as they believed. If they could pierce his disguise, their cheers would turn to fury. They would fall upon him, rend him limb from limb.
His mind raced as he was conducted through the quarantine lines to one of the official cars. Doctor Traub was there; the mayor of Branford; two of the commissioners. Other commissioners and a group of aldermen made up the retinue.
TRAUB stood up in the tonneau of the open car, pulled Agent “X” to his feet beside him. Traub’s hand was lifted, asking for silence. The band ceased playing. The multitude grew quiet. Traub’s voice boomed out.
“My friends and fellow citizens! We welcome today one who is to perform miracles in our midst. We welcome Doctor John Vaughton — the greatest living authority on sleeping sickness. He’ll have our sick cured in a few weeks, friends. We can rest easy now, knowing that the tide has turned — knowing that the black hordes of disease are about to be driven back by the white light of science.”
It was a pretty speech. The crowd broke into a wild tumult of acclaim. People cheered and wept. Children were raised to shoulders to get a glimpse of the great physician. The mayor shook “X’s” hand, moisture gleaming in his own eyes.
“Speak to them!” he cried. “Brace up their morale, doctor! Tell them you’re going to cure their sick families!”
Taut with the emotion that racked him, Agent “X” lifted his own hand in a gesture for silence. As he spoke into the tense hush that followed, he could not keep the hoarseness from his voice. Incomparable actor that he was, the blind faith of these poor souls affected him.
“I’ll do my best,” he said. “Go to your homes. Be patient. I will work for you body and soul.”
It was all he could say. Traub thumped his back. The mayor wrung his hand again. The people cheered.
When the cars turned toward city hall, the people followed, shouting and rejoicing. But it seemed to Agent “X” that the gaunt spectre of Death leered down sardonically from the skies above.
He was taken into the mayor’s office in the city hall. Traub and the commissioners and aldermen crowded around him.
“I want you to know, doctor,” said the mayor, “that we are all for you. We understand that the epidemic in this city is out of your line. We understand that you’re here partly if not wholly to bolster up the morale of our people; to keep them quiet until headway has been made. We appreciate that, and you’ll have our eternal gratitude for anything you can do.”
Traub spoke after the mayor. “You’ve got to keep on being a propagandist,” he said. “Don’t let the people know that you have any doubts. Let them think you’ve got a serum that will fix them up.”
Agent “X” pondered a moment. A mysterious gleam came into his eyes. A gambler always, he was about to make a gamble now. For a deep motive of his own, he was about to make an assertion that on its face was a falsehood, yet which held in it the elements of truth. He studied each face in the group around him. He spoke in a low, tense voice:
“Gentlemen, let us hope the faith of your citizens in me is not altogether misplaced. I dared not wire ahead for fear I would be misquoted. But I have something almost worked out which will arrest if not cure the disease. Otherwise I would not have come at all.”
Cheers broke the startled silence that followed his words. Traub and the mayor pumped his hand once more. An alderman left to give the word to his family. Another stepped forward to beg Vaughton to visit his own home, where a case of sleeping sickness had developed.
“I’ve got to get my bearing first of all,” said “X.” “I want to try and trace the progress of the disease — to study its particular type and confer with the doctors at the institute.”
“A car and chauffeur are at your disposal, doctor,” said the mayor. “They will be yours while you are here — at your service day and night.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Agent “X.” “If I may have the car at once, I’ll start going over the ground without further delay.”
He was conducted down the steps of city hall to a big black limousine from which a liveried chauffeur sprang with quick deference. “X” directed him to drive to the Regis Hotel. Here he deposited all of Doctor Vaughton’s luggage. It would be safe until, or if, the real Doctor Vaughton arrived.
Back in the car again. Agent “X” gave swift orders through tight lips.
“Drexel Institute first,” he said.
ALL that day Agent “X,” as Doctor Vaughton, gathered facts. Driving up and down the streets of the city, he got the names of each family which had been visited with sleeping sickness. These he noted down carefully in a small book he carried. He was especially careful to record the names of the wealthy, and the dates at which the malady had first broken out. In most cases these coincided. And all of the earlier cases had come as a result of an attack by gorillas.
At dusk he ordered his chauffeur to drive him back to the Hotel Regis. A banquet was to be given in his honor by officials of the city that evening. After it was over, “X” planned to change his disguise and mingle with the city’s poorer population.
Vronsky, the radical agitator, was a character who interested him. The man seemed to hold great power over the city’s labor unions. There was also Branford’s underworld to be explored. Here he might find the roots of the hideous crime plot.
His swift car swept through fast darkening streets. With the approach of night, nearly everyone in Branford retreated to their homes, closed doors and windows, and stayed inside. Fear of the gorillas still held sway.
A bridge over the river at a spot where it cut through the town loomed ahead. The river divided the city in half. Stores and the homes of the wealthy were on one side. On the other were factories and the jumbled crowded homes of workmen and their families. The uniformed chauffeur, aware of the importance of his position as driver for the great Doctor Vaughton, sat stiffly in his seat. The big closed car rumbled out on the bridge. And suddenly the Agent’s eyes focused ahead.
A truck was coming from the opposite end of the bridge. It was a high-bodied vehicle with huge tires and heavy bumpers. It seemed to be approaching at reckless speed. Dust and grime darkening its windshield hid the face of the driver. But Agent “X” tensed as he saw it come plunging on at a swift pace directly down the center of the narrow road.
His chauffeur honked, expecting the truck to give way. But the big vehicle roared on, hogging the middle. Agent “X” shouted a warning. The chauffeur wrenched the wheel, clamped down on the brakes. Tires screamed on the hard macadam. The limousine slewed over toward the concrete railing at the side of the bridge.
Then the left wheel and heavy bumper of the speeding truck struck the car a heavy, jarring blow. Agent “X” caught a brief glimpse of an evil, tense face peering down.
Concrete snapped like brittle glass. The limousine rocked crazily, twisted about, and reared up. Its heavy engine, jammed sidewise by the full weight of the truck, burst through the railing. End over end, its chauffeur crushed behind the wheel, the big car hurtled toward the sluggish black waters of the river below.