The Creeping Death The s-22

by Maxwell Grant

  "Quite true."

  "I have my forces, Armagnac. There are men whom you have not seen— men who are waiting. To sweep into Partridge s domain—to carry off that gold— such would not be difficult with proper equipment, provided that -"

  Morales paused to observe if Armagnac caught the thought. The Frenchman responded quickly.

  "Provided that the way should be open," he said. "But it would have to be clear for quick action."

  "Exactly," declared Morales. "Often, in warfare, infantry have gained their objective almost unmolested because of the attack that preceded it."

  "The barrage."

  "Yes. You have named the very method that I intend to use against Lucien Partridge. Come. I shall show you."

  MORALES opened the door. He revealed a flight of steps that led upward. Beckoning, Morales ascended the steps. Armagnac followed, closing the door behind him.

  Jose sat down in a chair. His task was to keep watch while his master was on tour of inspection. Jose gazed idly about the room. His eyes sighted the long shape of black that lay upon the floor.

  A startled expression crept over Jose's greasy features. He looked toward the window; then at the black silhouette. Again his eyes were raised toward the window. Jose uttered a gasping scream as he cowered in the chair.

  Silently, like a weird phantom of the night, a figure had appeared within the room. There, by the window, stood that strange being whom Jose had encountered on the mound of rocks.

  The Shadow's arms were folded; his long black cloak swayed mysteriously from his shoulders. His fierce eyes glowed beneath the protecting brim of the slouch hat.

  Chilling, whispered mockery emerged from invisible lips. That echoing laugh brought terror to Jose. It was unreal, that shuddering mirth that came from the personage in black. The very air seemed tense with the power of The Shadow's presence.

  "Jose"—the words that followed were in Spanish—"I am here to warn you again. Should you speak one word against my bidding, I shall strike. Only while you obey me can you live."

  The Shadow strode across the room. He towered over the cowering form of Jose. His burning eyes fathomed the man in the chair.

  Jose could not meet that glance. He turned away, pitifully frightened, expecting doom which he could not prevent. The shuddering laugh echoed in his ears.

  Then came silence. Jose waited. Slowly, he turned his head and gazed about the room. He was alone.

  The being in black had departed. There was no silhouette upon the floor. Jose's eyes sighted the door through which Morales and Armagnac had gone.

  Was that the route which The Shadow had taken? Jose did not know. He was afraid to leave the chair.

  Still cowering, he waited, hoping that Morales and Armagnac would not be long in returning.

  CHAPTER XV. DEATH ARRIVES

  ALFREDO MORALES and Pierre Armagnac were standing upon the flat roof of the cottage. A trapdoor lay open behind them. They were not concerned with the route by which they had reached this spot. They were examining a squat, bulky object to which Morales pointed with pride.

  This object was a powerful, wide-mouthed mortar, firmly placed in the center of the roof.

  "What do you think of this little toy?" questioned Morales, in a low voice.

  "It is a beauty!" exclaimed Armagnac.

  "You see," Morales spoke again. "Look there."

  He pointed upward through the space amid the trees off toward the moonlit sky. Armagnac followed the direction that he indicated.

  "That is the way to Partridge's house," explained Morales. "This mortar will send the messengers that I have prepared. That messenger will clear the way for me."

  A figure was rising through the trapdoor. Neither Morales nor Armagnac saw it. They were staring through the trees. The Shadow grew into a tall, spectral form that moved silently across the roof and merged with the darkness of the single chimney that projected above the house.

  "The range?" questioned Armagnac.

  "It is perfect," answered Morales. "This mortar possesses remarkable accuracy. I have found the range by careful calculation. The target is a huge one—Partridge's mansion.

  "The building is visible from different spots along the gorge. I have surveyed it by military engineering. My range is perfect. It cannot fail."

  "But what will be the result?"

  "Let me explain my purpose, Armagnac. There is one thing that we must counteract—that one thing is time. To attack Partridge; to overcome resistance; that would be easy. But it would take time. There are state police twelve miles from here. Once an alarm has been spread, they would come to the scene."

