The Creeping Death The s-22

by Maxwell Grant

  Now orders were coming from Morales—orders which Jose must obey. The leader was calling for a rope to bind the prisoner. Manuel responded before Jose could recover from his inertia. So Jose remained on guard, the muzzle of his rifle against Vic Marquette's ribs.

  From the corner of his eye, Jose watched the floor. The weird silhouette did not return.

  Manuel arrived and bound Marquette's arms. Morales took a coil of rope. He signified for Armagnac to accompany him.

  Under the direction of Morales a procession left the cottage and crossed the clearing. First was Vic Marquette, his arms tightly roped behind him. Jose followed with the rifle, forcing Marquette onward.

  Then came Armagnac, suave and interested.

  Last of all was Morales, carrying an automatic in his right hand, a coil of rope about his arm, and a flashlight in his left hand.

  THE illumination of the electric lantern showed a vague path ahead. Vic Marquette walked stolidly along it. Strange, grotesque shadows shimmered across the path. Jose noticed them and shuddered.

  The path went off into the woods away from the gorge, a distance of a quarter mile. It came to an abrupt ending by a large mound of rock.

  Morales gave a low command. Dropping his rifle, Jose drew a huge handkerchief from his pocket and gagged Marquette.

  Morales held the rays of his lantern on the scene, with the automatic ready. Jose tumbled Marquette on his back; then took the coil of rope from Morales. The henchman used it to bind Vic Marquette's legs.

  Pierre Armagnac was an interested spectator. He knew that Vic Marquette was to die; but he had not anticipated the method. Now he was to learn the system which Morales intended to use.

  Jose carried Marquette to the mound of rock. Morales beckoned, and Armagnac followed. As they reached the mound, Morales held out a warning arm. The Frenchman stopped. He was at the verge of a clearing, dull moonlight bathing the vista beyond.

  Morales stooped and picked up a small stone. He tossed it in the air. It disappeared as it dropped in the clearing. After long seconds, a tiny plunk came from below.

  Armagnac understood. They were at the edge of a precipice, with water far below.

  "A quarry," whispered Morales. "A straight drop of a hundred feet; filled with stagnant water and slime.

  There is no one near here, but a splash is better than a gunshot, which might be heard for miles."

  "The body?" questioned Armagnac.

  "Jose is taking care of that," responded Morales. "See? It will remain at the bottom for a long time."

  In the dull moonlight, Jose was affixing heavy stones to the body of Vic Marquette. It was now that the secret-service man realized the death that threatened him. He writhed upon the ground. Jose dealt him a tough blow. Marquette, half-stunned, lay still.

  "Come," whispered Morales. "It is better not to wait."

  "Why not?" questioned Armagnac.

  "The road," replied Morales. "It is not far away. We will go there and make sure that no one is parked near there. Sometimes cars stop."

  Morales spoke to Jose, cautioning the underling to wait several minutes before proceeding. That would allow time for Morales and Armagnac to return, should they spy any one in the neighborhood. The sound of a heavy splash might carry to the road through the woods.

  The flashlight glimmered through the trees as Morales and Armagnac retraced their footsteps. In the moonlight, the squat form of Jose was monstrous as it worked above the prisoner, taking care to attach the stones so that they could not possibly come loose.

  Pierre Armagnac had passed the death sentence; Alfredo Morales had given the orders; Jose was to be the executioner of Vic Marquette, who was doomed by these fiends to a terrible death.

  Only the moonlight showed on the mound of rock above the quarry— the moonlight which brought flickering shadows and among them a long, motionless silhouette which neither executioner or victim could see.

  A blotch at the edge of the great quarry—nothing more than a shade of night. Such a trivial, formless object alone lay between Vic Marquette and the death which yawned below!

  CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW THAT LIVED

  JOSE'S task was completed. The powerful henchman of Alfredo Morales had applied the sinking stones to the ropes which bound Vic Marquette. Crouched over the form of his intended victim, the squat, greasy-faced man paused to listen.

