“Mrs. Vorse,” she cried. “I didn’t mean to! But when Mary began to get better — I–I mentioned it to Fred, a friend of mine. He must have told this man—”
“Then it is true!” rasped Vronsky. “If you have money — the doctors can cure you!”
His eyes blazed with fanatical light. Mr. Vorse made an attempt to quiet him.
“Mary is not well yet — only better. Our doctor is working now to perfect a treatment that will cure everyone.”
But Vronsky had turned and was striding to the door. Agent “X” followed. There was a tense mob of men and women outside.
“The rich can be cured!” shrieked Vronsky. “But the poor cannot! Our Government is betraying us. Doctor Vaughton is here in Branford, and he is betraying us, too! He is tending to the rich and neglecting the poor. We will take Doctor Vaughton prisoner and hold him hostage until our demands for fair treatment have been met. He is at Drexel Institute now. We will go there!”
Chapter VIII
A THUNDERING chorus from the mob answered Vronsky’s impassioned speech. A woman leaped up on the steps beside him, gesturing wildly.
“Vronsky is right! If Doctor Vaughton can cure the rich, he can cure the poor! Why should we stand for such wicked discrimination! We must demand—”
Vronsky brushed the woman aside and drowned her out with his great voice, lashing the crowd to a frenzy with his oratory.
“The institute is guarded, but we outnumber the guards. If Vaughton refuses to come out, we will burn him out! We’ll burn the place down and drive him out — along with the other medical rats in there!”
Agent “X” turned back into the house and sprang past the white-faced Vorses to a telephone.
“Police headquarters — and hurry!”
If these people destroyed the institute they would be destroying their main hope. Sooner or later the expert knowledge of the staff would produce results. The priceless scientific equipment of the institute would be needed. The institute must not be destroyed.
When the voice of Chief Baxter answered, “X” spoke quickly:
“A mob is headed for the institute! They are violent — worked up to a fever pitch of destruction. Send police reserves at once. Strengthen all guards!”
“Who is this speaking?”
“A representative of the governor.”
Agent “X” slammed up the receiver. In his questioning of the Vorses he had unearthed the ghastly motive behind the crime plot in Branford. Greed — incredible, devouring greed, lay behind it; the awful greed of men willing to inflict agony and death in order that they might reap a golden harvest from human fear. The identity of the criminals behind it was still veiled in black mystery. But the present emergency must be dealt with before anything else.
Agent “X” plunged out the door. The crowd was surging down the street now. He ran after it, mingled in the fringes of the mob. The faces of its members were weird and barbaric in the glow of flickering torches improvised from oil-soaked rags wound around broomsticks and fence pickets. They were, he guessed, as much to drive away the escaped gorillas and to smoke out mosquitoes as to give light.
Vronsky headed the mob, turning from time to time to harangue those behind him. Someone broke into a wild, rhythmic song. The crowd took it up, marching to the time of it. Agent “X” did not blame these people. His sympathies were with them. They were desperate. But they were inflamed beyond the reach of reason. No words could persuade them that they were on the wrong track.
The mob swelled its ranks with recruits that ran out to join it. The news had spread like wildfire that favoritism was being shown in Branford — that Doctor Vaughton had attended to the rich and ignored the poor. News of Vaughton’s supposed murder was still being withheld by the police.
Agent “X” left the throng. He dashed down a side street and taxied to the institute. There his credentials took him past police guards and into the presence of Chief Baxter, who had already arrived.
“I’m the man who phoned the warning,” said “X.” “The mob is on the way. But there are women among them. Instruct your men not to fire. There must be no bloodshed. Use tear gas to dispel them if there is no other way.”
Baxter nodded grimly. “I’ll have five hundred men here before the mob arrives. They’ll never break through.”
Police sirens were wailing from all sides. Every instant another police cruiser arrived, disgorging one or more bluecoats. The shrill clanging of a bell, the shrieking of a siren louder than all the rest, announced the arrival of an emergency squad truck carrying a dozen cops.
Agent “X,” the compelling ring of authority in his voice, gave another order.
“Park the police cruisers around the square nose to nose as a barricade!”
CHIEF BAXTER nodded again. As he barked the order, the voice of the oncoming mob could be heard. It was a whisper of sound at first; hundreds of shouting voices far off. It swelled in volume like the slow approach of a storm wind sweeping across the sea. It echoed and re-echoed along Branford’s dark streets. Heads appeared at windows. Some, catching the excitement, poured out to join it, risking the night-flying mosquitoes. It was an hysterical outburst, the violent expression of the city’s long pent-up fears. Many joined the crowd without knowing what its objective was.
Thousands poured into the square around Drexel Institute. Searchlights mounted on emergency trucks were turned on and swept the scene. The lavender beams sprayed light on a wild sea of faces. Vronsky, the fiery radical, mounted a box. The crowd ceased its shouts and cries to listen to their leader. His voice echoed across the square and reached those on the steps of Drexel Institute.
“We want Doctor Vaughton! We demand that he come with us! We demand that he treat our families as he has already treated the rich!”
Police Chief Baxter stepped forward with desperate determination. But his voice was hoarse, and his eyes bright with fear.
“Doctor Vaughton is not here!” he shouted. “Doctor Vaughton has been killed!”
A hush like the dead silence of a tomb followed his words. Then angry murmurs arose. A woman gave an hysterical sob. Vronsky spoke again, harshly.
“A lie!” he screamed. “You are feeding us lies again! You are trying to hide him for your own selfish interests. He has sold himself to the rich!”
Chief Baxter shouted fiercely for silence. “It is the truth!” he cried. “You must listen! He was killed tonight. His car was crowded off the West Bridge in an accident! They are pulling it out of the river now. Go back to your homes and wait. Try to be patient! We must all be patient. No favoritism is being shown. Our doctors are tending rich and poor alike. Other specialists are coming in from outside. We will have the epidemic in hand shortly.”
A sound like a snarl came from Vronsky’s throat.
“The doctors have blundered at every step. What spread the disease in the first place? The institute! We are here to see that no more germs come out of it. Burn the place down, my friends! Burn the institute!”
VRONSKY was versed in mob psychology. He knew that what his followers wanted was violence. Any reasoning, no matter how warped, was good enough for them so long as it led to action. And Vronsky was drunk with his own power. He threw up his hands as the mob roared its acclaim. Women began to creep back. Men edged forward. Those with torches raised them aloft.
“Burn the institute! Burn the pest-house!”
Chief Baxter spoke again, his desperate voice faint amid the uproar.
“Stand back! We have guns and tear gas! By God, we’ll turn them both loose on you if you move another step!”