  "That is the danger, Morales. After you have begun the attack, you must work swiftly."

  "I am prepared for that. When the time has been set, I shall be waiting with a crew of men and motor trucks, ready to enter and remove the gold. It will be a simple matter, swiftly executed; but one factor is most necessary."

  "The way must be clear."

  "That is it, Armagnac. A stubborn resistance by Partridge and his men would bring about a disastrous delay. That is why I needed the information that you have brought me.

  "If the gold were in the large mansion, where Partridge and his men are stationed, the task would present insurmountable difficulties."

  "Because of Partridge and his men? You will encounter them when you attack the workhouse -"

  "Partridge and his men will be no obstacle," interposed Morales. "They will be gone before we enter.

  They will be buried in the ruins of that old mansion."

  A short exclamation came from Armagnac. Now the Frenchman was beginning to understand the details of the Argentinian's plan.

  "This mortar," said Morales, "will deliver a giant bomb squarely upon the roof of the mansion. There will be a muffled report from this side of the river; then a tremendous explosion when the bomb strikes the big house across the gorge. That will be the end of Partridge and his men. But should the gold be in the doomed building -"

  "I understand. You would be unable to remove it."

  "Exactly. Now that I know where the gold is, I can get it. The wired fence; the protection on the workhouse; those mean nothing, so long as no living beings remain within. Alarms are utterly useless if there are none to hear them."

  "Your plan is perfect!" exclaimed Armagnac. "You can drive the trucks through the broken gate. Load them and leave. People will hear the explosion, of course -"

  "What of it?" questioned Morales, as Armagnac paused. "Partridge is known to be a chemist. His experiments may logically involve explosives. The wreckage of his building will be attributed to his own negligence."

  "That is true, but the noise will bring many people to the scene."

  "The nearest spot is the hotel. That is six miles by road. An explosion, in the middle of the night, will create bewilderment at first. Then the improvised investigating squads will start. We will be gone when they arrive."

  Armagnac nodded. He realized that the plan was well founded. With a crew of strong workers, the removal of the gold could be swiftly executed. Morales smiled.

  "The rescuers," he said, "will come from above Partridge's place. Both the hotel and the barracks are in that direction. They must cross the bridge over the gorge and take the narrow road. There they will find the way blocked by a wrecked truck. It will delay their progress, more than four miles from Partridge's."

  "You could block the road altogether."

  "I do not wish to do so. The old, broken truck must appear to be an accident. It will allow more time to get away. I have estimated exactly, Armagnac. It will be a full hour before the first arrivals reach there."

  MORALES turned and started for the trapdoor. Armagnac followed him. When the two men reached the downstairs room, they found Jose seated in the chair, staring fixedly at the door through which they came.

  "What is the matter, Jose?" growled Morales. "Are you still worrying about shadows?"

  "Shadows?" questioned Armagnac.

>   "Yes," sneered Morales. "Jose is becoming so apprehensive that I can scarcely trust him here. Every time he sees a shadow, he is frightened. I intended to leave Jose here to discharge the bomb; but I think I shall intrust that task to Manuel."

  "When will you attack?" questioned Armagnac.

  "At three o'clock in the morning," replied Morales. "To-morrow, I shall make all arrangements. We will be prepared at midnight. Three o'clock will be the zero hour."

  "An excellent time for operation."

  Morales did not respond to Armagnac's reply. He was looking at Jose, whose eyes were staring across the room. Had Morales followed the direction of Jose's gaze, he would have seen a long, silhouetted streak of blackness emerging from the door to the stairway. Morales had not closed that door upon his return to the room.

  "Come, Jose!" exploded Morales impatiently. "Why are you so frightened? Have you seen any one, other than your shadows?"

  Jose shook his head. He opened his lips as though about to speak. The shadow on the floor was moving warningly.

  Both Morales and Armagnac were staring at Jose, who seemed to be seeing ghosts. The bearded Frenchman laughed as he moved a few paces across the room.

  "Shadows can hurt no one," said Armagnac. "What are shadows? Nothing!"

