The Creeping Death The s-22

by Maxwell Grant

  A few minutes later, the Corsican ushered Lawrence Guthrie into the laboratory. Lucien Partridge, his lips framed in a pleasant smile, stood waiting to greet his unexpected visitor.

  CHAPTER VII. GUTHRIE SPEAKS

  THERE was a troubled look in Lawrence Guthrie's eyes as he faced Lucien Partridge. The old man saw that his visitor was worried. He also saw Guthrie turn an anxious glance toward Vignetti, who had entered behind him. Partridge spoke in Italian. The Corsican retired.

  Guthrie, his face more cadaverous than ever, became a pathetic object the moment that he stood alone with Partridge. It was obvious that he was under a terrific strain; that he had borne up under a mental ordeal.

  Now, with none but the old man to witness his plight, Guthrie collapsed upon a stool that stood beside a workbench. He turned hunted eyes toward Lucien Partridge.

  "What is the matter, Guthrie?" questioned Partridge, in a solicitous tone.

  "I didn't do it!" exclaimed Guthrie. "You will believe me, Partridge! I didn't do it."

  His voice choked, and he buried his head upon his outstretched arms. Lucien Partridge stood quietly by; then spoke in an inquiring tone.

  "What is it that you did not do?" he questioned.

  Guthrie raised his head and stared, unbelieving. He saw Partridge's puzzled expression. For a moment, an elation glimmered on Guthrie's countenance; then it changed to suspicion. Partridge observed the dissimilar emotions. He spoke in a gentle, kindly tone.

  "What is the trouble, Guthrie? You seem weighted by worry -"

  "Nothing," protested Guthrie, staring about him with a hunted expression. "Nothing—that is—if you don't know about it—yet I can't believe that you have not heard -"

  "Heard of what?" inquired Partridge.

  The mild manner of the old man accomplished more than a sharp questioning might have done. Staring, Guthrie saw only friendliness in the benign countenance of Lucien Partridge. He gripped the old man's arm and spoke in a tense voice.

  "You have not heard"—his words were breathless—"you have not heard of Forster—of Forster's death?"

  "Forster?" Partridge seemed puzzled. "You mean that Clifford Forster is dead?"

  Guthrie nodded; then lowered his gaze.

  "Clifford Forster dead!" declared Partridge, in a stunned tone. "I cannot believe it!"

  "The newspapers were full of it," said Guthrie suddenly. "I thought that surely you must have read the reports."

  "I have no time for newspapers," responded Partridge. "I live in a world of my own, Guthrie. I have few friends outside. You were one; Forster was another. Now, he is gone. You must feel the loss also, Guthrie."

  "I do!" blurted Guthrie eagerly. "It is a shock to me, Partridge. That is why—why I am so worried—why I have come to see you— because I thought you might suspect -"

  He paused, afraid to continue; but as he saw Partridge still solicitous, Guthrie gave way to a sudden resolve. He arose and stood beside the workbench, facing Partridge while he spoke.

  "FORSTER came to New York a few nights ago," he declared. "While he was in his home, he was overcome by a paroxysm that resulted in his death. Now the police suspect murder. They are trying to find a man who was in Forster's home when death came over him."

  "Ah! They suspect foul play?"

  "Yes. They are still seeking the visitor. They have not found him. Apparently, they have gained no clew to his identity."

  "Do you know who he is -"

  "Yes."

  "Who?"

  "Myself."

  Guthrie uttered the last word in a bold, deliberate manner. Lucien Partridge seemed staggered. He stared at his visitor in a startled manner, totally unable to recover from his surprise.

  "Listen to me, Partridge," pleaded Guthrie. "I'll tell you all I know— why I am here—everything. You will believe me?"

  "You are my friend," replied Partridge simply. "I believe my friends."

  A relieved expression swept over Lawrence Guthrie's visage. He felt free to speak, and his words shouted a new confidence.

  "I went to see Forster that night," he explained. "Forster summoned me there. Unfortunately, we had a misunderstanding. I left because Forster appeared to be unreasonable.

