Morales paused and smiled. Then he continued in his soft, catlike tone.
"Pierre Armagnac is a great man in his chosen profession. Alfredo Morales is much less capable. Hence, while Armagnac was indifferent to the existence of others of his craft, Morales was more inquiring. He studied to learn who was great and who was small. He did that before he schemed for greater things.
"But Armagnac, too, was a schemer. He and Morales both had the same idea" —the speaker tapped his forehead—"and both came to the same place. Armagnac was the greater, but Morales held the advantage. For Armagnac had never heard of Morales; while Morales knew much of Armagnac."
Another pause while Morales studied the effect of his words upon Armagnac. Then, with a calm movement, Morales drew an envelope from his pocket and opened it. He held a small object in his hand.
He tossed it in the air, and it fluttered to the floor—a mottled partridge feather.
The action brought a smile to Armagnac's bearded lips. The Frenchman uttered a low grunt to signify that he understood the gesture. Morales pointed to the feather.
"You carry such trophies?" he questioned.
In reply, Armagnac produced a wallet from which he extracted a feather similar to the one that Morales had brought. The Frenchman let the feather flutter from his hand. It reached the floor almost at the same spot where the other lay. Morales saw significance in the result.
"A feather," he remarked. "A sign of recognition between myself and another man. A sign between yourself and that same man. It is my thought that those feathers may be a sign between Pierre Armagnac and Alfredo Morales. Do you agree?"
"I agree," responded Armagnac in a deep voice.
"GOOD," Morales commented warmly. "Now I shall speak plainly. I shall tell you much that you already know—and some things that you may not know. Question me when you wish; I want you to understand all.
"Here, across that gorge"—Morales pointed to the direction of the river —"lives a very clever man. The partridge feather is his sign, for his name is the same: Partridge.
"Some time ago, this man—Lucien Partridge—discovered the secret of making a metal, or alloy, that is very much like gold. In seeking a use for that metal, he discovered one. He planned to introduce his synthetic gold into the coinage of the world.
"To do that, he required agents. He chose them. Pierre Armagnac in France; Alfredo Morales in the Argentine; Eleutherios Sukulos in Greece; Enrico Pallanci in Italy; Jasper Gleason in Australia; Otto Larkon in Scandinavia. There are others in the list but it is unnecessary to name them. A dozen in all. I suppose you were at least aware of their existence?"
"I thought there must be at least eight," responded Armagnac. "I did not trouble myself much about any of the details."
"No, that was unnecessary in a way," admitted Morales. "You knew that there were many; that was sufficient to indicate great wealth. For Lucien Partridge sold his synthetic gold throughout the world; sold it, for real gold, to these counterfeiting agents. He is a widely traveled man, Partridge. A schemer always, he knew such men as you and myself in every country.
"You gained wealth, Armagnac. With Partridge's metal, your coins, like mine, could not be detected as counterfeits.
"But a thought occurred to you, Armagnac. For every million francs you made, Partridge obtained a million also. You began to wonder how many millions of pesos, of pounds, of bolivars, of lire he was obtaining. That is what I, too, began to think.
"Ah! A wonderful thought. Why be a counterfeiter in one corner of the world, while somewhere a lone man is drawing in wealth from everywhere? You thought—as I thought—that Lucien Partridge must possess a tremendous supply of gold—of real gold.
"You knew—as I knew—that counterfeiting must have its end. You wondered—as I wondered—what would happen then.
"You and I, Armagnac, were working to create a world emperor—a gold-crazed man who would draw gold as a mosquito draws blood; on, on, on, until the burst.
"So you asked yourself—as did I—why should that go on? Would it not be wonderful to find the center of that vast gold supply; to grasp it and to hold it; to end this ceaseless activity that might lead to ruin?
"So you came here—as I came—to locate that gold supply. We have been seized of the same desire.
Two of us—two of the entire dozen who knew the truth!"
