The unknown seven A detective story
back, fixed a tranquil gaze on the reclining man. “You have one more
chance, Mr. Cole,” he remarked in a casual tone. “Hadn’t you better
reconsider your refusal?”
Cole looked up into the bearded face with a feeling that there was
something peculiar about it, but his mind was too agitated to analyze
the impression. In a playful manner the surgeon picked up one of the
knives, holding it so that the light flashed against the keen blade.
Cole was trying to frame an answer, but just then something drew his
gaze to the insane man. Reeves was straining forward in his chair,
bending his weight against the fettering cords. From where he sat he
had a clear view of both Cole and the surgeon, and his eyes were fixed
with wild intensity on the knife in the latter’s hand. Time and again
he opened his lips, but the only sound that came was a hoarse rattle in
his throat.
“Well, Mr. Cole?”
The surgeon, paying no attention to the lunatic, looked impatiently
at Cole. Reeves, with mouth gaping and features horribly distorted,
continued to stare at the knife.
“You refuse?” The surgeon waited a moment longer for an answer; then,
with a shrug, he replaced the knife and stepped aside. Cole felt a
sudden rush of blood to his head. If he was to escape a fate worse than
death he must act at once. He spurred his wits to think of something
to do. A tinkling, like that of a jar or a bottle being moved, sounded
in the room. Again he bent his mind to the seemingly hopeless task
of finding a way out, but, even in this moment of desperate peril, he
could not take his gaze from the insane man’s face.
Reeves sat with shoulders hunched up and head turned a little to one
side. Now and then his mouth twisted at the corners; from time to time
a shudder broke the tension of his figure. A series of slight gurgling
sounds fell on the stillness at intervals. All the while his eyes, with
a smoldering something in their depths, were fixed on the knives spread
out on the glass-topped table.
Suddenly Cole’s body executed a little writhing motion. His nostrils
sucked in a strong, sickening odor. With a sponge in his hand, the
surgeon was coming toward the cot.
Once more, in a delirium of suspense, Cole glanced at the insane man.
The quick dilation of Reeves’ nostrils told he also had noticed the
ether. The chair creaked as he put his weight against the cords. There
was a look on his face that Cole felt would follow him through the
night of madness that threatened to engulf him. Reeves’ chest heaved
violently, his whole body seemed to be rocked by a tumultuous emotion,
and finally a long and oddly vibrant cry broke from his lips.
CHAPTER V
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