  The bearded man was standing directly upon the silhouetted patch of blackness. Jose trembled. To him, that was a danger spot.

  "Shadows?" Armagnac raised his arm so that his hand formed a shadow upon the wall. He moved his fingers. "See? There are shadows—they are nothing."

  Armagnac's fingers became rigid. He stared at them in bewilderment. He raised his other hand. He tried to move its fingers. They, too, had stiffened. Armagnac shook his arms. They weakened and refused to function.

  "My shoulders!" he cried. "They are numb! Something is happening to me! What can be the matter?"

  The Frenchman began to sag. His legs could no longer support his weight. He collapsed upon the floor, his body covering that shadow which Jose dreaded.

  Armagnac was gasping words in both French and English. Suddenly, his eyes were livid. A terrible horror was reflected in those optics as they stared toward Alfredo Morales.

  "The creeping death!" gasped Armagnac. "I have seen it—have seen it kill —when I was in Saigon! Help me"—his voice was dwindling— "help -"

  Armagnac's lips were moving, but they formed no articulate words. Morales was leaning over him.

  A sudden light of fury flashed in Armagnac's eyes. A vivid recollection had come to him. His lips seemed to phrase a warning; then they moved no more. Firm, rigid they remained, pursed within the black beard.

  The staring eyes became glassy.

  Pierre Armagnac was dead!

  JOSE was wild with terror. To him, the fact that Armagnac had stood within the range of that patch of black upon the floor was proof sufficient of The Shadow's power.

  Staring beyond the Frenchman's body, Jose saw a form in black. He thought that he caught the shudder of a vague, mocking laugh. Then, as Morales drew Armagnac's body across the floor, Jose saw that the patch of black was gone.

  "The creeping death," remarked Morales thoughtfully. "In Saigon. Some strange malady to which he was subject. Poor Armagnac!" Morales laughed. "Well, his work was finished. Together, we might have encountered trouble in the future. When death strikes, it often strikes wisely."

  Thus philosophizing, Morales looked up to see Manuel entering the room. The slender, dark-faced henchman stared at the dead body of Pierre Armagnac.

  "He is dead," remarked Morales. "A great misfortune—for Pierre Armagnac. Perhaps not for Alfredo Morales. I am glad you have returned, Manuel. You, are more reliable than Jose. We shall drop this body in the quarry, you and I, while Jose remains here. Jose"— Morales spoke contemptuously—"is becoming faint-hearted. He does not like to look at death."

  Jose did not answer the derisive words. He watched while Morales and Manuel raised the body of Armagnac, and carried it from the house. Then he stared at the door that led upstairs. The floor began to blacken. Jose trembled.

  The spectral form of The Shadow appeared from the stairway. Jose cowered in a corner. The Shadow laughed in a sepulchral whisper. He stood watching Jose. Then he spoke in his low, sinister tone.

  "Beware, Jose"—the words seemed prophetic—"I have warned you. You have seen—death!"

  The whispered laugh was repeated. When Jose again stared toward the spot where The Shadow had been, the room was empty. The being in black had gone.

  LABORING along the path to the quarry, Morales and Manuel finally reached the mound of rocks.

  Their progress had been slow and troublesome.

  Now they filled Armagnac's clothing with small stones. Together, they pushed the body over the edge. A resounding splash from beneath marked the watery burial of Pierre Armagnac.

  After Morales and Manuel had gone back along the path to the cottage, a shade of black appeared upon the sparkling surface of stone. Then The Shadow stood in the moonlight, staring downward into the quarry. A low, sinister laugh came from the hidden lips beneath the turned-up collar of the black cloak.

  Pierre Armagnac was dead. Jose attributed that death to The Shadow. Alfredo Morales believed that it was due to a strange ailment. Manuel had no theory.

  The Shadow, alone, had suspected the cause of that creeping death. He had marked the truth: that Pierre Armagnac had been murdered by the design of Lucien Partridge. Armagnac, himself, had realized it; but his frozen lips had failed to tell.

  Armagnac was gone. The contest lay now between two men: Morales and Partridge. Both were ruthless; both were fiends of crime. What would be the outcome?