Morales rested hack in his chair and stared at Armagnac. The talk of fabulous wealth had brought a bright flush to the Argentinian's sallow cheeks. Armagnac, now, was the one who remained placid. He put forth a question.
"WHAT do you propose to do?" he questioned. "What is your plan, now that you have discovered a rival in myself?"
"We shall join forces," responded Morales, with a smile. "Perhaps you wonder why I make the offer. I shall tell you.
"First, it would be unwise for us to quarrel. It might bring disaster to both of us. Second, there is gold enough for both of us— as much as either of us can desire. Third, I am stalemated. I have reached the point where I am ready for the grand coup; yet I am afraid to move without the help of another man of wisdom."
"You have your subordinates," suggested Armagnac warily.
"Bah!" responded Morales. "What are they? Men who know nothing. Men of ignorance. Good servants, yes, who will prove useful; but men who will give the game away. Tell me, Armagnac, how have you schemed to crack this nut across the river?"
"I have come quietly," replied Armagnac, in a shrewd tone. "I have been watching, studying, waiting.
There must be a way, to the man who knows."
"But you have not found it?"
"Not as yet."
"My case"—Morales was smiling—"is different, Armagnac. I came prepared for action. I am ready. I have spied from without; but I have not been able to spy from within. Is that your case?"
"It is," admitted Armagnac.
"I have advanced beyond you," declared Morales. "Yet I have encountered the same difficulty. I am wary, because I wish to avoid what you would term a contreteps. There is but one way to learn all that I wish to know. That is to openly visit Lucien Partridge. But should I do so—ah—then would I be helpless to proceed. Is that not true?"
"It is."
"Should Pierre Armagnac work from within," suggested Morales, in a cagey tone, "he, too, would be unable to work from without. But should you do that inner work"—Morales was becoming direct in his statement - "nothing would hinder me from the outer work, for which I am already prepared."
Armagnac nodded thoughtfully.
"That is why I led you here," declared Morales. "Together, we can accomplish our desire. Alone, either of us may fail. I must have another; so must you. We must each have a man who knows all. So why not—the two of us? One and one make two."
"You wish my agreement?"
"Exactly."
Armagnac arose and extended his hand. Morales came to his feet and joined in the clasp.
Two men of evil genius were united in a common cause. The strategy of Alfredo Morales had won him the alliance of Pierre Armagnac.
Now, as the two resumed their seats, Morales leaned forward and spoke in a low confidential tone.
"I shall tell you all my plans," he said, "but before I do, it would be wise for you to obtain the information I require. When you have assured me that you have the facts I need, we will be on a fair basis. Each of us will have some knowledge that the other must need. You understand?"
"That is good," returned Armagnac.
THE Frenchman spoke thus because he realized that he was at a disadvantage. He had no idea what scheme Alfredo Morales might have designed; but he knew well that the man from the Argentine must possess a workable method. Despite the friendliness evidenced by Morales, it was obvious that Armagnac had first fallen into the other's power.
Crafty to the extreme, Pierre Armagnac saw that he was necessary to Alfredo Morales. Why should he balk or why should he demand to know everything, now?
Morales had been frank. He needed c
ontact with what was going on across the river. Armagnac was ready to get that contact. Then, he knew well, he would possess an advantage of his own. There could be no talk of other than equal terms.
But even as he visualized the fabulous wealth that the future was to bring, Pierre Armagnac experienced a disturbing thought. He hastened to express it before Alfredo Morales proceeded with other discussions.
"You drew me from the inn," remarked Armagnac, "because you were sure you knew my identity. You made yourself conspicuous so that I would follow. But there was another at the inn—a man whom I was watching. Who is he? Some other man who has designs?"
Morales shook his head.
"He is not one of us," he declared. "I obtained information on every one of Partridge's agents before I set sail from Buenos Aires. I do not know the man's identity. He has not been to Partridge's, for I have watched there. But I have prepared to interview him."
"To interview him? Where?"
"Here. As I interviewed you."