  "As I was leaving, he seemed to be suffering from a momentary attack of dizziness; but I had no idea it might prove fatal. His caretaker was there; I had no reason to remain. But the next morning, I was amazed to read in the newspaper that Clifford Forster had died, and that an unknown visitor was supposed to have caused his death the previous night!"

  "Why did you not go to the police?" asked Partridge. "You could have told them."

  "They would have asked me why I visited Forster. I would have had to tell them all about the gold—about your secret—about my deal with Forster. Such a strange story would have excited suspicion."

  "I understand."

  "But the strain was terrible," continued Guthrie. "The longer I waited, the worse the case would be against me when they found out my connection. I was afraid.

  "Then I realized that there was one person who might suspect the identity of the visitor at Forster's house.

  That one was you!"

  Lucien Partridge made no response. His eyes had a thoughtful look.

  "You understand, don't you?" questioned Guthrie. "I was sure that you had learned of Forster's death—that you would wonder where I was - that you would suspect me as the unknown man.

  "The strain became so great I had to talk to some one. I realized then that it was my duty to tell you what had happened. I slipped away from New York —I came here—here—to find my only friend!"

  "You have done wisely," declared Partridge in a slow tone. "Come, Guthrie. You are tired. Let us go in the library, where we can rest and talk at ease."

  THE old man led the way, and Guthrie followed him like an obedient child. In the library, Guthrie slumped into a chair and sat staring straight ahead, while Partridge watched him.

  "Tell me," said the old man. "Why did you and Forster quarrel?"

  "It was about the gold," responded Guthrie, in a monotonous tone. "Forster was angry because the production had not been increased."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "I told him"—Guthrie hesitated—"I told him that you were doing your best; that the promises I had made were based purely upon my belief that you would increase the output."

  "What did he say?"

  "He claimed that I was double-crossing him; that you were producing more gold than he was getting; that I was secretly appropriating some without his knowledge."

  "And you replied -"

  "I told him the truth. I said that I came here seldom; that I left the shipments to you. He doubted my story. He became so insulting that I lost my temper and cursed him. Then I thought it best to leave."

  "And now -"

  "Now I do not know what to do. I am innocent; yet I am afraid to tell my story. I cannot bring your name into the picture, of course. It would be unfair to you."

  "You would not have to mention my name to the police."

  "They would force it from me, Partridge. I would have to tell all if I told part."

  The old man nodded thoughtfully; then he walked forward and placed his hand on Guthrie's shoulder.

  "Did people know that you were a friend of Clifford Forster?" he asked.

  "Very few," responded Guthrie uneasily. "Our relations were kept secret; but I am afraid that my name may become known. Forster had papers—there on his desk."

  Lucien Partridge tightened his lips as he heard this statement. Guthrie was sitting with bowed head.

  Partridge nodded thoughtfully to himself.

  "I have a plan, Guthrie," he declared. "A wonderful plan. I can protect you."

  "How?" questioned Guthrie, raising his head in eagerness.

  "Wait until the morning," urged the old man, in a cryptic tone. "Have confidence, Guthrie. Get some rest to-night. I shall have Vignetti call you early."

  "You are sure that your plan wil
l work?"

  "I am certain of it. Do not worry, Guthrie. Remember, I have wealth. While Forster lived, the gold that I produced belonged to him. Now that he is dead, it is ours."

  The statement was uttered in a most matter-of-fact tone. Nevertheless, it brought a bright look of eagerness to Guthrie's haggard face. Like Forster, Guthrie was governed by cupidity. In his worry, he had forgotten that the principal recipient of Partridge's synthetic wealth was now eliminated.

  Gold! The very thought of it elated Lawrence Guthrie. He raised his head and managed to force a smile to his lips. That smile was an ugly grin. Lucien Partridge returned it with a mild, benign smile.

  "Perhaps you can rest more easily now," declared Partridge. "Come. I shall summon Vignetti to show you to a room upstairs. You must have sleep—for a journey lies ahead of you to-morrow."

  Guthrie arose and nodded. His face showed relief; his tired frame was capitulating now that his mind no longer worried.