  There was no sound from the woods behind. Long minutes had gone by. Morales and Armagnac had not returned. Obviously they had found the road deserted, and had gone back to the cottage. There would be no witnesses to the death of this bound man. The judges had washed their hands of it.

  Jose grinned. This task was to his liking. A push—a long wait—a clunk from the water beneath. How easy it was to kill, and how pleasant! Jose was a villain who liked variety in methods of dealing death.

  Vic Marquette moved feebly. His eyes stared straight up and saw the cruel, merciless face of Jose. This was a man with whom he could not treat. Jose was a creature who obeyed one master. That master had decreed death.

  Jose sneered as he saw those eyes. He wanted to see the victim plead; but all he received was a cold, firm gaze.

  Jose had encountered men before who had not feared death. There was no use wasting time with them.

  Stepping back, Jose leaned forward to raise the body on its way.

  Then the clutching hands that gripped the body of Vic Marquette paused in response to Jose's gaze.

  Looking over the body, to the brink of the precipice a scant five feet away, Jose saw a flat shadow in the moonlight. It lay there, a long, gruesome shade, projecting from the edge of the precipice, directly over the path where Jose intended to roll the victim's body!

  That wide streak of black was motionless, but it made Jose tremble; for it was almost identical with the black shape that Jose had seen upon the floor of the main room in the cottage!

  Jose's hands trembled; then, with an angry snarl, the villain pressed the body forward. Why should he fear shadows? Even such shapes might move. This one seemed to be swaying now. What of it? Morales was right; no danger could lurk in moving patches of blackness.

  The lust for murder was stronger now in Jose's mind than any superstitious reasoning that might normally dominate him. The intended killer rolled his victim's body forward as he raised his head to sight the edge of the cliff.

  Then came a gargling cry from Jose's greasy lips. It was the low, snarling whine of a hunted, beaten beast.

  Leaping backward, Jose forgot the mission that he was here to perform. Then his trembling limbs failed him. He cowered on the mound of rock, staring across the body of Vic Marquette, that lay face downward in the moonlight.

  THERE, before Jose's bleary eyes, was a shadow that lived! It no longer lay as a substanceless shade across the flatness of the rock. It was a real form, a solid form, rising like a grim specter from the limitless depths of the quarry, emerging over the edge of the cliff like a figure of avenging doom!

  Upward came that dread form until it stood as a tall, weird shape in black. It was a being that had the semblance of a human. Garbed in flowing cloak and broad-brimmed hat, this apparition made a terrifying sight.

  Jose tried to rise to his feet. Then he sank again as the folds of the cloak spread outward, impelled by the arms beneath.

  Jose had fallen flat on his face, his eyes staring upward toward that monstrous, batlike form that held its ghoulish pose upon the very edge of the great cliff. All the superstitious fears that Jose had suffered during the past few days were molded into reality now.

  Weird stories of human vampires—terrible forms of dead bodies that had come to life—grotesque shapes that had appeared like apparitions upon the broad expanses of the Argentine pampas—these were visualized by the cringing coward whose work had been thwarted.

  Jose sensed that this was more than a mere ghostly phantom that might disappear as quickly as it had come. In that belief he was correct. It was The Shadow who stood before him; and The Shadow, a l
iving being, dealt vengeance as well as fear.

  Skirting the path from the cottage, this creature of the night had preceded the fiends who were marching Vic Marquette to doom. As they had approached, The Shadow had slipped from sight into the one spot where no one could have suspected a concealed observer—over the curving, rough-hewed edge of the quarry, where he had clung with ease to await developments.

  There, The Shadow had been secure, ready to loose a surprise attack from an unexpected quarter. He was blocking the path along which Vic Marquette would be pushed to doom.

  Had Alfredo Morales and Pierre Armagnac remained to witness the execution, they, as well as Jose, would have tasted the metal of The Shadow's automatics.

  But they had gone; now, with only Jose before him, The Shadow had relied upon his spectral guise to strike terror into the heart of the superstitious man who had sensed his presence, and had feared it.

  Before Jose could recover from the dread that had gripped him, a sound reached his ears and awakened greater fears. The whispered tones of a mocking laugh came from the being that stood before him.