  Only The Shadow knew. His laugh told that he, too, would enter into this strange conflict!

  CHAPTER XVI. THE NEXT NIGHT

  TWENTY-FOUR hours had passed since the death of Pierre Armagnac. Two men were standing in Lucien Partridge's laboratory. One was the old man; the other was the faithful Vignetti. The Corsican was watching the completion of an experiment.

  Lucien Partridge turned to Vignetti with an evil grin. He pointed to a test tube which contained a small quantity of a fine, grayish powder.

  "There lies death, Vignetti," declared the old man.

  The Corsican grinned in fiendish fashion.

  "This is what I have wanted, more than gold," chuckled Partridge. "He who has gold must be able to deal death. My false gold brought me real gold. The death that I have given has been real death.

  "But only with those gloves have I dealt death. Those gloves, deeply covered with the powder that gives the creeping death to those who would spoil my plans. Now, with this new powder, I can send death.

  Send it, Vignetti! Send it, anywhere—throughout all the world! Ah! What a vendetta this will be!

  "Kings—presidents—men of wealth and fortune! They shall be my victims. You will help me, Vignetti.

  This powder, worked into harmless letters, will kill those who touch it. Not instantly—no, Vignetti, that would not be wise—but after a time, when no one can know the cause!

  "Death will rule, Vignetti! Death as I deliver it! Soon we shall begin. With gold, I shall be the master of life! With my powder, I shall be the master of death! Such men as Armagnac—I shall not have to wait for them to visit me. I can send death to them!"

  The old man's face was a rhapsody of evil. A curious elation dominated him. His eyes were staring far away; his tone was reminiscent.

  "Li Tan Chang!" he remarked. "His own invention brought him death. That night in Peking, when you were prompt with the knife, Vignetti. You suspected the approach of Li Tan Chang's creeping death.

  After all, it is an Oriental malady; but that wise Chinaman was the first to use a means to deliver it.

  "What would he think if he were alive to-day! You prevented my death, Vignetti. I learned the secret.

  Now I have developed a more potent poison. Where it required much of Li Tan Chang's formula to work through the flesh, a small amount of m
ine will serve the purpose!"

  The old man emptied the contents of the test tube upon a sheet of paper. Partridge was wearing laboratory gloves. Yet he used the utmost care as he slid the powder into a small, square box.

  "I shall put it safely away," he said. "We will not need it for a while, Vignetti. To-morrow. I shall prepare my list of those whom I would like to die. Men who have never seen me; men who have never heard of me; but all men who some day might try to obstruct my plan to rule the world!"

  Vignetti nodded. He knew what was in his master's mind. Partridge, speaking his medley of English and Italian dialect, continued as he walked toward the library.

  "You shall help me, Vignetti," he declared, "with this new method of death. Chance letters, mailed from here and there; all will carry the death that up to now I gave by hand.

  "When people visit me, the old method will be best. It is much better that such people die far away. But for those who do not come— for those I want to die whom I do not meet—we will send this new powder!"

  The old man put the box away in a table drawer. He brought out an envelope and opened it. The envelope contained a list which bore the names of many persons. Lucien Partridge chuckled gleefully as he studied this line of intended victims.

  "Vignetti thinks it a vendetta," he said softly, after noting that the Corsican had gone. "Ah! It is a vendetta; but such a one as the world has never known!

  "The Romans had their lists of prescribed victims; those who were to die. But my list! Ah, all will surely die, unbeknown! Chaos will rule! Dynasties will perish; republics become ungoverned masses; great enterprises will fail!

  "Men will be afraid to command. They will look for a leader. Then, as dictator for all the world, I shall rise as the master of all autocrats. Who else could do the same? I shall have the wealth of Croesus; the power of Napoleon; vast territory beyond the dreams of Alexander. The ruler of all the world!"

  The old man sat in silence. His lips moved happily. Across his face flickered changing emotions that showed the turn of his eccentric mind. One moment benign, another moment fiendish, his expressions were the extreme in contrast.