The Silent Death s-27

by Maxwell Grant

  whether the man had chanced to happen by during the attack of the gorillas. Ricordo knew that it would

  be a mistake to deal with a newspaperman as one would handle a member of the underworld.

  To take Clyde Burke for a one-way ride was the first suggestion that Ricordo ignored. He considered

  the results that might occur should Burke be freed. They looked bad also. Ricordo wondered what

  Professor Urlich would have to say about the capture of two men instead of one.

  That thought gave the answer. There was no time to lose. The sooner Ricordo reached Long Island, the

  better. The quickest, surest course was to take Burke along with Marsland. Professor Urlich could

  decide what to do.

  Larry Ricordo paid off his mobsters. He took the wheel of the sedan and pulled away. As he rode along,

  he was more than satisfied with his decision regarding Clyde Burke. It was no greater risk to carry two

  bound men than one. Burke could be freed if Urlich insisted; if the scientist decreed death, it would be

  more certain and effective in Urlich's laboratory than at the hands of the cumbersome mobsters whom

  Ricordo had just discharged.

  The gang leader had a hunch that both prisoners would soon experience the sensation of silent death. The

  thought turned his mind to The Shadow. Larry Ricordo laughed as he guided the car toward the twinkling

  lights of an avenue.

  Silent death! The Shadow! The two were interlocked. The Shadow was on his way to silent death at this

  very moment. Cliff Marsland had certainly sent word of Ricordo's plans. That, alone, was necessary.

  The subtlety of Professor Folcroft Urlich's present scheme surpassed all that had gone before it. Larry

  Ricordo saw certain doom destined for The Shadow!

  CHAPTER XV. THE HAND OF DEATH

  THOMAS JOCELYN was lying in bed, half asleep. The financier's face was drawn. His closed eyelids

  were dark and heavy. His expression showed weakness and worry.

  The illness that had brought Jocelyn to this state had been the result of a troubled mind. Thomas Jocelyn

  had reached the zenith of his fiendishness when he had seen Alfred Sartain about to die. The sight of The

  Shadow had shattered the financier's confidence.

  Given respite by Professor Urlich, told to let his plans rest for a while, Thomas Jocelyn had experienced

  a slight recovery after that strange night in the office across from Sartain's penthouse.

  Gradually, the old financier's fears had increased. Newspaper reports concerning J. Wesley Barnsworth

  and Gardner Joyce had made Jocelyn sure that Professor Urlich was proceeding. The terrible burden

  upon Jocelyn's mind was irresistible.

  Living alone, with Grewson as his sole attendant, Thomas Jocelyn had succumbed to nervousness and

  had failed to respond to a physician's care. At times, the old financier mumbled incoherent utterances

  which only Grewson heard. The servant had been Jocelyn's constant companion during this period of

  distress.

  In his fevered mind, Thomas Jocelyn was battling with the desire to confess his part in attempted crime.

  He was afraid to speak; he was afraid to preserve silence. The grim face of Professor Folcroft Urlich

  haunted him fiendishly in his dreams; and always, behind that face, loomed the spectral figure of a being in

  black — The Shadow.

  It was only indecision that had prevented Thomas Jocelyn from calling the police. Had either Barnsworth

  or Joyce been murdered, Jocelyn would probably have broken down. The arrest of Harbeck had been a

  final blow that had shattered all resistance. Jocelyn's condition was rapidly approaching a critical stage.

  The old financier managed to open his eyelids as he heard a sound at the door of the room. He saw the

  portal open. Grewson, a hard-faced man, entered and stared toward the bed. The servant smiled in

  disarming fashion when he saw that his employer was awake.

  "Time for your medicine, sir," announced Grewson.

  "Which medicine?" asked Jocelyn querously.

  "A new prescription from your doctor," responded Grewson. "You were half asleep when he spoke

  about it, sir."

  THE old financier watched the attendant take two bottles from the corner. One contained a greenish

  liquid; the other a red solution. Using a large glass, Grewson mixed the contents. Jocelyn blinked as he

  saw that the result was colorless.

