The Creeping Death The s-22

by Maxwell Grant

  "What do you make of those?" he asked.

  "The coin"—Marquette was thoughtful—"well, any secret-service man might pick up one of those. The feather—hm-m-m—it's odd, but hardly significant. But just a moment—where's Fitzroy's badge?"

  Cardona looked puzzled.

  "We went through his pockets," he said.

  "Including his watch pocket?" asked Marquette.

  "We may have missed that," admitted Cardona.

  Marquette stooped over the body. He reached into the watch pocket of Fitzroy's trousers and brought out a secret-service badge.

  "Fitzroy always carried the badge in his watch pocket," observed Marquette. "Poor Fitz"—he looked solemnly at the body—"I didn't expect to find him dead."

  "There's no evidence of murder," declared Cardona, "but the whole affair looks bad to me -"

  "What are you doing with the body?" questioned Marquette.

  "Sending it to the morgue," responded Cardona, "unless you have some other plan."

  "Send it there," said Marquette solemnly. "The less talk about this, the better. Fitzroy—this is strictly confidential—was engaged upon certain work of investigation. I see nothing to indicate that he was murdered. Nevertheless, it would be a great mistake to have it known that he was a secret-service man.

  You understand?

  "Send the body to the morgue. I shall see to its identification, with very little said."

  Cardona nodded. He pointed to the articles on the table.

  "You want those?" he asked.

  "Yes," said Marquette. "I can assure you that if Fitzroy was involved in any dangerous business, it must have taken place outside of New York. I may be able to trace his activities. If so -"

  "I get you."

  Cardona walked to the door of the room. He summoned the men who were outside. They entered, surprised to see Marquette standing free.

  "This man is all right," said Cardona gruffly. "He's an old friend of Fitzroy's. We're sending the body to the morgue. That's all."

  He followed the three, and spoke in a low tone to the house detective. The two were outside the door during the discussion. Vic Marquette was leaning over the body while they were absent.

  With deliberate action, Marquette slipped his fingers into Fitzroy's watch pocket and drew forth a small slip of paper. His back turned toward the door, Marquette examined the paper.

  He had noticed it when he had withdrawn Fitzroy's badge, but had made no comment. The slip was a railroad coupon, indicating a cash fare paid from a town named Westbrook Falls to New York City.

  Marquette was standing by the desk when Cardona returned with the house detective. In his hand, the secret-service man was holding an envelope.

  Within that envelope, he had placed the slip of paper that he had found.

  "These two articles"—Vic Marquette picked up the coin and the feather— "may be of some importance.

  I shall study them."

  He dropped the two objects into the envelope and carelessly laid the latter on the desk. He took the rest of Fitzroy's belongings and put them in another envelope. Cardona nodded his approval.

  "I think," said Cardona, "that we can tell this man the circumstances -" He was indicating the house detective.

  Marquette was thoughtful; then gave his approval. In a low tone, Cardona explained Marquette's connection with the secret service.

  "Nothing is to be said," warned Marquette. "I know what Fitzroy was doing. He probably gained some results. It will be my job to follow out his work."

  POLICEMEN arrived to take the body to the morgue. The dead form of Jerry Fitzroy was carried from the room. Cardona and Marquette followed, and stood just outside the door.

  The envelopes which Marquette had used were lying, unsealed, upon the writing desk.

  It was then that a strange incident occurred.

  While the men at the door were watching the removal of Fitzroy's body, something moved inward from the blackness outside the window. A human arm reached toward the desk. A black-gloved hand plucked the envelope that contained the coin, the feather, and the railway coupon.

  A few minutes later, Cardona and Marquette returned to the room. They were preparing to leave. Vic Marquette picked up the two envelopes. The one that had been removed, was now replaced in its former position, by the same hand that had taken it.

  The detective and the secret-service man went down the elevator together. They shook hands and parted outside the Metrolite Hotel. They went in opposite directions.

