Chapter VII
THE catapulting limousine struck the surface of the river with a mighty splash. The water was deep here. The engine’s weight sent the car plunging to the bottom. Agent “X,” half-stunned by the shock of his crash against the car’s side, was fully aware of his peril as cold water gushed in through shattered glass.
Nose first, the limousine had plunged at least thirty feet and buried its hub caps in the river mud. A roar like a thousand waterfalls drummed in the Agent’s ears. Death’s icy fingers were clutching for him greedily. The river water rushing into the car’s front compressed the air in the space above till a giant vise seemed clamped on “X’s” lungs.
Leaning over the back of the front seat, he turned the beam of his pocket flashlight on the chauffeur. A ghastly sight was revealed. The steering gear, snapping in two, had pierced the man’s body. He must have died instantly.
“X” stood up. In the condensed air formed by the tonneau of the limousine his lungs were bursting. He could not tell whether the roar he heard was that made by the swirling black waters of the river or the surging of his own blood. He lashed out with his fist at one of the plate glass windows. His gloved hand, backed by the air pressure behind it, made the glass literally explode outward. Water filled the car and Agent “X” was sucked out and up in a geyser of foam and escaping air.
With powerful strokes of arms and legs he fought to the surface. He was encumbered by a baggy topcoat, but he was still able to swim. His head emerged above the water only long enough to draw in a deep lungful of fresh air. Then he ducked down again. If there were any watchers, they must not see him.
He was certain that this had been a deliberate attack. Some one had attempted the murder of Doctor Vaughton. The vicious maneuver of the heavy truck had given “X” visible and startling proof that he was at grips with some criminal organization.
There could be only one reason for wanting to murder the English doctor. Some one feared that his skill would stem the epidemic. Some one wanted the disease to spread.
As “X” swam swiftly to the bank of the river, his mind made a quick decision. He would let it appear that Vaughton had been killed. If the murderer felt he had succeeded in putting the Englishman out of the way, he would be less on guard.
The Secret Agent emerged momentarily under the shadow of an anchored barge, then swam from there to a group of dark pilings. He crawled cautiously out and plunged into the space between two warehouses.
There he paused, hearing shouts and cries of horror. People in a neighboring tenement must have seen the accident. They were running toward the river, risking the threat of gorillas and marauding mosquitoes. A moment later, a clanging ambulance approached the ramp leading to the bridge.
“X” stripped off his soggy topcoat and stuffed it far under the foundations of one of the warehouses. In the darkness his fingers moved swiftly, skillfully, removing the disguise of Doctor Vaughton. He whipped the white toupee off, stuffed it in his pocket.
HE was no longer an elderly doctor but a brown-haired young man. A few deft touches with makeup material from sealed waterproof tubes and his own appearance was changed. But he was still wet. He kept cautiously to the darkest streets as he went back to the hideout he had established on his previous visit to Branford.
There he quickly changed his dripping clothes for a dry blue serge suit. He still had Doctor Vaughton’s papers and the list of victims of sleeping sickness that he had collected during the afternoon in his role as Vaughton.
He studied the list carefully. He had marked two of the names with asterisks. The answers given him by these two had aroused his curiosity. Agent “X,” a close student of human nature, knew when people were trying to conceal something.
One of the two was Stephen Vorse, a rich merchant whose small daughter was one of the first to contract the dread disease. The child had been in a state of coma for weeks. And yet Stephen Vorse and his wife had not seemed worried. They had not implored the supposed Doctor Vaughton for immediate help, as other distracted parents had done.
Why was this? Had they adjusted themselves to their daughter’s terrible malady — to her almost certain death? Or was there some other reason for their odd manner?
Another of Branford’s wealthier citizens had acted in the same way. Agent “X” in the role of Vaughton had planned to keep a sharp eye on these two families. He had, in fact, intended to return to the Vorse home directly after the banquet, before changing his disguise.
But, as a result of the grim incident of half an hour ago, there would be no banquet in honor of Doctor Vaughton. Agent “X” knew what consternation must now be reigning in the mayor’s home. And he realized heavily that fear would soon have the city in its grip again.
His lean jaw set. He still held an ace in the hole. If necessary, he could give a plausible explanation if it seemed expedient to have Vaughton appear again. His chauffeur had been killed. No one except the murderous driver of the truck could prove that Vaughton had been in the car.
But for the moment Agent “X” meant to let everyone believe that Vaughton had been killed. He had another disguise ready; another role thought out. Before his three-sided mirror he was already building a new make-up.
Transparent strips of adhesive drew the flesh back from his cheeks, giving his face a hatchet-thin appearance. More of his volatile material covered the tape. A gray toupee covered his brown hair. He had become a middle-aged, hawk-faced man. The blue serge suit lent an air of importance and efficiency.
The Agent selected a card from a hidden compartment of his suitcase — a card which certified him as a special representative of the governer. As a doctor of the State Sanitation Department he would steer clear of the suspicious Traub, use his card only to gain entrance to those homes he wished to visit.
He left the hideout and strode quickly down the street two blocks. There he hailed one of the few taxies still cruising the streets with windows closed to keep insects out. He gave the number of Stephen Vorse’s home. Once again the Man of a Thousand Faces was in action.
THE Vorse residence was another huge mansion in Branford’s “Millionaires’ Row,” facing the river and almost directly opposite the state troopers’ camp that guarded the water exit from the town. A trim maid answered the Agent’s ring, and his sharp eyes studied the girl keenly. Her eyes were shining. Her manner was brisk. Here in this home the dread of the sleeping sickness seemed to have lifted.
Mrs. Vorse’s manner when she greeted him in the drawing room of the luxurious home was not that of a mother who fears the death of her child. It was even more buoyant than it had been when “X” had talked to her in the role of Vaughton less than two hours before. Her voice was steady, assured. There was even a sparkle of happiness in her eyes. The Secret Agent tensed with a heightening excitement.
“I am here to investigate for the governor,” he stated. “We are taking a special census of all sleeping sickness victims. Your little girl was one of the first, I believe.”
For a moment the woman hesitated. “Yes I believe she was,” she said at last. “It was dreadful, doctor! Those early stages — when her little face looked like a mask — then the terrible coma—”
“You are more hopeful now. She is better?” “X” shot the question quickly.