  Those chilling echoes left no room for doubt. This fantastic apparition was a reality. The figure in black that had come from nowhere lived—and living, it uttered mirth that was inhuman.

  THE SHADOW was moving forward, step by step. The spreading arms were folded now. To Jose, that advance meant certain death; yet in his panic, he could not turn to flee. Words were spoken by concealed lips - words that were uttered in Spanish.

  "Jose"—The Shadow's voice was spectral—"I have warned you! You have known of my presence, even though you have not seen my form until now. Death awaits you if you fail to do my bidding. Unbind this man who lies before you!"

  Trembling, Jose looked up to see The Shadow standing just beyond the form of Vic Marquette. For an instant, the cringing man hesitated; then, catching the glimmer of two avenging eyes, he crawled forward by inches until he had reached the bound body.

  While The Shadow watched, Jose tugged at the knots until the ropes were loosened. Under the glare of those burning optics, he struggled with frenzied haste. At last, Vic Marquette lay free.

  The Shadow's arm formed a long black line in the dull moonlight. Jose saw a finger pointing back toward the cottage in the woods. He moved away in the direction indicated. He stumbled over his rifle and nearly fell.

  "Wait!" The Shadow's low command was hissed. "Remember, I have warned you! If you say to any one that you have seen my presence, I shall strike you dead. I shall kill you, Jose; kill you with the most horrible death that man has ever suffered!"

  The words were followed by a fearful laugh that brought new qualms to Jose. He was afraid to leave this spot until he received The Shadow's bidding.

  "Pick up your gun"—The Shadow's words were tense and vibrant— "return to those who left you here.

  Tell them that you have done their bidding. Remember: I shall be there to hear you speak!"

  Mechanically, Jose plucked the rifle from the mound. He faltered as he backed away toward the path.

  Fierce eyes were upon him as The Shadow's voice gave its command.

  "Go!"

  Jose stumbled toward the path. For a moment, he lingered, about to raise his rifle in a frantic burst of rage at this indignity. But as he heard The Shadow's laugh, all thoughts of resistance passed from his terror-stricken brain. The sight of that avenging figure was too fearful. Gripping the barrel of his gun, Jose fled.

  The laugh of The Shadow sounded mirthlessly. The right hand lowered. The left hand, close to the long black cloak, disappeared with an automatic that it held.

  Jose had not seen the weapon. Had he aimed his rifle toward The Shadow, he would have learned the accuracy of The Shadow's aim.

  Now with Jose gone, The Shadow acted swiftly. Vic Marquette had half arisen. He was staring blankly about him—a man just awakened from a daze. Stooping, The Shadow raised him to his feet.

  Scarcely realizing whether he was guided by friend or foe, Vic felt himself guided along a downward path. Trudging through the woods, supported by a strong arm, the secret-service man was dimly recalling events which he had so recently experienced.

  THE side path ended when they reached the road. Here, beneath the trees, The Shadow's form was invisible. Vic Marquette, regaining his alertness, realized that he was some distance from the cottage. He heard a low voice close beside him.

  "Go back to the hotel. Do not approach that cottage again. Leave, to-night before you are seen."

  The words were a command. Vic understood. He realized suddenly who had spoken. This was not the first time that Vic Marquette had encountered The Shadow. In his recollections, the secret-service man remembered a tall figure in black who had saved him in a battle against enemies of the law.

  "The Shadow!"

  Marquette's brain was no longer hazy as he gasped these words. He turned and groped through the dark, expecting to discover the mysterious person beside him.

  The Shadow was gone. From the trees beside the road came the whispered tones of a low, sardonic laugh—the parting sign of The Shadow.

  The secret-service man stood wondering. Then he realized the wisdom of The Shadow's injunction.

  Vic could not grasp all that had happened, but somehow he understood that he had not only been saved from death, but that his enemies believed him dead.

  The cottage in the woods was a trap—to go there unarmed would be futile. There was only one course—to follow The Shadow's bidding.

  Moving slowly along the road, Vic recalled one question that had been asked him by Alfredo Morales.

  That question had concerned some one named Partridge.

