DISGUISED
To Cole’s rapt gaze the insane man presented a picture at once fearful
and fascinating. Reeves was no longer looking at the keen-bladed
knives, but now he was staring at the black-bearded surgeon with an
intensity that seemed to strain every nerve and muscle in his body. The
knotted cords at his temple swelled and took on a livid hue. Slowly and
shakily he drew himself erect in the chair, and then his whole body was
rocked by a paroxysm so violent that, for an instant, Cole thought the
cords were about to snap.
The surgeon, with the reeking sponge in his hand, turned and watched
the maniac. A smile twisted the bearded lips, and he stepped to the
chair and spoke a few words in Reeves’ ears. The insane man’s chest
heaved out, but the cry and the paroxysm seemed to have exhausted his
energies, and only a feeble, fluttering moan came.
The spectacle had held Cole spellbound. Now, while the surgeon was
leaning over the insane man and whispering in his ear, a sudden
realization of his peril caused him to throw off the weird fascination
which the scene had cast on him. He had only a few moments in which to
act. Soon the reeking sponge would be at his nostrils, deadening his
mental faculties.
His darting glance fell on the knives lying on the glass-topped table
beside the cot. They were so close to him that they seemed to mock and
taunt him. Again it occurred to him that they had been placed like that
for the sole purpose of impressing their infernal purpose upon him and
battering down his fortitude. It had been a touch of refined cruelty
on the black-bearded man’s part, but it only strengthened Cole’s
determination not to yield.
Suddenly, as he kept looking at the knives, the gleam of an inspiration
crept into his narrowing eyes. He cast a swift glance about the room.
The black-bearded man was still occupied with Reeves and stood with his
back turned to the cot. Cole, trembling with excitement, turned over on
his side and wriggled as close to the edge of the cot as he could. He
reached out his manacled hands over the glass-topped table. The cords
around the wrists gave the fingers considerable leeway. In an instant
they had closed around the handle of the nearest knife.
Cole tingled from head to foot. The subtle bit of strategy by which the
black-bearded man had hoped to shatter his victim’s nerve had now been
turned to Cole’s advantage. It gave him a fighting chance, though the
odds were still overwhelmingly against him. His lips curled a little,
and there was a belligerent sparkle in his eyes. Turning over on his
back he dropped the knife beside him on the pillow, so that his head
would temporarily screen it from the surgeon’s sight. Then, letting his
arms fall limply back against his abdomen, he waited for the surgeon to
act.
Presently the black-bearded man turned away from Reeves and stepped up
to the cot. Cole lay motionless, with eyes half closed, as if partly
dazed by contemplation of the terrible fate that awaited him. Inwardly
he was straining and quivering with suspense. As yet the surgeon did
not seem to have noticed that one of the knives was missing from the
table, but he might do so any moment, and then Cole’s only hope would
be gone.
“Well, Mr. Cole?” he asked lightly. “For the last time I ask you to
reconsider your refusal.”
Cole lay very still. The last few minutes of suspense seemed to have
wrought a great change in him. His lips moved as if he were trying to
speak, but was too weak to use his voice.
The surgeon grinned into his beard. Evidently he thought the knives
placed so close to his victim’s side had exerted the intended
psychological effect.
“Have you anything to say?” he asked, bending over the cot in an effort
to catch Cole’s faintly mumbled words.
Cole flexed his muscles for action. The moment for which he had waited
was at hand. His chance had come; everything depended upon how he used
it. He mumbled again, and the surgeon’s head came a little closer to
his chest.
“A little louder, please,” said the black-bearded man.
Slowly, by imperceptible degrees, Cole drew up his manacled hands
toward his chin. Suddenly his arms shot upward, forming a circular loop
that instantly descended over the surgeon’s head. With a startled cry
the black-bearded man tried to draw back, but the arms that encircled
his shoulders were as strong and hard as springs of steel. He
struggled frantically, but the encircling grip pinned his arms tightly
to his sides, and his head was constantly being forced lower and lower
toward the reclining man’s chest. The sponge had dropped from his hand
the moment Cole’s arms were flung around his neck.
An exultant thrill went through Cole as the other’s resistance grew
feebler. Now the surgeon’s head was almost level with his face. The
only sounds in the room were the hard panting of the adversaries and
an occasional giggle from the insane man. Fumes of ether were slowly
filling the air.