  Alone, Vic Marquette opened the more important of the two envelopes. Standing near a light, he quickly examined the three articles. He smiled as he held the twenty-franc piece. He nodded as he looked at the railroad coupon; he frowned as he held the feather.

  The significance of two articles was plain to Vic Marquette as he went on his way. The gold coin and the railway coupon held a definite meaning. The feather—despite the fact that Marquette had expressed no interest regarding it to Cardona—might also be important. What it meant was something Vic Marquette intended to learn.

  One matter perplexed the secret-service man. To-night, as he had told Cardona, he had received a call, telling him to come to the Metrolite Hotel, to meet Jerry Fitzroy. Marquette had answered that call immediately.

  The message had been sent after Fitzroy was dead—not before! The person who had communicated by telephone—a man who spoke in a quiet voice—had given no statement of identity. This was puzzling. It indicated the presence of an unknown person in the maze that surrounded the death of Jerry Fitzroy.

  Nevertheless, Vic Marquette was not worrying about the identity of the unknown informant when he boarded a sleeper for Westbrook Falls, some time after midnight. The secret-service man was content with the thought that he possessed the only clews to Jerry Fitzroy's actions— and that of those clews, the most important was his alone.

  He had the railway coupon that told where Jerry Fitzroy had been. He, only, had connected the mystery with the town of Westbrook Falls, wither he was now traveling!

  With all his confidence, Vic Marquette was mistaken: A hand from the dark had performed a deed to-night. That hand had plucked the evidence, had carried it to unseen eyes, and had returned it, unbeknown!

  A gold coin—a railway coupon—a feather! The secret of strange doings rested upon three clews. Vic Marquette had kept that information from Joe Cardona; but he had not kept it from the hidden figure who had been shrouded in the darkness of the balcony.

  The Shadow, too, knew of those mysterious clews!

  His hand had come from the dark to gain them!

  CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW PLANS

  A BLACK-SHROUDED room, lighted only by the weird glow of a bluish light that shone upon the polished surface of a flat-topped table. Two hands, moving like pale white creatures beneath the circle of light. A mysterious gem that glimmered from a tapering third finger.

  The Shadow was in his sanctum!

  Somewhere in Manhattan, secluded in a spot known to himself alone, this strange being was at work!

  Only his moving hands denoted his presence; only the glowing jewel, a fire opal that constantly changed in hue, revealed the identity of the hands.

  To police, as well as to criminals, The Shadow was a figure of mystery. His place lay in that borderland between the realm of law and the dominion of the underworld. A strange figure—a weird presence— his very identity was a matter of vague conjecture.

  Who was The Shadow?

  Many had asked that question. None had answered it!

  Those who had encountered The Shadow had seen him only as a figure garbed in black—a tall, sinister form that came and departed as a phantom of the night.

  Time and again, fierce wolves of the underworld had been thwarted by that sinister shape. Fiends of crime had faced the being in black, had met the burning gaze of eyes deep-set beneath the brim of a slouch hat, and had died with gasps of terror on their lips.

  Minions of the law, too, had experienced the
presence of The Shadow. More than once, a black-gloved hand, thrust from the folds of a crimson-lined cloak, had reached to rescue those who combated the hordes of evil.

  Helpless men and women, doomed to die by the design of criminal plotters, had found salvation through the timely efforts of The Shadow. Yet none had seen the face of the being in black. In all his missions of retribution, The Shadow had departed; he was still unknown!

  The voice of The Shadow, although a clew to his identity, had never enabled any one to trace him. When The Shadow spoke, his words were eerie utterances that chilled all hearers. More spectral than the voice was the laugh of The Shadow. When its mocking tones resounded, evil-doers trembled at the sound.

  On certain nights, the voice of The Shadow was heard over the radio, on a national hook-up. With it came the echoing tones of the gibing laugh.