  "Here you are, sir," announced Grewson, approaching with the glass. "The doctor said to take the entire

  dose."

  Thomas Jocelyn began to gulp the liquid. Its taste was not unpleasant. Grewson reached out with a

  strong arm and propped the financier up in bed. Jocelyn finished the draft and sank wearily back upon his

  pillow. His eyes then showed a sudden sparkle.

  "It is like an elixir, Grewson!" he exclaimed. "What a strange sensation! I can feel my heartbeats

  quicken!"

  Grewson stood beside the bed, smiling. Of his own accord, Thomas Jocelyn sat up. He clenched his

  fists; the seemed ready to spring from bed. Suddenly, a convulsive shudder shook his frame.

  "Grewson!" Jocelyn's voice came in a whispered gasp. "Grewson! What — what — is — happening — "

  Tremors followed. Jocelyn retained his new-gained strength, but terrific spasms continued. Grewson

  backed slowly away. He saw Jocelyn drop back upon the pillow, his breath coming in long, hoarse

  gasps.

  Grewson reached the door. His face bore an evil expression that marked him for what he was — the tool

  of fiends who plotted death. Grewson knew that he had done his part. Thomas Jocelyn would die at the

  order of Larry Ricordo.

  The false servant reached to close the door behind him. In a few seconds he would be gone, leaving no

  trail behind him. He had stayed his action for the appointed time; now his work was through. The door

  began to close; then stopped.

  A noise beside the bed had attracted Grewson's quick attention. Turning, the servant saw Jocelyn

  clutching at a table that stood beside the bed. Before Grewson could spring back to stop him, the

  financier had grasped the telephone and had lifted the receiver.

  Pouncing in tigerish fashion, Grewson sought to wrest the instrument from Jocelyn's clutch. The financier

  toppled forward. He flung the telephone from him and his clawing hands knocked over the table. The

  empty glass which had contained the terrible potion shattered on the floor.

  Fiercely, Grewson caught Jocelyn's shoulders and threw the financier back in bed. The alarmed servant

  picked up the telephone and listened at the receiver. He could hear the voice of the operator inquiring the

  trouble; he could also hear Jocelyn's long, coughing gasps.

  "Hello?" The operator was speaking. "I am calling the police. Do you understand?"

  "Hello," growled Grewson. "Never mind. It's all right."

  "Were you on the wire a moment ago?" challenged the operator.

  "No… No…" Grewson tried to be convincing. "It was an accident. The telephone fell — that was all."

  Jocelyn's harsh sighs came audibly. The girl must have heard these belying sounds. She expressed her

  doubts of Grewson's statement.

  "I am calling the police," she asserted, "unless you put the other person on the wire."

  Angrily, Grewson hung up the receiver. He realized then that it was the worst thing he could have done.

  He raised the receiver; jiggled the hook, finally hung up once more. He looked at Jocelyn.

  The financier had lost all strength. His lips were moving feebly; his eyes,
alone, seemed to have the power

  to rove. Apparently those spasms of terrific strength had ended in almost total paralysis.

  An angry snarl came from Grewson. The false servant glared venomously. He knew that he had been

  successful so far, but he recalled the rest of Larry Ricordo's plans. The gang lord had said that some one

  was coming here; that that person should find Thomas Jocelyn alone.

  WHAT if the police arrived first? Grewson knew that such a happening would injure whatever scheme

  Ricordo had evolved.

  For a moment the gangster-servant hesitated, then he realized that he could do nothing to prevent the

  outcome. He could trust to luck that the visitor would arrive considerably before the police reached the

  apartment.

  That thought gave Grewson a new consideration: his own safety. He had overstayed the time that he had

  intended. He must depart at once.

  He paused only to throw a last derisive glance at the gasping form of Thomas Jocelyn. Grewson held no

  regard for the man whom he had pretended to serve. He had accepted Ricordo's order to slay with a

  malicious relish. Thomas Jocelyn was dying now, and Grewson had guided the hand of death.