Cole turned his head. In an instant the handle of the knife was firmly
gripped between his strong, even teeth. He thrust out his jaw, and the
point of the weapon grazed the black-bearded man’s throat. Cole saw
a look of fear creep into the man’s eyes. The surgeon made a final
attempt to wriggle free, but Cole’s arms held him as in a vise. Once
more the knife, tightly clasped between Cole’s jaws, scratched the
other’s flesh. He remarked again the look of terror that was stamped
on the surgeon’s face. In view of the diabolical fate which the man
had meant to inflict on him Cole was human enough to enjoy the other’s
agony.
Suddenly he bent a sharper look on the man’s face. Once before he had
wondered why there seemed to be something peculiar about it, but this
was his first chance to examine the features at close quarters. Now he
noticed that the beard which covered most of the face had an unnatural
appearance. There were lines about the eyes that did not seem quite
genuine, and the exposed portions of the skin had an odd coloring.
Obviously the man was disguised, and Cole could see that it had been
rather cleverly done. He wondered why the disguise had been put on,
since the surgeon had had every reason to expect that Cole would
leave the room a raving lunatic and that there would be no danger of
recognition if they should meet again.
He had not time to think further about it. The deadlock was only
temporary; any fortuitous incident might upset Cole’s advantage;
instantly the door might open and admit one or more of the other
members of the gang. Just now he had the surgeon at his mercy. Only a
little slash with the knife, clamped between his teeth was needed to
open an artery, but that would not release him from his predicament.
Though he might be able to sever the cords around his ankles he could
not move his hands with sufficient freedom to cut the strings around
his wrists. While he was casting about for a plan a muffled groan of
fright and pain broke from the surgeon’s lips. Unconsciously Cole had
once more scratched the man’s throat with the knife.
“You’re killing me!” protested the other man in a feeble voice.
“It would serve you right,” declared Cole unfeelingly. “I don’t know
why I should have any compunction about killing a rat of your kind. We
might come to some arrangement, however. What will you do if I spare
your life?”
“Anything, anything you say.”
Cole considered. The thing of first importance was to get his hands
free of the cords. In his present position, with his arms pinned
tightly in Cole’s embrace the surgeon could not untie them, and Cole
did not see how he could give the man any freedom of movement without
imperiling his own advantage.
“I am going to give you a chance for your life,” he said, “but if you
make the slightest false move you die instantly. Understand that?”
“I’ll do whatever you say.”
“All right, then. Turn over.”
Cole relaxed his hold a trifle, and the surgeon turned in his arms. The
point of the knife did not leave his flesh for an instant, and at any
moment Cole could have inflicted a mortal wound by merely thrusting his
head forward. Now, with the end of the blade in dangerous proximity to
the surgeon’s jugular vein, Cole gingerly released one of the man’s
arms, then commanded him to untie the cords around his wrists. The
black-bearded man obeyed, and Cole transferred the knife from his mouth
to his right hand. In a short time his feet had been released, and now
he flung the surgeon aside and slipped from the cot.
Reeves had watched the proceeding with a dull stare. Now and then a
hoarse giggle of glee had escaped him.
The surgeon got to his feet and drew a long breath of relief. His eyes,
with a glint of lingering fear in their depths, watched Cole admiringly.
“You’re a great scrapper, Mr. Cole,” he admitted. “You turned the
tables with a truly artistic touch. For a time I was in fear for my
life. There was no time to explain, and you wouldn’t have believed me
anyway.”
“Explain?” Cole asked contemptuously. The little knife was still
clutched tightly in his hand. “One doesn’t expect explanations from
curs of your type.”
The surgeon laughed, and in the same instant his fingers touched a
button. Cole flexed his muscles for another supreme test. Out of the
corner of an eye he watched the surgeon; the other eye was fixed on
the door. In a moment or two it would probably open in response to
the surgeon’s ring, and men would come tumbling upon him from all
directions. Cole smiled grimly. He would die fighting rather than
expose himself to the other and more terrible fate from which he had
just escaped.
The door opened, and he poised himself, ready to spring forward.
The nerve-racking suspense, which he had undergone on the cot, was
forgotten now. His eye was clear, and his brain was rapidly throwing
off the ether fumes that had escaped from the surgeon’s sponge. The
hand in which he held the knife came upward, prepared to strike down
the first man who should approach.
Some one entered through the open door, and the arm fell limply to
Cole’s side. With gaping mouth he stared at the newcomer who executed a
profound bow, while he pointed to the outer room. “Will you kindly step
this way, Mr. Cole?” he asked in the courteous tones of a well-trained
servant.
Cole laughed. The sudden reaction made him feel giddy. He had expected
at least half a dozen men to pounce on him when the door opened. By
contrast there was something ludicrous about the salaaming figure, now
confronting him.