  Shrewd persons had sought to learn the identity of The Shadow by watching the broadcasting station, but their efforts had been constantly frustrated. The Shadow spoke from a curtained room, where no one dared enter. His method of entrance and departure was known only to himself.

  When daring crooks had hidden within the room to await the arrival of The Shadow, their purpose had been artfully thwarted by The Shadow's uncanny forethought. His voice had come to the studio over telephonic connection to a distant point!

  OF all his amazing activities, none were more important to The Shadow than those which took place in this black-walled sanctum, where two white hands, one wearing that priceless fire opal known as a girasol, were the only shapes in view. Here it was that The Shadow formulated his plans and received reports from his trusted agents. Sworn to secrecy, ready to risk death in service of their master, these agents of The Shadow were faithful men; yet despite their contact with the being in black, they, too, lived in ignorance of his identity!

  They knew only what others suspected: that The Shadow was a master of disguise, who assumed many identities that were not his own. These agents had witnessed the prowess of The Shadow. Had they told their truthful stories, their statement would not have been credited. For the power of The Shadow surpassed all belief.

  To-night, The Shadow was engaged in a deep and careful study. Before him, on the polished table, lay typewritten papers; reports compiled by his agents. The long white hands were fingering these carefully compiled records with care.

  One sheet of paper bore the typewritten heading:

  Foreign Coinage Report

  This sheet was the top one of several that were carefully clipped together.

  The Shadow's finger moved down the paragraph, passing one page and following through another, stopping momentarily as it rested on certain sentences. These were the most important statements that were noted:

  The suspicion of counterfeit gold coins now rests upon Peruvian and Bolivian currency in addition to that of the Argentine.

  Reports of investigation in France, Italy, and Australia not received.

  Coins possessing specific gravity of gold and meeting other tests have yielded base metals when melted.

  Foreign reports lacking as coins not suspected as counterfeits have not been melted in the countries where coined.

  No trace of source of this cheap alloy which is virtually synthetic gold.

  Only test appears to be melting, hence no samples of counterfeit coins remain as existing counterfeits pass as genuine.

  Secret-service investigation under way.

  Turning to an appended sheet, The Shadow's finger rested upon a paragraph that included the name of Jerry Fitzroy as a special agent assigned to the work of tracing counterfeiting activities. The name of Vic Marquette also appeared.

  Laying aside the report, The Shadow inspected another document. This was headed: Gold Mining Report

  Again, the moving finger pointed out certain items in the paragraphs: The steady production of gold from the New Era Mine in California has created unusual interest.

  Generally believed that this mine had been fully worked and about to be abandoned.

  Development of new veins has created a heavy demand for stock offered by New Era Mining Syndicate.

  Rumor of mine being "salted" is not credited as no outside source of supply has been noted.

  Steady production of gold is out of proportion to possible gain through sale of stock.

  Clifford Forster, controller of New Era Syndicate, is constantly on ground in California.

  THE papers lay still upon the table. The hand of The Shadow drew forth a white sheet and a pen. But before the fingers began to write even while the pen was poised above the paper—a tiny light glowed beyond the table.

  The left hand, with its radiant girasol, reached forward and brought back a pair of ear phones. These disappeared beyond the fringe of light; then the lamp clicked off.

  A solemn voice spoke amid the darkness—a low, whispered voice that sounded hollow in the blackness of that shrouded room.

  "Report."

  A quiet tone came over the wire.

  "Burbank speaking. Word from Burke, in California. Received, in code, by Rutledge Mann. Report on Clifford Forster. Has left New Era Mine for the East."

  "Exact destination?"

  "Probably New York—to-morrow night. Traveling alone. Sent word to his home in New York that he might be there to-morrow. No other facts available."

  "Report received."

  The little light was extinguished. The ear phones were replaced. Connection was ended. The glare of the lamp appeared; the hand of The Shadow poised above the sheet of paper.

  The hand wrote a single word at the top of the paper. That word was the name: Fitzroy

  Beneath the name, the hand inscribed these cryptic statements:

  Where: The railway coupon.

