Commissioner Traub rose ponderously, waving his cigar. “I can spill some mean oratory myself. Watch me settle those mugs out there right now.”
TRAUB went to the steps of the city hall, and Agent “X” followed, keeping in the background. The commissioner’s big voice boomed commandingly above Vronsky’s hoarse, impassioned shouts. The cries of the mob stilled.
“Go back to your homes, folks,” roared Traub, waving his cigar. “We’ve got a doc lined up now who’ll knock this epidemic for a goal. Vaughton’s his name — the biggest sleeping sickness shark in the world. What he don’t know you could scratch on the back of a postage stamp. He’s coming to Branford tomorrow. He’s got serum with him that will make every germ in this city high-tail for cover!”
Some one in the crowd cheered. Another voice took it up. The tense, fear-strained faces of those in the mob broke into smiles. Here was good news at last. The angry cries of Vronsky, the radical, were drowned out. His fiery words no longer had the power to sway the mob. One by one men left to go to their homes and spread the good word.
“Poor saps!” said the commissioner from his lofty pinnacle of knowledge. He waved Agent “X” back to his office with a satisfied smile.
“X” felt scorn for the man’s tactics. Here was the action of a cheap politician, not the lofty idealism of medicine, which Traub was supposed to uphold. Yet there was some justification for his act Something had to be done to quiet the people. Frenzied mobs and strikes inside the quarantined city would only add to the horror. It was Traub’s manner, rather than his actual hoaxing, that the Agent criticized. Back in the commissioner’s office, “X’s” eyes betrayed some of the contempt he felt. Traub seemed to sense it.
“You high-falutin’ birds from Washington are all right in the laboratory, maybe,” Traub said, “but you don’t know anything about handling folks. Another of you Public Health Service men was here last week— By the way, he didn’t say nothin’ about you coming. How was that?”
The beginnings of suspicion glinted in Traub’s small eyes. “X” answered quietly, though his nerves were taut. Traub, accustomed to associating with shady politicians, was not an easy man to fool.
“I asked permission to come on my own hook,” the Agent said. “The Government is worried about this epidemic. If it should spread elsewhere—”
Traub’s cigar tilted aggressively again. “It won’t! We’re gettin’ rid of the mosquitoes. I got men pouring oil on every pond and puddle in the city limits. The police will locate those escaped apes and put ’em out of business.”
“Some of them should be caught alive and taken back to the institute,” said “X.” “Doctor Gollomb is handicapped by lack of material to work with.”
“Yeah,” jeered Traub. “We’ll put salt on those monkeys’ tails and just lead ’em back on a string. I’ve told Goliomb if he wants the apes alive he can go out and get ’em himself with some of those science sharks of his. My men have got orders to shoot ’em on sight!”
“X” nodded, and rose. He saw that there were warring elements here. Traub on one side. Gollomb on the other. And the angry populace ready to rise up in rebellion. They were all sitting on a powder keg with the constant menace of the terrible disease overshadowing everything.
He went to Branford’s main hotel, checked in as Julius Smith, establishing headquarters where Traub and the institute could reach him. Then he drove blocks away and, under another name, rented a cheap furnished room. Here he deposited his make-up materials and other strange paraphernalia. There was no telling when a quick change of disguise might be necessary.
There were several people he wanted to investigate. Vronsky, the radical agitator, was one. Drexel, founder of the institute, whose fortune had been wiped out, was another. It was the Secret Agent’s policy to pursue every possible angle of investigation until he had a complete picture of a case. He had established to his own satisfaction that there was a human agency behind the spread of the dread disease. Who was it?
Shortly after midnight he returned to his hotel again. A grim-faced deputation met him in the lobby. Traub headed the group. His small eyes smoldered, the stump of a fat cigar projected from his thick lips. Two uniformed men were at his side: another in plain clothes, who had, to “X’s” experienced gaze, the look of a detective.
The Agent’s pulses hammered. A sudden ominous silence had fallen at his entrance. Then Traub spoke with oily ponderousness.
“Let’s see those papers of yours again, doc.”
Agent “X” handed his credentials over, eyes flicking with steely alertness from one to another of the men. Traub passed the papers to the plain-clothes man.
“There you are, chief,” he said with heavy smugness. “They must be forged.” He turned to “X,” his face hard.
“This is Chief Baxter. I telephoned Washington long distance, doc. The jig is up. There ain’t no Julius Smith in the Public Service line-up. You’re just another damned quack — the worst of the lot — and you’ll cool your heels in our jail till the epidemic’s over. Then they’ll ship you to the Federal pen for impersonating a Government employee. Arrest him, chief!”
Chapter IV
GRIMLY the two cops closed in on Secret Agent “X,” guns drawn.
“We got enough trouble,” continued Traub harshly, “without being pestered by frauds like you. I hope you get the sleeping sickness!”
The commissioner touched a match to the stub of his cigar, puffed furiously, then turned his pompous back and strode out.
“Take him down to headquarters, boys,” said Chief Baxter. “There’s a cell waiting.”
For a tense moment the brain of Agent “X” worked desperately. He had underestimated the suspicious nature of Branford’s commissioner of health.
One thing “X” knew — he must not be locked up. His battle against the machinations of unseen criminals must not be stopped. The glow of determination filled his eyes.
One of the cops was going through his pockets. He found the Agent’s gas gun, snarled an oath.
“Heeled, eh? A crook and a lead-slinger, too!”
The cop’s automatic thrust forcefully into “X’s” side. “Any funny business and you’ll get a lead pill yourself,” he blustered. “That’s the kind of medicine a bird like you oughta have.”
They led “X” out to the curb where a police car was waiting. He made his body tremble as though he were overcome with nervousness. With one foot on the police car’s running board he drew a package of cigarettes from his pocket. With shaking fingers he put one to his lips and fished a cigarette lighter from his vest. The cops stood by impatiently.
“Get a move on,” said one. “You’ll have plenty of time to smoke in the jug, along with the other quacks down there.”
“X” pressed the wheel of the lighter with his thumb. But instead of touching the flame to the end of his cigarette, he moved the lighter suddenly in a swift arc. There was a faint hiss. A jet of acrid vapor spurted from a small hole in the lighter’s side. It was concentrated tear gas under pressure — and it went directly into the eyes of the two cops.
One of them made a wild clutch at “X,” pulled the trigger of his automatic. But “X” jerked the man’s hand aside a fraction of an instant before the report sounded. The bullet plowed into the shiny side of the green car.
“X” snatched his own gas gun out of the cop’s pocket. Hurling both policemen away with a sweep of his arms he leaped into the cruiser. The cops, utterly blinded and swearing furiously, made vain attempts to fire in the right direction.