A gleam of understanding came over Pierre Armagnac's bearded countenance. Surely, he should have realized this scheme. The same lure that had brought him to this cottage would bring another also. But where was the other? Morales seemed to divine the question that was in Armagnac's mind.
"I study men," declared Morales. "I studied two at the inn to-night. One was yourself—a man who meets a risk quickly. The other, I could see, was slower of action.
"I did not think that both would follow me. I felt sure that one of them would follow me; and that the second would trail the first. You, I knew, would be the first. The second should be here shortly. He is one who would not enter."
"Then you expect him?"
"Very soon."
"But if he will not enter?"
"He will enter." Alfredo Morales pronounced the words in a prophetic tone.
As if in answer to his statement, footsteps sounded outside the room. Pierre Armagnac leaped to his feet.
Alfredo Morales remained seated, smiling.
Into the room came three men. Two of them were armed with rifles. They were Jose and Manuel.
Between them was the third man, his hands raised above his head, his face sullen and expressionless. It was Vic Marquette of the secret service.
Alfredo Morales chuckled, and Pierre Armagnac smiled as they recognized the features of the man whose identity they did not know.
CHAPTER XI. THE DEATH SENTENCE
ALFREDO MORALES had become an inquisitor. His victim was Vic Marquette. A shrewdly watching spectator, Pierre Armagnac listened to the questioning. Jose and Manuel, rifles crooked over elbows, stood in readiness behind the man whom they had captured.
"Good evening," remarked Morales, in a suave tone. "May I ask the purpose of your visit?"
No change of expression appeared upon Marquette's stolid countenance.
"A rather out-of-the-way spot, this cottage," resumed Morales. "It is not surprising that we should wish to know the identity of a chance visitor."
Vic Marquette maintained his indifference.
"Who are you?"
The question snapped from the lips of Alfredo Morales like the crackle of a whip. The Argentinian's eyes were flashing angrily, as he demanded the identity of the prisoner.
"I happen to be a guest at the Westbrook Inn," replied Marquette, speaking for the first time. "I was walking through the woods, and I saw the light of the cottage. I approached, not expecting the welcome that I have received."
A sneer appeared upon the Argentinian's lips. He knew well that Marquette was bluffing. He had expected such a statement.
"Visitors are not welcome here," he said. "unless they state their name and purpose."
"My name is not important," retorted Marquette, "and I have no purpose here."
"This is private property," stated Morales. "It is risky for a person to enter here unasked. I regret to say that I cannot be held responsible for any accidents"—he accented the word in a sinister tone—"that might occur to intruders."
Marquette had no reply. Morales glared at him; then seeing that the secret-service man was obdurate, he spoke to Jose and Manuel.
"Search him," he ordered.
Manuel obeyed, while Jose kept watch. The one item that came from Marquette's pocket was a businesslike automatic that Manuel tossed on the floor. Then Manuel stepped back and joined guard with Jose.
MORALES reached forward and picked up the automatic. Jose watched the action. An odd look appeared in Jose's eyes. At the very spot from which Morales had lifted the gun, Jose saw the shadowed silhouette of a man's features!
Morales, apparently, did not notice the shadow. But Jose's eyes moved along the floor, following an extended blotch that terminated at the window.
The greasy-faced man trembled. It was with an effort that he managed to retain his rifle.
Had it not been that Morales was interested in other matters, the leader would have noticed the servant's trepidation. But Morales, now that he had examined the automatic, was again ready to question Vic Marquette.
This time, Morales spoke in a harsh voice that brooked no delay. He betrayed impatience in his words.
"Who are you?" he snarled. "Why are you here? Answer—or take the consequences!"
Vic Marquette did not answer. He knew well that he was dealing with two dangerous men. Both, he realized, were foreigners. Anything that Marquette might say would lead to the one fact that he did not wish to reveal—namely, his connection with the secret service.
