But, with an expert twist of the wheel, Agent “X” swung the car away from the curb and roared down the block. He pressed the gas button till the speedometer needle of the small swift car showed forty — fifty — sixty — and the hotel was blocks behind.
Then somewhere ahead a siren sounded. A telephone call had gone out from the hotel, of course. Already the radio patrol had been warned. “X” switched on the dashboard radio, heard the voice of the police announcer excitedly instructing all cars to be on the lookout for a stolen cruiser driven by a quack doctor named Julius Smith.
Instantly Agent “X” drew up beside the curb. It was the middle of a block where shadows lay black. He leaped out of the cruiser, merged with the shadows. He strode across a wide lawn and paused beside a hedge. There, in the darkness, his quick skillful fingers performed miracles on his face.
The painstaking disguise of Doctor Smith disappeared. From a hidden inner lining of his coat he took various small portable make-up devices: a tube of volatile plastic material which dried on contact with the air, a tube of pigments. There was no time for an elaborate disguise now; but, with so much depending on him, he could not risk being seen as Doctor Smith again tonight.
When he emerged from the shadows and crossed the lawn to the next street, the contours and color of his face had miraculously changed. He was younger now, ruddy-faced. His inconspicuous features would not cause anyone to glance at him a second time.
He moved boldly along the street and, a few minutes later, arrived at his hideout without having been stopped. Using the key provided him by his landlady, he went directly to his furnished room.
He lingered there only long enough to swiftly pack his suitcase. In ten minutes he was on the street again, seeking another hideout in a poorer section of the city. He hired it under a new name, and at last felt secure for the moment. For a short time he paced the floor of the room in deep concentration.
THE exposure of Julius Smith was a blow to his entire plan. It raised serious difficulties. As Doctor Smith he had access to the institute. He could keep abreast of all that went on in Branford. But now his hands were tied unless—
Agent “X’s” preoccupied pacing stopped abruptly as a thought flashed across his mind. His eyes grew piercingly bright. To the Man of a Thousand Faces a daring desperate plan had occurred.
Swiftly he went through his suitcase, placing in the lining of his coat any of the equipment he might conceivably need. Then he went forth into the night again.
He walked without pausing through the silent streets. Once he was stopped by an officer who asked his business. The Agent said he was an employee on the night shift in the power house, and the officer let him pass.
He came at last to a region of railroad yards, factories, and merchandise warehouses. Beyond were the city limits, where grim-faced guardsmen of the quarantine line patrolled. Agent “X” had no definite plans as to how he was going to get through; but get through he must, if the plan he had conceived was to be put into action.
He saw sentries patrolling at the end of every block. Their bayonets gleamed in the light of fires that had been kindled. Lights had been strung up at other points. No one could possibly slip through without being seen. The sentries had been instructed to shoot to kill.
But the street with the string of lights at its end gave “X” his cue. He ducked through an alley, came back along the inside of a board fence. Beyond was the highway. A camp of state troopers and police was strung along for a half mile out of town.
Secret Agent “X” glanced upward, located the wiring on the emergency lights. His eyes gleamed. Two poles had been rigged with wires which passed down to an underground conduit. Pipe covered the wires for a few feet upward from the earth. Beyond that they had only their own insulation. It was a short extension line with an independent fuse.
The Agent took a small pair of nippers from his pocket. They had been useful in his work before. Now the fate of a city, perhaps a country, might hinge upon their effectiveness. He came around the edge of the fence, waited till the patrolling sentinel’s back was turned, and closed the nippers over the wire. There was a groove in the tiny implement, and a needle point set in the jaw of the nippers above. The wire fitted into the groove, and pressure on the handle forced the needle into the strands.
Instantly there was a blue spark, a sizzle of smoke. The overhead lights winked out — and this particular exit from the city was plunged into darkness.
Under cover of the gloom, Agent “X” strode out into the highway. He heard the sentries shout; heard answering cries from the highway guard. An auto’s spotlight came on, but the Agent was on the other side of the highway now.
He was certain that he bore no germs of encephalitis in his blood. The furred creature he had fought had failed to jab the pronged injector into his arm. His own solution had prevented him from being bitten by any marauding, microbe-laden mosquitoes. He could leave Branford with a clear conscience on that score.
But there was a long journey ahead of Secret Agent “X.” He must find some means of locomotion.
Chapter V
CREEPING through the darkness beside the highway, Agent “X” approached the emergency camp of state police. All those still awake had run up the highway to help repair the short-circuited light wire.
A new fuse and some fresh bulbs and the lights would go on again. Unless the small puncture in the wire were discovered there would be no proof that it had not been an accident. “X” had removed the nippers.
His eyes roved quickly. Five trim motorcycles were parked on their metal stands close to some bushes by the road. Four had police insignia on them. The fifth was evidently an extra that had been commandeered for service. It was a speedy two-cylinder Harley-Davidson.
Agent “X” walked up to it, slid it off its stand, kicked the stand up. For a moment he paused. The dark highway led away from the city on a slight decline. To start the popping engine now would bring a swarm of police after him. Even if he outdistanced them, telephone and telegraph messages would flash ahead and he would be stopped. But if he could get away without being seen or heard, the loss of the motorcycle might not be discovered until morning. By that time he would be far away.
Holding the machine’s handlebars, he wheeled it off beside the road. Fifty feet from the police camp he got into the leather seat and coasted silently away into the darkness. The two-wheeled vehicle picked up speed, sliding under its own momentum like a silent wraith on its ballbearings. When the decline ended in a rise he was a half-mile away from the city limits.
But still Agent “X” was cautious. He wheeled the motorcycle up the next hill, coasted again to the bottom, and only then started the engine, careful to keep it muffled.
It bore him away along the dark road with the speed of the wind. The pure night air streaming past his face was exhilarating after his close contact with the germ-laden city. He opened the gas throttle slowly, bent forward over the handlebars and settled down to his long ride. The blood tingled in his veins as he swept forward through the night at fifty miles an hour.
He took the curves like a racer, leaning far over; opened up on level stretches till the two-wheeled machine beneath him became a thundering monster of speed and power.
WHEN dawn came Agent “X” was in New York, his motorcycle parked in a garage. He did not look as though he had spent a sleepless night. Dynamic, unconquerable forces seemed to drive him on. His eyes were bright, his step quick. There was much to be done within the next few hours.