"Why not?"
"Look here, Guthrie," declared Forster, in a direct tone, "we might as well have a show-down right now!
I'm going to start right from the beginning."
He reached in his pocket, withdrew a parcel of folded papers, and spread them on the table.
"Here's everything," he said. "Your agreement, Partridge's agreement, a list of expenditures, everything that pertains to our transactions. So if there's any argument, we've got it in black and white. You understand?"
Guthrie looked puzzled.
"I—I don't understand -"
Clifford Forster interrupted the weak protest.
"You will understand!" he affirmed. "I'm looking into matters, coolly and impartially. You do the listening while I do the talking. Then I'll hear from you."
GUTHRIE was silent as Forster examined the documents before him. A worried expression came over the cadaverous man's brow. Nevertheless, he kept his silence and waited.
"We'll start with the beginning," declared Forster. "You are a promoter, Guthrie, and a good one.
Somehow, you uncovered Lucien Partridge, who wanted to be financed in the making of synthetic gold.
You aroused my interest. I met Partridge. I took a chance. I put up the money."
"That's right," agreed Guthrie.
Another pause followed. Forster was looking at the papers. Guthrie was staring at Forster. Neither man noticed an almost imperceptible motion of a window shade at the side of the room.
A long, flat shadow began to project itself across the floor, almost to the table across which Guthrie was facing Forster.
"I saw a way to make millions," continued Forster, "and I promised you your share. The terms were satisfactory to both of us. I waited while the old man got things working.
"I felt good when the first lot of gold landed at the New Era Mine a few months ago. That was the beginning. I looked to you and Partridge to keep it up."
"Which we have," said Guthrie.
"Yes," retorted Forster coldly. "You have—in dribbles! With those dribbles, you have given promises.
Double the output—double that again—but you haven't done it. Why not?"
Guthrie chewed his lips.
"It's Partridge's fault," he said. "He's the one that's making the gold. I don't know anything about it -"
"Passing the buck to Partridge, eh?" questioned Forster. "That stuff doesn't go, Guthrie. What about your promises?"
"I was telling you what Partridge promised me."
"Yes? Well, why hasn't Partridge produced?"
"I thought he was producing. I've stayed away from Westbrook Falls, like I told you I would. The shipments go out from there. It would be bad business for me to be hanging around the place -"
"Some one is stalling," interrupted Forster. "It's either you or Partridge. I've talked with"—he hesitated quickly—"I've good reason to believe that you're the one to blame."
Guthrie made no answer to the implication. Slumped in his chair, he was the figure of dejection. His attitude might have been that of a guilty party; on the contrary it might have indicated an innocent man faced by unjust accusations.
"I've dealt squarely with you, Guthrie," said Forster. "Maybe I've been too much on the level. I told you from the start that this synthetic gold business would have to be handled quietly. If we told the public we were manufacturing gold, the gold market would take a drop. That's why I'm planting the yellow stuff in the New Era Mine.
"Now that I'm in the racket, I'm going the whole way. The New Era can't last indefinitely. It would excite suspicion. That's why I'm going to sell out —and start planting gold in the Procyon Mine instead of the New Era.
"After that"—Forster shrugged his shoulders—"well, why go on further? You know the game, because I let you in on it. Now it looks like you're trying to start a racket of your own."
"No! I'm playing square!" protested Guthrie. "I want to see your plans work. The more gold you get from Partridge, the bigger the cut I get -"
"Yes?" Forster's interruption was cold. "But suppose you are double-crossing me? Suppose you are holding out some of the gold Partridge is producing?"
"Maybe Partridge is holding out on you. I'm not."
"Partridge?" Forster's question was disdainful. "The value of gold means nothing to him. He's contented, now that he is established. I know your past, Guthrie; that's what makes me leery; and it puts me in a position where I can dictate.
"You've always been out for all you can get. A slick promoter, looking for easy money. Well"—Forster's pudgy lips hardened—"for once you're trying to bleed the wrong man!"
LAWRENCE GUTHRIE leaped angrily to his feet. He shook his fist at Clifford Forster, and shouted his reply to the other man's accusation.