“If you please, Mr. Cole.” The man again waved his hand toward the
outer room, and Cole obligingly followed his direction. There seemed
to be nothing else to do than wait for the other side to make the next
move. If he was walking into a trap, as appeared not at all unlikely,
he still had the knife to defend himself with. And that was not all,
he suddenly remembered; his pistol was still in his hip pocket. It was
rather odd, he reflected, as he walked behind the servant, that no
attempt had been made to take it from him.
In a few moments he was back in the long room with the circular table.
The seven masked men were again grouped around it, and the light was as
dim as before. The servant ushered him up to the chair occupied by the
spokesman, then silently glided away. Once more Cole felt seven pairs
of eyes searching his face, but this time he was aware of a new quality
in the air.
“You may feel quite at ease, Mr. Cole,” the spokesman began. “I can
promise that no harm will come to you.”
The calm, matter-of-fact tones incensed Cole when he recalled by what
a narrow margin he had escaped the fate which these men had tried to
inflict upon him.
“How magnanimous!” he gibingly exclaimed.
The other chuckled. “Oh, we can understand that you don’t feel
particularly friendly toward us. Incidentally we know all that happened
in the other room. You acquitted yourself nobly, Mr. Cole.”
“Save your compliments. They are on a par with your promises.”
“You would naturally feel that way after what has happened. Mr. Cole, I
am going to ask you to forget what occurred in the other room.”
“Forget?” asked Cole incredulously, feeling as though the episode he
had just passed through would live in his memory till his dying day.
“Well, perhaps that is asking too much,” the other admitted. “By the
way, your bitterness toward us is natural enough, but don’t you find
some compensation in the knowledge that you have passed through fire
unscathed? You remained true to yourself in one of the severest tests a
man can be subjected to. Isn’t there some satisfaction for you in that?”
“Oh, yes, a lot,” said Cole ironically. “It’s worth something to a man
to know that nothing can bend him. If you expect me, however, to get
down on my knees and thank you for giving me a chance to prove myself
you are mistaken.”
“We don’t expect anything of the kind. I am merely trying to point out
that you have cause for self-congratulation as well as bitterness. You
probably won’t be able to forget what has happened, but I am going to
ask you to dismiss it from your mind temporarily, while I make a new
proposition to you.”
Cole felt a trifle dazed. The effrontery of the man was unbelievable.
For a moment he suspected it was all a weird jest. “Go on,” he said
dryly. “Your superb insolence interests me. I am curious to see how
far it will carry you.”
“You shall see in a few minutes. I will begin by stating certain facts.
Perhaps later on I shall be able to prove them to their satisfaction,
but just now I must ask you to accept them as an hypothesis.”
“Proceed,” said Cole. “I’ll try to believe that black is white.”
“That’s practically what it amounts to. The first fact I am asking you
to accept on faith, for the present, is that we are not responsible for
Malcolm Reeves’ deplorable condition. An operation was performed on his
brain, but we had nothing to do with it.”
He paused as if expecting an objection.
“The second fact I am asking you to accept provisionally,” he went
on when Cole showed no inclination to speak, “is that we are just as
anxious to solve the Carmody case as you can possibly be. We are more
anxious, in fact, for we know more about its vast scope and enormous
complexities than you do. Are you with me so far, Mr. Cole?”
Cole’s shoulder made a seesawing motion. The whole thing was
preposterous, but there was a quality in the man’s tone that impressed
him against his will. “You are asking me to believe that you are sheep
in wolves’ clothing,” he remarked.
“That’s undoubtedly how it looks to you. Won’t you try to brush
your doubts aside, Mr. Cole? Remember that in due time I will prove
everything I say.”
Cole’s indignation was cooling. There was something about the
spokesman that seemed to exert a subtle magnetism on him. Already his
dreadful experience in the other room seemed dim and remote, though a
few minutes ago he had thought it was indelibly etched on the scroll of
his memory. “If what you say is true, then why——”
“No questions, please. You would not believe me if I were to answer
them. All I can say now is that we have excellent reasons for what we
have done. Some time before long I think you yourself will approve
them. Just now you must accept my statements on faith. Will you try to
believe that we had nothing to do with Reeves’ condition and that we
are on your side in the Carmody matter?”
“You can’t deny that you tried to put me in the same condition Reeves
is in?”
“We can, but we won’t just at present. What happened in the other room
I am asking you to dismiss from your mind in order that you may view
the facts I have placed before you in an unbiased frame of mind. With
that episode eliminated can’t you place a little temporary credence in
what I say?”
Cole tried to clarify his thoughts, but without much success. He
realized with satisfaction that his hand was still clutching the
knife. He wondered whether, but for his quickness of mind and his deft
handling of the little weapon, he would not now be a raving madman.