  The Corsican entered in response to Lucien Partridge's call. He conducted Lawrence Guthrie to a room upstairs.

  VIGNETTI was the last person whom Lawrence Guthrie saw that night; he was also the first person whom Guthrie encountered in the morning. It was six o'clock when the Corsican knocked at the door and summoned Guthrie to rise.

  Guthrie was in good spirits when he came downstairs. The door to the laboratory was open. He entered the room, and found Lucien Partridge, bright and cheery, standing at a worktable.

  "You slept well," was Partridge's comment.

  "Yes," responded Guthrie. "You appear to have enjoyed a good rest."

  "I have been here all night," smiled Partridge. "This afternoon I shall nap for a few hours. That is all the sleep I require. When one is older and completely engrossed in great work, sleep is scarcely more than an occasional habit."

  Guthrie stared incredulously.

  "Now," declared Partridge, in a calm tone, "I shall tell you your plans. A train is due at Westbrook Falls at seven o'clock. You will take it."

  "To New York?"

  "No—away from New York. It reaches Buffalo before noon. There you must take a train for Canada.

  Go to Toronto—change again, and take a train to Montreal. Remain there, at the Hotel Francais, where you will receive a message from me within a few days. Do you understand?"

  "I do. This message -"

  "It will be most welcome to you. It will bring you funds—enough money for you to travel to Europe in luxury and comfort. It will also give you full instructions regarding your passport. Everything will be in proper order. Rely upon me. Register under your own name; there is no reason for worry.

  "But under no circumstances must it be known that you have been to Westbrook Falls. Therefore, upon arriving in Buffalo, you must be sure to destroy any ticket stubs that you have received.

  "Do the same when you arrive in Toronto; and also in Montreal. For in Montreal you are starting upon a new career. You are to forget the worries of the past. You understand?"

  "Everything is quite plain," nodded Guthrie. "Rely upon me to follow your instructions."

  Vignetti entered the laboratory. Lucien Partridge beckoned to him, and spoke in Italian. Vignetti responded in the same language.

  "Vignetti will get the car to take you to the station," explained Partridge, to Guthrie. "You can wait here with me while I start the day's experiment. I am anxious to be back at work."

  Guthrie watched Vignetti reach into the drawer. He noticed a pair of gloves at the front of the drawer; the Corsican passed over them, and picked up another pair that were folded at the back of the drawer. He brought them to Lucien Partridge, who laid them on the table. Then Vignetti produced a smock and helped the old man don it. The Corsican went away.

  "Remember," said Partridge, "you must obey my instructions. I have confidence in you, Guthrie; you must have the same in me."

  "I have," responded Guthrie. "You have given me a new hold on life; you are a real friend, Partridge!"

  The old man smiled quietly as he picked up one glove and let it dangle from the fingers of one hand, as he inserted the other. He drew the glove on from the wrist; then he repeated the operation with the second glove. He turned to the worktable, as though to begin a new experiment. At that moment Vignetti entered.

  "Ah!" exclaimed Partridge. "The car is ready. Come."

  He led the way through the hall, out through the front door and to the gate. Guthrie and Vignetti followed.

  The Corsican entered the car. Guthrie paused to say good-by.

  "I can never thank you enough," he said sincerely. "You are indeed a true friend."

  "Wait," replied the old man. "Wait until I have completed all my plans. Much is in store for you, Guthrie.

  Much that you do not expect."

  Their hands joined in a shake, Guthrie's bare palm gripped within Partridge's glove. Guthrie entered the car. Vignetti drove away.

  Looking back, Guthrie saw the figure of Lucien Partridge, standing at the open gate. With white hair flowing in the morning breeze, the old man was the picture of benignity.

  The car turned the corner, and the picture ended. Vignetti was silent at the wheel; Guthrie was complacent as he leaned back in the seat.

  Lawrence Guthrie's mind was no longer troubled. Through his brain rang those words that Lucien Partridge had uttered after the parting handclasp.

  "Much is in store for you, Guthrie. Much that you do not expect."