"I'm no double-crosser!" he cried. "I'm in the middle—between you and Partridge. He's eccentric; I've got to handle him sensibly. Instead of giving me a chance, you—you -"
Leaning forward across the table, Guthrie hurled a series of loud expletives at Forster. The mine owner, his own face aglow with fury, leaped up to meet the challenge. In his haste he overturned the chair in which he had been seated.
As Guthrie still mouthed curses, Forster shot across the table and swung a futile blow. For a moment, he and Guthrie were locked in ferocious struggle; then Guthrie shoved Forster away. The bulky man caught himself at the edge of the table and stood glowering fiercely.
Guthrie, rapidly calming, was chewing his lips as though regretting what he had said. He knew that Forster held a whip hand over him; that he had made a mistake in losing his temper. He saw Forster half leaning against the edge of the table, panting heavily.
"There's no use fighting about this," declared Guthrie, in an apologetic tone. "I guess we're both wrong.
Why not be reasonable about matters -"
Forster, slowly recovering from his exertion, began to move along the edge of the table. He made no threatening gesture toward Guthrie— in fact, Forster seemed almost incapable of such action. But he showed intense antagonism in the glowering look that he directed at the visitor.
"You—you"—Forster's voice was filled with growling rage— "you're trying to crawl out of it now, eh?
We'll see about that— we'll see -"
Forster began to pick up the papers that lay on the desk. His hands fumbled. The documents eluded his grasp. Still staring at Guthrie, Forster kept on in his vain attempt.
Suddenly his hands seemed to become rigid; his arms lost their strength. He sank upon his elbows, and stared with bulging eyes toward his hands.
"What—what is happening?" he exclaimed, in a frightened voice. "My hands —my arms -"
He stared at Guthrie, and his voice rose to a wild scream as he saw the other man's pale face.
"You've crippled me!" screamed Forster. "I'm paralyzed! My hands— my arms —my shoulders! This is your work, Guthrie! Your work, you hound!"
Guthrie's eyes were wild as he heard these words. He backed across the room toward the door. Forster screamed new imprecations as he saw Guthrie departing.
"This is your work, Guthrie—your work -"
Guthrie opened the door and stepped quickly into the hall. He was panic-stricken now. He hastened across the hall toward the street door. As he hurried, he passed a man who was coming down the stairs.
It was Graver, alarmed by the cries that he had heard.
The caretaker did not follow Guthrie. In fact, he scarcely noted the departing man, so anxious was he to reach the library, where new shouts were coming from Clifford Forster. The bulky mine owner was slumped across the table; his glassy eyes saw Graver the moment the caretaker arrived.
"Stop him!" Forster was shouting hoarsely. "Stop Guth—stop Guth" - his voice choked as he tried to pronounce the name—"stop that man -"
The rest of Forster's words were inarticulate; but Graver understood. Turning, the caretaker hastened in pursuit of Lawrence Guthrie.
The front door slammed as he ran through it to the
street. A moment later there was a dull thud in the library as Clifford Forster tumbled to the floor.
The dying man was staring straight upward, his eyes glazed, his lips moving helplessly. The terrible paralysis had reached his throat; his limbs were numbed. The creeping death was claiming another victim!
THEN those staring eyes saw a strange sight, which to Forster's feverish vision appeared to be a vista of the world beyond.
Into the range of Forster's gaze came a tall figure garbed completely in black—a being wrapped in the folds of a long cloak, with features obscured by the broad brim of a slouch hat.
The spectral form came closer. It stood above Clifford Forster; it leaned over him. The eyes of The Shadow burned like points of light as they met the stare of the dying man.
Instinctively, the numbing brain of Clifford Forster realized that here was some one who might prove a friend. The sight of those eyes cleared his fading mind. The thought of Lawrence Guthrie vanished from his clouded brain. A wild gleam of new suspicion came over him.
With a last effort, Forster tried to speak. His lips moved; his voice came in a creaky groan as he sought to pronounce the words that he desired.
The effort was too great. The trembling lips ceased their motions. Clifford Forster's bulging eyes saw no more. The creeping death had gained its victory!
