“X” also inspected the other men present. He nodded to several of them, who returned his greetings solemnly. These men who were gathered here at the commissioner’s invitation were among the most important men of the city.
SEATED directly opposite the mayor was Gilbert Patterson, the head of one of the largest private banking concerns in the country. Standing beside the banker was Norman Marsh, the internationally known archeologist and explorer, who had uncovered vast mines of knowledge about the early human races of the world, and had written scores of books upon ancient civilizations. In a corner behind Commissioner Foster, who was standing next to the mayor, sat a man whom “X” did not know personally, but whom he recognized from photographs he had seen recently in the papers. This man was Professor Hugo Langknecht, the well-known young German scientist and psychiatrist, who had come to this country only recently after making a name for himself throughout Europe and South America.
Then there was John Lacey, who was reputed to own more real estate in the city than any other ten men combined. Frank Larkin, the publisher of a country-wide chain of newspapers, and Oscar Stanton, the stock speculator who had cornered the market a dozen times in the past ten years, made up the rest of the group.
“X” had met Stanton only that morning at the home of the murdered Lewis Forman, but Stanton did not know it. In the suave, cultured Victor Randall whom “X” was now impersonating, Stanton did not recognize the dynamic Associated Press man who had been snooping around the murdered Forman’s bedroom that morning.
Mayor Sturgis nodded to “X”, said curtly: “We’ve been waiting for you, Randall. I have an important announcement to make, and I wanted you all together.”
“X” nodded, stood with his back against the wall, surveying the room. He found himself beside Norman Marsh, the explorer, who turned to him and said under his breath: “Sturgis seems to be all wrought up about something. I wonder what we have to do with it.”
“X” shrugged. “Haven’t got the faintest idea, Marsh.”
Gilbert Patterson who was sitting just beyond Norman Marsh, looked up at them with a worried expression. “This is an awful waste of time—”
He was interrupted by Mayor Sturgis, who said shortly: “I won’t waste your time any longer, gentlemen. I’ve called you here to make an announcement to you. Every one of you is vitally interested in that announcement. Of course, you’ve all read and shuddered at the terrible things that have happened in the past ten days. Only this morning a man whom we all knew — Lewis Forman — met the same fate. The autopsy shows that he was killed last night — before midnight. Everybody is guessing at what sort of monsters these are that steal about in the night and rip open men’s throats, suck their bodies dry of blood.”
Gilbert Patterson stirred uneasily in his seat, and cleared his throat. From his rosy, smoothly shaven cheeks, and his almost colorless eyes, one would not have guessed that he was the head of the largest private banking outfit in the country.
“Of course, Sturgis,” he said irritably, “we read all about these murders. Lewis Forman was the federal coordinator for railroads. With him dead, all the plans which he has been building up to stabilize the railroad situation are swept away at a single blow. Some of the other men who died have been equally important. If this keeps up, the very structure of our nation will be threatened. But I don’t understand what we can do about it. The job is yours, and Commissioner Foster’s. Why have you called us here?”
“I’ll tell you why,” said Sturgis. He appeared to be tense now, his fists clenched so that his knuckles showed white against the green blotter on the commissioner’s desk. “You men here—” his gaze swept from one to the other of them—“are of great importance in the economic life of the country. You, Patterson, have put your finger upon the crux of the problem. We believe that a systematic attempt is being made to wipe out our prominent men.”
JOHN LACEY, who had been standing next to Patterson, now exclaimed vehemently: “But why do they do it in such a horrible way — why do they rip a man’s throat — why do they suck him dry of blood!” His voice trembled slightly, and he struck one fat, flabby hand into the palm of the other. “You’ve got to stop it, Sturgis. You’ve got the whole police department to do it with. We’ll contribute money, anything that will help to put a stop to it!” He suddenly relaxed, patted his soft paunch. His face was gray, and his double chin shook. “God! Some of my best friends were among those ten men. I can still see them lying there, just a skinful of bones — with the blood all drained out of them!”
“Gentlemen,” the mayor’s voice was dry, tight. “I know just how you feel. But we have no time for talk like this. There is something I must tell you. I have called you together, not to seek any financial assistance, but to give you a piece of news. It is not fair to keep the information from you any longer.”
There was a dead silence in the room as the mayor hesitated. Then he went on grimly: “Lewis Forman is not to be the last to die. There is some being in this city, a man presumably, who calls himself by the name of Doctor Blood. He is the one who has caused the deaths of your friends — of my friends — by some inhuman means that we cannot fathom. He has compiled a list — a long list — of names of prominent men. And he promises death for every one of them.” Mayor Sturgis’ eyes swung around the room, came to rest upon Gilbert Patterson, the rosy-cheeked private banker. He raised a hand, pointed a shaking finger. “You, Patterson — are next on Doctor Blood’s list!”
The plump, well-fed, immaculately dressed private banker sat rigid, gripped tightly the arms of his chair. He exclaimed falteringly: “You mean I’m going to be killed?”
Mayor Sturgis nodded. He picked up a folder from the desk, extracted from it a sheet of paper. He handled the paper gingerly, almost with revulsion.
“X’s” eyes, fixed on that sheet, were the first to note the peculiarity about it. The mayor held it low, so that they could all see. And a slow gasp of horror rose in the room. For the sprawling, boldly shaped writing was in red — and the red was unmistakably blood.
“Yes, gentlemen,” the mayor said in a choked voice, “this is written in blood — probably the blood of one of those ten men who have already died!”
He held the paper before him, glanced around the room, and said: “Let me read it to you.” His voice was low, almost inaudible as he read the contents of that message.
My dear Commissioner Foster:
You will doubtless be relieved to learn that the unfortunate occurrences which have been taking place during the last ten days can be stopped — at a price. I am enclosing herewith a list which contains three hundred and sixty-five names. You will find that the first ten names are those of the men who have already died. The next three hundred and fifty-five will die just as surely, one every day for the balance of the year.
However, there is one way in which those three hundred and fifty-five men may avoid having their blood drained from them. Each of them may buy immunity for the modest sum of twenty-five thousand dollars. This money must be paid in cash by each individual on the day he is scheduled to die.
In order to prove to you that I can do what I say, I will cause number eleven on the list to be killed in the same fashion as the others today. It is too bad that number eleven must die, but it is necessary that I convince you that this letter is no fraud.