Please communicate my terms to the rest of the men on the list. They will be instructed how to arrange to make their payments.
Yours for a long life,
Doctor Blood.
There was a hushed silence in the room when the mayor had finished reading that remarkable letter. Even the mayor’s face was drawn and haggard. He said in a sort of choked voice: “You must understand, gentlemen, that we are doing everything in our power to apprehend this criminal known as Doctor Blood. I am vitally interested — for a reason which you will soon understand.”
Norman Marsh said speculatively: “This Doctor Blood of yours is certainly an ingenious man, Mr. Mayor. Say only fifty percent of the men on that list that he talks about should pay on the line — let’s see, how much would that make?”
Mayor Sturgis frowned at him. “You may take this lightly, Mr. Marsh, but wait—” He took another sheet of paper from the folder on the desk. “Here is the list that Doctor Blood speaks of. You all know the names of the first ten — those who have already perished with their throats clawed open and their blood drained from them. I will now read you the list of the next seven.”
HE had said the last very slowly, incisively. Suddenly a hushed silence fell over the room. Secret Agent “X” had been studying each of the men present. His eyes had especially sought the tall, lean, cadaverous figure of Oscar Stanton, the stock speculator, who sat across the room facing Gilbert Patterson. He turned his eyes now toward Mayor Sturgis. That official began slowly to read from the list. “Number eleven — Gilbert Patterson; number twelve — Norman Marsh; number thirteen—” he gulped, then said quickly—“number thirteen — John F. Sturgis.”
There was a gasp from the assembled company. Gilbert Patterson’s face had become a pasty white; Norman Marsh, who had been pacing up and down, had stopped suddenly at the mention of his own name. He started to speak, then stopped, clamping his jaws hard as the mayor went on.
“You see, gentlemen,” the mayor said with an obvious effort to control his voice, “I am on this list with you — so you cannot question my interest in unmasking this fiendish Doctor Blood — for according to the list, Patterson here dies today. Marsh tomorrow. And I, on Thursday.”
He sighed, bent his eyes to the list. “But let me finish reading. I think you all can get what follows.”
Oscar Stanton, the lean, gaunt-faced stock broker, raised his head and caught “X” watching him. He lowered his eyes quickly, turned to the mayor. “Yes — it means we’re all on the list. The only question is, what day are we scheduled to die. Hurry, man, read the rest of the numbers!”
Sturgis went on more speedily now. “Number fourteen — Hugo Langknecht; number fifteen — John Lacey; number sixteen — Oscar Stanton; number seventeen — Frank Larkin; number eighteen—” his eyes lifted from the paper, met those of Secret Agent “X”—“Victor Randall!”
When he had ceased reading, a buzz of excited comment arose among the doomed men.
Commissioner Foster exchanged glances with Inspector Burks across the desk at which the mayor was seated, and raised his hand. “Excuse me, everybody.”
He waited until the buzz of talk had subsided, and then turned to the only other man who had remained silent during the entire conference — Professor Hugo Langknecht, the German psychiatrist.
“Professor Langknecht,” the commissioner said, “You must not misunderstand me when I say that in a way I am glad you are among those mentioned on Doctor Blood’s list. You are as vitally interested as we are in discovering Doctor Blood’s true identity. As a psychiatrist you may be able to study this note and arrive at some idea of what sort of person this bloody executioner is. In your profession, you’ve had occasion to study many queer kinds of people. Is there any hope you can give us — such as indicating what kind of man we ought to look for in searching for this Doctor Blood — anything what might put us on the right track?”
Professor Langknecht was quite a young man, considering the international reputation which he had already established for himself. His thin sharp features, his high forehead, proclaimed him a scholar. His eyes seemed to be lively, black, constantly flashing behind the extra thick-leased spectacles which he wore. His thin lips were pursed thoughtfully as he seemed to be giving the question weighty consideration before answering. Then he finally spoke:
“There are many things that we must take into consideration here, commissioner. In our clinic in Vienna—” he stopped, waved his hand impatiently—“but you will not be interested in that. What you want is concrete conclusion. Well, we must first look at the curious way that these murders have been committed — the tearing open of the jugular vein, the draining of the blood.” He spoke in a cold, precise voice. He was a typical scientist, treating the problem as if it were an abstract theory of mathematics, rather than one which might involve his own death.
“Who,” he went on, “would be apt to do these things to a man? In Cambodia, in Indo-China and in some of the wilder portions of South America, there are, I understand, beasts which subsist upon human—”
He was interrupted by Norman Marsh who suddenly snapped his fingers. “Of course!” the archeologist exclaimed. “I remember, in 1914 in my expedition to Brazil—”
Professor Langknecht stopped him. “Yes, yes, Mr. Marsh. But you must not jump to conclusions. There are other creatures that drink human blood, too — creatures which the mind of man refuses to believe, but which have been thought to exist from the beginning of mankind. Vampires, ghouls—”
It was Oscar Stanton who stopped him. “Damn it!” he shouted. “Are you going to begin telling us fairy tales now! Here we are, slated to die. There’s Patterson — he’s marked for today. There’s Marsh for tomorrow, Sturgis for Thursday, and the rest of us — Lacey, Larkin, myself, and Randall.” He jerked his thumb at Secret Agent “X.” “Randall is the luckiest of us. He has a week to live. And here you are telling us about vampires and ghouls.”
HE swung on Commissioner Foster: “Why don’t you arrange with this Doctor Blood for us to pay him? He seems to have chosen you as intermediary. All right, I’m ready to pay!”
Professor Langknecht wiped his forehead with a large, yellow-bordered handkerchief. He subsided into his seat, looking slightly bewildered at the sudden vehemence of Stanton.
Norman Marsh suddenly started to laugh.
The others looked at him open-mouthed.
Marsh stopped laughing as suddenly as he had begun, his lean, tanned face setting into grim, stubborn lines. “I don’t know how you others feel about it, but Stanton is all wet. I think this Doctor Blood is mad. Why, it’s impossible to kill one man every day for a year — especially when we know who’s scheduled next. I’ve faced worse things than this Doctor Blood’s wild beasts in my life, and I’ll take a chance!”
Stanton glared at Marsh. “You wouldn’t talk like that, Marsh, if you’d seen what I’ve seen. Lewis Forman was the last to die — and I was a guest in his house last night.” He shuddered. “I’ll never forget how he looked this morning. The bed was soaked with blood. His throat was torn — clawed, ripped horribly. And — and his body was drained dry of blood. He was nothing but skin and bones. And you want us all to take a chance on having that happen to us — when twenty-five thousand dollars would square it. We’re all wealthy here, we can all afford it easily. Why tempt fate?” Stanton swung on Inspector Burks, whose face had been growing redder and redder every moment. “You, Burks. Why don’t you get something done? Why don’t you arrange for these payments? Why do you call us all here for these useless conferences? There’s only one thing to do, that is, pay up.”