  Why: The French coin.

  Who: The partridge feather

  The hand moved away. Only the words remained emblazoned upon the sheet of paper in vivid blue ink, surveyed by invisible eyes that studied them from the darkness.

  Then, as though responding to an unseen touch, those words began to vanish. First the name of Fitzroy disappeared, letter by letter; after that, the other words were lost in the same uncanny fashion. Only the blank piece of paper remained!

  These words, written in the amazing disappearing ink used by The Shadow, had been like uttered thoughts. Now they were gone, existing only in the brain of the one who had inscribed them.

  Two facts had been mentioned here that would have been obvious to Vic Marquette, the secret-service man who had gone back over Fitzroy's trail. These were the facts that Jerry Fitzroy, investigating the matter of spurious foreign coinage, had gone to a place named Westbrook Falls.

  But the final fact—the identity of the person whom Fitzroy had visited— had been divined by The Shadow alone.

  To Vic Marquette, the presence of the feather in Fitzroy's pocket was a mystery. To The Shadow, it was a proclamation of an unknown identity. Vic Marquette had looked upon the feather as one from any bird; The Shadow had recognized it as a partridge feather.

  What was the connection between some unknown person and that feather? This was a problem that The Shadow was prepared to solve. But when the hand again appeared beneath the light, the new words that it wrote referred to another subject.

  Again a name was inscribed in that ink of vivid blue—a name that was followed by carefully written comments:

  Clifford Forster.

  Home in New York.

  To-morrow evening.

  The light clicked out. The ear phones clattered slightly as they were lifted by unseen hands. A tiny bulb gleamed as the voice of The Shadow whispered across the wire to Burbank.

  "Post Vincent at the home of Clifford Forster. Immediate report upon Forster's return."

  The ear phones were back; the glow was gone; the room was in total darkness. The Shadow's plans were made. Vic Marquette had gone to Westbrook Falls; but while he was absent, a new trail would be opening, here in Manhattan.

  Temporarily ignoring
the events that had preceded the death of Jerry Fitzroy, The Shadow was training his observation upon a man who had been far away, but who soon would be in New York.

  To-morrow night would be the test. From Clifford Forster, wealthy mining promoter, The Shadow would gain information relating to a riddle that involved events of international importance.

  Where death once struck, death would strike again. To Vic Marquette, the demise of Jerry Fitzroy had been an unfortunate incident. To The Shadow, it meant the beginning of a reign of fiendish crime.

  A laugh resounded through the blackness. It was a harsh, mirthless laugh, that laugh of The Shadow. It carried none of the mockery which the hidden being so often uttered. It was a laugh that denoted the grimness of the game ahead.

  The lure of gold—that lust that has made men kill throughout the ages— was at work. Heinous crime was the ruling motive in the minds of evil villains.

  To The Shadow was given the duty of thwarting great crime. Shrouded by darkness, a hidden factor in the cross-purposes of scheming men, he had planned to-night.

  The echoes of the laugh rippled through the sanctum as though caught and shaken forth by the motionless curtains that covered the walls of the black room. The echoes died away like the cries of distant, spectral beings.

  The sanctum was now empty. The Shadow had departed.

  Two forces were already at work to oppose the crime that threatened. One, The Shadow, had planned and issued his orders. His work began in New York.

  The other, Vic Marquette, was directed at the point of Jerry Fitzroy's last activity—Westbrook Falls.

  A giant struggle was already in the making!

  CHAPTER IV. AT WESTBROOK FALLS

  ON the following afternoon, an eastbound limited came to a stop at the little station of Westbrook Falls.

  Several persons alighted from the train, among them a bulky, full-jowled, middle-aged man who was carrying a suitcase.

  There were three or four men lounging about the platform. One of them, a stocky, firm-jawed individual, eyed the various people who had left the train. This observer, standing in an obscure portion of the platform, was none other than Vic Marquette.