  "Cash in your checks," jeered Grewson. "Good-by, you old mug. Let the bulls find you coughing out.

  Sorry I won't be here to see it. Try to tell 'em who did it!"

  The false servant backed across the room. His gangster identity had come to the surface. Thomas

  Jocelyn understood and tried to reply to the villain's challenge, but his lips, although they moved, could do

  little more than cough.

  Backing to the door, Grewson grinned and made a burlesque of the bow which he had been accustomed

  to use when doing Jocelyn's bidding. The gangster-servant intended it as his last action before he left that

  room where death was working. But as he inclined his head, Grewson saw something upon the floor that

  made him stiffen.

  Stretching out in front of him, cast from a spot behind his body, lay a strange, blanketing shadow of

  blackness. Long, sinister and spectral, it seemed a living creature of ominous import. It represented the

  shape of a tall being garbed in flowing cloak and broad-brimmed hat.

  Grewson's tense form relaxed. Dazed and affrighted, the killer turned slowly toward the door. As he

  made that slow revolution, Grewson heard a terrifying sound — a weird noise far more incredible than the

  gasping breath of Thomas Jocelyn.

  A low, mocking laugh rang in Grewson's ears. Its gibing tones reechoed in hollow tones from the walls of

  the room. The laugh was audible proof of visible fears. Without completing his turn, Grewson cowered

  away from the door, staring wild-eyed past his own shoulder.

  A scream came from his trembling lips. Before him, Grewson saw the enemy of all gangdom — the being

  of whom he had heard — The Shadow.

  Tall, sinister and unyielding, The Shadow surveyed the shrinking gangster with burning, brilliant eyes.

  Beads of sweat glowed on Grewson's paling forehead. The man understood Larry Ricordo's admonition

  now — the reason why a quick departure had been urged.

  The Shadow was the one whom Ricordo had expected here to-night! He had known that this terrible

  being would come to the room of doom. Grewson realized the consequences of his delay, but all too late.

  Surprised beside the dying form of the man whose death he had furthered, Grewson stood openly

  condemned as the tool in the plot against Thomas Jocelyn. He had guided the hand of death; now he had

  met the avenger of death.

  Helpless before the tall black-garbed being that threatened him, Grewson crouched upon the floor — a

  murderer in the power of The Shadow.

  CHAPTER XVI. THE DEATH THAT LURKED

  TOTALLY unnerved by the terror which now confronted him, Grewson stared upward into the blazing

  eyes of The Shadow. The master of darkness stood with folded arms. His brilliant gaze seemed to pierce

  the pitiful coward who crouched before him.

  At last, the inscrutable eyes raised slightly and looked toward the bed against the wall, where Thomas

  Jocelyn, his breath coming in long, heavy sighs, was slowly coughing out his miserable life. Grewson,

  momentarily released from the stern gaze of The Shadow, rose slowly, as though to spring upon his

  enemy.

  One folded arm moved. A black-gloved hand swung promptly into view. It clutched a huge automatic.

  Staring into the wide, round muzzle of the powerful weapon, Grewson quailed and sank back toward the

  floor.

  Slowly, The Shadow approached. Instinctively, Grewson retreated with crawling pace. At last, the

  gangster crouched beside the foot of the bed. The Shadow, standing above him, surveyed his pitiful

  prisoner.

  "Speak." The Shadow's words came in an ominous whisper. "What part have you performed in this

  crime!"

  The sentence was a command, not a query. Grewson, trapped, could give no answer other than the right

  one.

  "I–I gave Jocelyn the poison," the gangster admitted, in broken tones. "It — it came in bottles and I

  mixed it in the glass — the glass which Jocelyn broke."

  "Who gave you the liquids?"

  Grewson cringed at the sound of The Shadow's sardonic voice. He tried to restrain his answer, but

  failed. He could not struggle against the terror cast by The Shadow.