  Vaguely, Vic remembered the feather that Jerry Fitzroy had carried. A partridge feather! Yes—the cottage in the woods could wait. Let the men who had captured him believe him dead. Partridge was the man whom he must find. The others would be watched by The Shadow.

  In the light of his recent experience, Vic had much confidence in The Shadow's ability to cope with them.

  WHILE Vic Marquette was setting forth toward the Westbrook Inn, another man was stumbling through the woods a few hundred yards away. It was Jose, frantically working his way back to the cottage.

  He had lost the path in the darkness, and he was impelled onward through the underbrush by the fancied sound of a ringing laugh that still echoed in his ears. Nearing the cottage, he rested. A gasp came from his lips. Did he hear that same laugh, close beside him? He was sure of it!

  Again, Jose blundered wildly through the thicket until he staggered into the clearing and stumbled upon the steps to the house. The door opened, and Manuel looked out.

  With an effort, Jose regained some of his bravado, and entered the building. He found Morales and Armagnac awaiting him.

  Jose's bedraggled appearance immediately caught the attention of Morales. The Argentinian quickly asked a question.

  "Well?" he inquired. "What has happened?"

  Jose was setting his rifle against the wall. Momentarily turned away, he was facing the window at the far end of the room.

  For an instant, his eyes were wild. There, on the floor, he saw that same long shadow—that black projection from the window that slowly swayed backward and forward.

  The effect on Jose was electric. Frightened though he was, he stiffened, and his face took on a scowl as he turned to answer the question that had been put to him.

  "Did you do the work?" demanded Morales.

  "Yes," growled Jose.

  "That is the trouble, then?"

  "Nothing—except those ropes. One of them was tangled on my foot. I nearly went over the cliff myself."

  Morales laughed. Jose's excuse passed without question. Jose was noted for his clumsiness. Morales turned to Armagnac.

  "You see?" he asked. "That is the way. A good man to do the work, but a blunderer. We must not blunder when we deal with Lucien Partridge."

  "There will be no blunder there," returned Armagnac.

&nbs
p; An hour later, Jose, partly recovered from his former dread, crept back along the path to the mound of rocks above the old quarry. Now that he had spoken false to Morales, he was worried lest his lie be discovered. He was thinking of those ropes and stones that he had left on the brink of the cliff.

  The moonlight was shining on bare rock when Jose arrived. The sight of the place worried the man. He was puzzled when he discovered that the stones and the ropes were no longer there.

  It all seemed like a dream to Jose, who was imaginative despite his brutal nature. He wondered whether he had actually experienced that encounter with The Shadow. Perhaps—the thought was a hope to Jose— he had pushed that body off the cliff, and then imagined what he had seen!

  As Jose stared into the moonlight, a sudden sound broke from close beside him. The noise was low and weird, like a ghostly echo of a laugh that Jose had heard before upon this very spot!

  Before the man could turn, a whispered voice came to his ears. Its hissing tones carried a final warning in words that gave Jose new terror—for they brought up the future as well as recalling the past.

  "Remember!" The Shadow's utterance was sinister. "You have done my bidding. When I appear again, you will still obey. For those who do not obey will die!"

  The voice trailed into a hollow laugh. Jose waited to hear no more. He fled along the path, back to the cottage, striving to fight against his newly awakened panic.

  Shortly afterward, a tall form in black emerged from a clump of bushes beside the mound of rocks. The Shadow stood like a spectral image upon the flat surface that glistened gray in the moonlight.

  A low, triumphant laugh echoed from the cliff. Its hissing tones seemed to reach the sepulchral depths of the old quarry, to be reechoed like the tantalizing whispers from a myriad of elves.

  Then The Shadow was gone. Silence and moonlight alone remained upon that spot.

  CHAPTER XIII. ARMAGNAC PROPOSES

  ON the next afternoon, an automobile from the Westbrook station swung up the road toward Lucien Partridge's estate. As it turned beside the river gorge, its occupants were plainly visible to Alfredo Morales, stationed across the river. Through the spyglasses, the Argentinian recognized the bearded face of Pierre Armagnac.