Somber and motionless, The Shadow stood looking at the dead man before him. Then to those keen, hidden ears, came a sound from the street outside. The Shadow turned, and, with one gloved hand gathered up the papers that lay on the desk.
Voices sounded as the front door was thrown open. With a quick, swift stride, The Shadow moved across the room, his long cloak showing its crimson lining as it swished through the air.
When Graver and a policeman burst into the room a moment later, they saw only the dead form of Clifford Forster. The silent witness of the encounter between Forster and Guthrie—the one man who had observed Clifford Forster in his final death throes—was no longer there. Only a long shadow lay across the floor, projecting from the window. Neither Graver nor the officer observed it.
That shadowy shape silently slid away. The window curtain rustled so slightly that its sound could not be heard. The two men were alone in the room where the creeping death had struck.
The Shadow had departed. Death had done its work here. This part of crime was over. But elsewhere, The Shadow knew, more crime was breeding; the source of the evil was somewhere else!
CHAPTER VI. IN THE LABORATORY
LUCIEN PARTRIDGE was at work in his laboratory. Garbed in a stained frock, and wearing long white gloves, the old man was making a series of unusual tests. Holding a test tube in his hand, he poured a small quantity of a colorless liquid from a bottle.
To this he added a few drops of a purplish fluid; then a few grains of a reddish powder. The liquid in the test tube clouded; then changed to a brownish hue. Within it appeared tiny flakes of gold!
Partridge set the tube in a holder above a Bunsen burner. He ignited the flame and kept it at a low point.
The gold flakes moved slowly within the liquid. The old man watched the results eagerly; then walked away and descended the stairs to the room below.
Here two men were standing beside a furnace. As Partridge approached, one of them leaned forward and opened the bottom of the furnace to reveal a crucible filled with a yellowish mass of molten metal.
Partridge smiled and nodded.
The door was closed, and the roar of the furnace sounded, the old man listening as though hearing music that was pleasing to his ears. He walked from the room and went upstairs. From the laboratory he went through a door that led outside.
Dusk was falling. A single star glimmered in the dulling sky. Lucien Partridge's eyes turned in that direction. But they did not notice the star. They were centered upon a chimney at the top of the building.
A spurt of flame appeared through the chimney. It died away. Then came another red spurt. Lucien Partridge chuckled. He went back into the laboratory and again stood watching the tube that glowed with flakes of gold.
The old man turned to see Vignetti entering the laboratory. He motioned to the Corsican, and the faithful servant came to stand beside him. Partridge pointed to the test tube and chuckled. Then, in a low voice, he began to speak to Vignetti.
Partridge's method of conversation was curious. He spoke in English, as though expressing his thoughts aloud. Whenever he came to certain remarks, he turned to Vignetti as he spoke, and added a few words in Italian as an interpretation.
"You see it there, Vignetti?" he questioned, as he pointed to the now boiling tube. "Perhaps I have discovered it—perhaps not. Ah— some day, Vignetti, I shall have it!
"Gold—gold!" The old man's voice rose to a scream. "The alchemists sought it"—the voice became a whisper—"but they could not find it. They tried to transmute baser metals into gold. My way has been different. I have compounded those metals. By seeking first that which would resemble gold, I have sought to some day step beyond and form gold itself.
"Perhaps I shall fail"—the old man smiled wanly—"but it does not matter now. My false gold has brought me true gold. That is because I am clever, Vignetti."
PARTRIDGE turned off the Bunsen burner, and watched the gold flakes settle to the bottom of the muddy liquid. The old man shrugged his shoulders, and turned again to Vignetti.
"You remember that man who was here a few days ago?" he asked. "He wanted my gold, Vignetti. The real gold—not that yellow stuff that looks like gold.
"I have been giving him gold Vignetti—gold that is mine—gold that I have obtained by my own brains, in exchange for the false gold. But he wanted still more—more—more—always more.
"Well, Vignetti"—the smile kept over Partridge's lips—"we need not worry longer about him. He was too greedy, Vignetti."