  "I–I got it" — the man's voice broke—"got it from — from Larry Ricordo."

  "When?"

  "A — a couple of days ago. He called me — to-night — on the telephone — to tell me to use it."

  "Where is Ricordo now?"

  "I–I don't know. That's straight! He hadn't told me anything — I don't even know why he wanted

  Jocelyn bumped off — "

  The Shadow's gaze turned toward the pitiful figure on the bed; still, the menacing automatic covered

  Grewson. Thomas Jocelyn, his face deathly white, was staring toward The Shadow. He had recognized

  the form in black. Amid his long, sweeping sighs, his moving lips were trying to speak.

  IT was plain that Jocelyn intended to convey facts that Grewson could not give; to reveal the purpose of

  those who had brought him to this plight. The effort seemed futile, for the motion of the dying man's lips

  brought nothing but wavering echoes to his sighs.

  With hawkish gaze, The Shadow watched for any sign that might reveal the financier's thoughts. Slowly,

  the black-hatted head began to incline, then suddenly it turned. The Shadow's eyes glared once more in

  Grewson's direction. They saw the cringing gangster starting to rise.

  Instinctively, Grewson slumped back to the floor. At the point of the automatic, he pleadingly blurted the

  reason for his action.

  "The bulls are coming!" he groaned. "Jocelyn got at the telephone. The operator turned in the call."

  A ray of hope kindled in the crook's eyes. He thought that this bit of important information might alarm

  The Shadow or else cause the weird avenger to soften. The Shadow's derisive, reverberating laugh was

  the answer that only brought new dread to Grewson. The bold visitant had no fear of the police.

  Nevertheless, Grewson's words did inspire The Shadow to swifter action. Once again, the black-clad

  watcher noted Thomas Jocelyn. The dying financier was living only by virtue of tremendous gulps. With

  wide-open mouth, Jocelyn took in a breath, then expelled it with his peculiar, wheezy sigh, in one long

  exhalation. The action was repeated. Again, still again.


  Those powerless lips could not frame words; but perhaps, in those long sighs could be heard a coughed

  utterance. To listen closely, one would have to lean close to the mouth of the dying man. To perform that

  action, The Shadow would be forced to cease his vigilance with Grewson.

  The sparkle of The Shadow's eyes showed that this thought was within The Shadow's mind. A glance at

  Grewson told The Shadow that the cowered gangster would no longer be a factor, even though given

  opportunity. But that pause caused a new light, as The Shadow surveyed Thomas Jocelyn.

  The prolonged, mechanical breathing of the financier had become a continued monotone.

  Why did it persist? Why had not the potion which had produced this result taken its toll of life? There

  was something ominous in Jocelyn's lingering death.

  The Shadow drew away from the bedside. He turned to Grewson. The automatic in the black-gloved fist

  described a slow arc from the gangster toward the dying financier. The voice of The Shadow spoke a

  stern command.

  "This is your work," declared The Shadow solemnly. "Now you shall make amends. Jocelyn is trying to

  speak. Learn what he has to say. Tell me every word."

  Grewson nodded. He knew that his only hope was to obey The Shadow's bidding. The police were

  coming. The one chance of escape lay in quickening this scene.

  Grewson sensed that Jocelyn knew vital facts concerning Larry Ricordo. By learning them and repeating

  them to The Shadow, Grewson might curry favor with his captor.

  The Shadow, in turn, had solved the problem of watching Grewson while Jocelyn tried to speak.

  As Grewson half arose and crouched toward the head of the bed, his body came directly in front of the

  blackclad master. Grewson was to listen while The Shadow covered him.

  Still, The Shadow could glimpse Jocelyn's upturned eyes. The financier was looking toward The Shadow

  with a pleading expression in those optics. It was evident that he had heard all that The Shadow had said.

  "Tell what you can."

  The Shadow's whispered words were addressed to Jocelyn. The dying man understood. As Grewson

  leaned above him, Jocelyn imbibed a long draft of air. Grewson's face was close to that of the man whom