  Like Clifford Forster, Lawrence Guthrie had left Lucien Partridge carrying a promise. Like Forster, Guthrie thought of gold. Like Forster, Guthrie felt sure that he had left a true friend.

  Not for one moment did Lawrence Guthrie's mind turn to thoughts of creeping death!

  CHAPTER VIII. THE MAN FROM THE ARGENTINE

  DIRECTLY across the river gorge from the spot where the road turned to the woods, a man was standing in a clump of bushes. In his hands he held a pair of powerful binoculars. His eyes were peering through the glasses.

  As the car which Vignetti was driving came into view, the concealed observer saw it from a distance of less than one hundred yards. With the aid of the binoculars, he clearly discerned the faces of Lawrence Guthrie and Vignetti, for the car was moving slowly at the turn.

  When the sound of the motor had disappeared into the woods, the man lowered his glasses and emitted a short laugh. Turning, he strolled along a faint path that took him away from the place where he had been watching.

  Tall, dark-haired, and with flashing black eyes, this man had all the appearance of a Castilian grandee.

  His dark complexion was another evidence of his Spanish ancestry. As he walked along through the woods, the man smiled in a satisfied fashion.

  The path bordered the cliff opposite the rear of Lucien Partridge's well-protected stronghold. It was just far enough from the edge of the gorge to hide the presence of the walker. When the man arrived at one particular spot, he stopped and again raised his binoculars. Pressing aside the branches of a small tree, he sighted across the chasm to the estate where Partridge dwelt.

  The large frame mansion showed among the trees. The little workhouse near the gorge was hidden behind sheltering trees. The observer seemed to be watching for any sign of activities upon the premises.

  At length, he ended his lookout and continued along the path.

  The way led from the cliff, and after a short walk, the man came to a small cottage that was situated in a clearing. There was no road to the cottage. It was an old deserted building, apparently on the verge of abandonment.

  The man ascended the steps of the cottage and walked quietly through the open door. He turned into a room where a short, powerful man was seated dozing in a chair. At the sound of the footfalls, the short man leaped up excitedly. When he recognized the man who had entered, he sheepishly resumed his chair.

  The tall man laughed.

  "Frightened you, eh?" he questioned. "Ah, you are becoming nervous, Jose."

  Jose made no reply.

 
"Our friend has gone," remarked the tall man. "You remember—the one you saw arrive last night? I suspected that he would be leaving early to-day. That is why I was on watch to see him. They must rise early, Jose, if they expect to catch Alfredo Morales asleep."

  The speaker laughed and walked across the room. He placed the binoculars in a case and turned again to Jose.

  "Bring me some breakfast," ordered Morales. "We will not wait for Manuel. It may be some time before he arrives."

  JOSE went from the room. Some minutes later, he returned with a tray of breakfast, and set his burden upon a table.

  Although Jose was evidently the servant of Alfredo Morales, the two men were on an equal basis after Jose had completed his task, for one sat at each side of the table, and both began to eat.

  "Yes," remarked Morales thoughtfully, "he is gone. That makes three of them, Jose. Three visitors since we have been watching. I suppose that this last man has gone to New York like the others. Well, we shall wait for Manuel's report."

  Breakfast completed, Morales waited impatiently, watching through the open door. At last a man appeared in the clearing. This was the slender, dark-complexioned man who had seen Clifford Forster arrive at Westbrook Falls. The newcomer advanced across the clearing and greeted Morales.

  "Well?" questioned Morales.

  "He has gone, senor," was the reply.

  "To New York?"

  "No. He bought a ticket for Buffalo."

  "Hm-m-m," observed Morales. "That is different, eh, Manuel? Did he seem like the others had—pleased with his visit?"

  "Yes, senor," responded Manuel. "He was rubbing his hands while he waited for the westbound train.

  Rubbing them—so"—Manuel imitated the action— "like one who is happy. He seemed very pleased, senor."

  "Good," declared Morales. "Now tell me, Manuel. Are those two men still at the inn?"

  "Yes, senor. I believe so. I have not seen them to-day -"

  "Then you do not know if they are still there. Go back, Manuel. Keep watch as before—at the station—and come back here later on."