It seemed strange that he was able to think coolly about the matter,
and stranger still that he found himself listening to the spokesman’s
arguments with any degree of seriousness.
Finally he shook his head. “It won’t quite go down,” he declared. “You
are asking me to take too much for granted. One’s brain was made to
think with, and your statements won’t bear too close reasoning. You
will have to give me your proofs before I can believe you.”
A pause followed his words; then a chorus of whispers went around the
table. The spokesman leaned over and consulted the man seated beside
him.
“I don’t blame you,” he declared, again turning to Cole. “After
all, your skepticism is quite natural. It is even a tribute to your
intellectual powers, for only children and feeble-minded persons accept
unsupported statements. Now, as for proofs, let me see. Would you be
convinced if you should find the man who is responsible for Reeves’
condition?”
“You know who he is?”
“We have had our suspicions for some time, but we were not certain
until a short while ago. A delicate operation, by which certain brain
cells were deadened, was performed on Reeves. We knew Professor Carmody
could not have performed it, for he is not a surgeon. We began to look
for an accomplice, and finally we found a man who seemed to fit into
our theory of the case. Mr. Cole, did you ever hear of Doctor Dickson
Latham?”
“Never,” said Cole.
“Well, certain circumstances, which needn’t be mentioned just now, made
us believe that Doctor Latham was the man whom we were looking for. The
matter was really of no great importance, only one of the minor angles
of the case, but any little light, shed on the corners of the mystery,
might help toward solving the whole. We felt fairly certain Doctor
Latham was our man; in the last hour we have become positive of it.”
“In the last hour!” exclaimed Cole. “How?”
“Malcolm Reeves told us.”
“Reeves told you?”
“By his actions, while you were lying on the cot. We had two reasons
for staging that little scene in the other room. The primary one we
won’t go into at present. The other was to jog the dead part of Reeves’
brain back to life, by having him witness the preparations for an
operation that, in its essential aspects, must have resembled the one
performed on himself. We hoped that the smell of the ether, the sight
of the knives and the preparations in general would awaken a slumbering
memory in his mind. The experiment was only partly successful, but
Reeves’ actions proved beyond doubt that he recognized the officiating
surgeon.”
Through the dusk Cole stared into the speaker’s calm face. “Then the
surgeon——”
“You probably didn’t notice it,” the other interrupted, “but the man
who officiated as the surgeon was disguised. The disguise was put on by
one of our men, an expert in that line.”
“I noticed it, and it was a good job,” Cole remarked. “I couldn’t see
why it was necessary, though.”
“The disguise was put on, not to hoodwink you, but for its effect on
Reeves.”
“I don’t understand.”
“But you will when I tell you that the disguise gave the officiating
surgeon a superficial, but fairly convincing, resemblance to Doctor
Dickson Latham.”
“Clever, I’ll say!” exclaimed Cole who could appreciate ingenuity even
in men who had caused him the most agonizing moments in his life. He
recalled Reeves’ intense agitation while the preparations were in
progress. At the time he had not known what it meant, but he remembered
that the surgeon had watched Reeves very closely, and this had given
Cole his chance to snatch up the knife from the table.
“There is no doubt that Reeves thought he was seeing the man who had
performed the operation upon him,” the spokesman went on. “One of us
was watching the scene through a small opening in the wall, and it was
quite evident that the surgeon’s resemblance to Doctor Latham gave
Reeves a profound shock. Our suspicions have been confirmed, but as yet
we have no legal proof. We want you, Mr. Cole, to go out and get the
evidence against Doctor Latham.”
“Me?”
“Why not? You are a detective, a very good one, though the fact
isn’t generally known. If you find that Latham is guilty you will
be more inclined to credit our statements and think favorably of
the proposition we shall make you. You will leave here as you came,
blindfolded and under guard. Until we understand each other better we
don’t want you to learn too much about us. You will wish to sleep late
in the morning, but to-morrow afternoon you can attack the Carmody case
from a new angle.”
“And my clients?” asked Cole.
“You will be all the better able to serve them because of your
connection with us. As soon as you have found your evidence against
Latham, or learned enough to convince you that we are trustworthy, you
will come here again and report. We shall find a way of communicating
with you in due time. What do you say to the idea?”
Cole pondered. He tried to analyze the situation, but all he could
see were contradictions and perplexities. His only clear thought was
that he had nothing to lose and perhaps much to gain by adopting the
suggestion. His glance swept the circle of masked faces, all of them
turned expectantly in his direction.
“The idea is good,” he finally declared. “I shall pay my respects to
Doctor Latham to-morrow afternoon.”