Lurking near the house, Vic had been trapped by Jose and Manuel. They had been lying in the clearing after their capture of Pierre Armagnac. Now, facing two men from other countries, Vic knew that he could expect no mercy if he told them who he was.
Of all the forces of law in the United States, these men would be most antagonistic to the secret service.
So long as they doubted, Vic might remain secure. That, he felt sure, was his only chance.
Vic Marquette was a great believer in luck. Usually, he was a man of caution. But here, at Westbrook Falls, he had blundered unwittingly into a trap that he had not believed could exist.
Morales was talking in a low tone to Armagnac. Suddenly Morales turned a quick glance toward Marquette, and put a sharp question to take the prisoner off guard.
"You are one of Partridge's men, eh?" he asked.
Vic made no response. His expression puzzled Morales. There was nothing to show that the name was known to the prisoner. At the same time, this fellow had the perfect poker face. The fact that he betrayed no surprise might well mean that he had been prepared for such a question.
Again Morales went into conference with Armagnac. Morales had a great respect for the Frenchman's shrewdness. The fate of the prisoner was resting in the balance. Morales wanted advice.
"Shall we hold him or -"
Morales did not finish the question. Armagnac knew the alternative that he was suggesting.
"That depends," whispered Armagnac.
"Depends upon what?" asked Morales.
"Your plans," declared Armagnac, in a low tone. "How soon do you expect to act?"
"As soon as you have done your work."
"I shall complete that to-morrow."
"Then I can act on the next night."
A cruel smile appeared upon Armagnac's bearded lips as he heard this statement. With only two days ahead, the Frenchman preferred certain action.
"I have been watching this man," he whispered. "He has no contacts at the inn. I think that he is working alone. That means -"
Morales listened, but Armagnac did not finish the sentence. He turned his right thumb downward. The action indicated death.
VIC MARQUETTE was the victim of unfortunate circumstances. At the worst, he expected nothing more than harassing imprisonment. That was because he did not realize the situation existing between these two schemers who were discussing his fate.
Alfredo Morales, ruthless though he was, would scarcely have decreed death. But Pierre Arma
gnac had a reason for indicating the extreme sentence. He felt that somewhere in the mind of Alfredo Morales might lurk a suspicion of a connecting link between the Frenchman and the new prisoner—both of whom Morales had seen at the inn.
For Armagnac to indicate mercy would have been to excite doubt. With this prisoner a common enemy, the more drastic the fate proposed by Armagnac the better established would be the alliance between the Frenchman and the Argentinian.
So calloused was Armagnac's decision that Morales did not hesitate further. He knew that the rest lay in his hands.
There was no more need of questioning Vic Marquette. All indecision was ended. Action alone remained.
In the midst of this dramatic scene, one man was experiencing a fantastic terror. It was not Vic Marquette, who calmly watched the men who were deciding his fate. The worried individual was Jose.
With eyes still upon the floor, the squat, greasy man stared at the mysterious shadow that lay before him.
The shadow was alive! Backward and forward it moved—a silhouette without a human form to cast it!
To Jose, it was a sinister creature that seemed to view him with invisible eyes!
Both superstitious and intuitive, Jose was convinced that unseen eyes were watching him. He was sure that here, in this strange country, he had come under the domination of one of those weird phantoms of another world—a being that could strike him dead!
Jose, brutal and uncouth, feared no human enemy. But all that lack of physical fear was counterbalanced by his terror of the unknown.
Here, at this cottage, he had been obsessed by shadows. Now one was alive, and at his very feet!
As the long shadow moved toward him, Jose cowered away, almost expecting to see it rise and materialize into a black being that would overpower him with ghostlike clutches!
In another moment, Jose would have betrayed his terror with a wild, frightened scream. But as he watched, the shadow on the floor began to move away. It dwindled toward the window, and both horror and relief dominated Jose's superstitious mind. He trembled as he saw this convincing demonstration that the black blotch was alive; he panted in relief because it was no longer haunting him.
The Creeping Death The s-22 Page 7