The old man paused. When he spoke again, his tone became reminiscent. His English words were freely interspersed with Italian, and Vignetti listened with intent pleasure.
"You have traveled far with me, Vignetti," said Partridge. "We have been everywhere. You have seen—you have learned. The vendetta that you saw in your youth was nothing, eh, Vignetti? A few people— killing—there on one island. Those who killed were killed in turn.
"But my vendetta"—the old man's gleaming eyes found their reflection in Vignetti's flashing optics—"ah, my vendetta is with the world! One man against many—and I never fail! Not when I have you helping me, my faithful Vignetti.
"You remember in Peking, Vignetti? My quarrel with that Chinese savant, Li Tan Chang? He knew that I sought to kill him. He would not tell me the secrets that he knew. To kill him was my only way. He tried to kill me, when he so blandly stretched forth his hand.
"But you were there, Vignetti! You knew what he meant to do. Your knife saved my life. I gained what I wanted; and with it, I learned the secret of the death that Li Tan Chang had sought to deal to me. Ah!
That secret has served me well!
"Remember how I used it in Hamburg, when Tolfens, the German scientist, would not reveal his methods of experiment? Tolfens is dead - but his work goes on. It is my work, now. You have done well, Vignetti, to be faithful to me."
The old man drew himself up proudly. He stared across the room as he mechanically removed his working gloves. He gave the gloves to Vignetti. The Corsican unlocked a drawer in a table and placed the gloves at the front of the drawer.
"Gold!" Partridge pronounced the word in a tone of grandeur. "Gold! I shall have all of it, Vignetti! All that is in the world, some day. So much that I shall rule! Rule as master!
"Those men who are working for me—those friends of mine in so many lands where I have been. They are gaining wealth. Morales— Gleason—Armagnac— Pallanci—Sukulos"—the old man's lips formed other names—"they are gaining wealth; but I have more. All mine is gold—I want nothing else.
Gold—gold— more gold—I shall have it. Forster wished it, but I shall have it. I have much of
it now—
millions!"
A crackling laugh came from the old man's throat. He seemed to be enjoying a long joke. Vignetti stood by, calmly surveying the old man. His expression showed that this eccentric conduct was a regular routine with Lucien Partridge.
"Yes, Vignetti"—the old man's new tone was cunning and calculating— "wealth is already mine. With wealth I shall have power. Other wealth cannot equal mine. My power shall never fade. Soon I shall be ready to rule the world.
"Still, I must beware. There are men who will try to shatter my power. Out of chaos, I shall rise to my great glory. I must create chaos! Death brings chaos! There are men who rule here in America. Big men of business—big men of politics—big men of power—and I shall meet them.
"As friends we shall meet—they and I. As friends they shall die! Is that not wonderful? It is better than the knife, Vignetti—for the knife is a sign of enmity.
"That is your method of vendetta that you knew in Corsica. My method is infinitely better—the method of Li Tan Chang—the method of friendship! Ha-ha-ha-ha!"
THE cackling laugh echoed through the laboratory. Even stolid Vignetti had imbibed the old man's enthusiasm. His dark face was livid with an insidious pleasure.
"Bankers—millionaires—presidents"—Partridge's tone was contemptuous —"what do I care for them?
They shall die, at my bidding. Any who shall question me shall die!"
In the bright electric illumination of the laboratory, Lucien Partridge's face had gained a fierceness that was unbelievable. But now his frenzy faded. Once again he became the quiet, placid old man that Clifford Forster had found so amiable.
A bell sounded from another room. Lucien Partridge looked at Vignetti. The Corsican nodded. That bell indicated a visitor at the outer gate. The servant hurried from the laboratory, and Lucien Partridge waited by the door until he returned.
"It is Mr. Lawrence Guthrie," explained Vignetti, in his broken English, a method of speech that he frequently used in his announcements.
"Ah Guthrie!" Partridge's voice indicated pleasure.
With gleaming eyes, the old man walked into the hall. There he spoke to Vignetti in Italian. The Corsican nodded. Partridge pointed to the door and made a motion that indicated that admittance should be granted. Vignetti started for the gate.
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