The Creeping Death The s-22

by Maxwell Grant

  At times that clinging, moving figure swayed. The strain was terrific. Yet The Shadow kept on, until he was clear of the fence, which to touch would have caused death or given the alarm. Then up the precipitous wall he went, nearer and nearer to the top.

  The clouds cleared suddenly. The moon was directly overhead. The Shadow did not move. The strange light caused his vertical body to cast a long black line straight down the wall of the cliff.

  For The Shadow, himself, was the nucleus of that strange shadow, a narrow patch of black, many feet in length. Had Alfredo Morales been watching from across the gorge, he would not have believed that shade to be a living being.

  The sky darkened. The Shadow, secure amid the blackness of night, moved upward. He passed the fringe of the cliff. On the very brink, regardless of his proximity to the mighty drop, he paused to remove the suction disks that had served him so well in this amazing journey.

  Rising, the being in black stepped over the insulated wire that connected the ends of the electrified fence.

  Then his tall form merged with the darkness of the lawn.

  The most formidable barrier to Lucien Partridge's domain had been conquered. The one spot from which the old man had believed he was perfectly protected was the very spot that The Shadow had chosen for his entry into this sphere of action.

  The moon was shining again, but its cold rays revealed no living form upon the tree-sprinkled lawn. The Shadow was somewhere; but his presence could not be detected.

  Out of darkness The Shadow had come; into darkness had he returned!

  CHAPTER XVIII. THE HAND OF DOOM

  "PUT the car away, Vignetti."

  Lucien Partridge uttered the order in a querulous tone. He had begun to realize that it would be useless to stand here expecting Lamont Cranston to return.

  The Corsican entered the car and backed it. The headlights gleamed across the road and suddenly revealed a man who was standing on the other side. The stranger made a motion as though to dodge the illumination; then changed his mind and walked boldly into the light.

  It was not Lamont Cranston. The man's stature showed that fact. The stranger was shorter than Cranston, stockier in build, and swarthy of complexion.

  "Who is there?" demanded Lucien Partridge.

  "Mr. Partridge?" came the gruff reply.

  "That's my name," responded the old man. "What do you want?"

  The man came close. He made no sign of greeting—which was fortunate, for Partridge still wore the fatal gloves. Instead, he merely stated his identity in an apologetic tone.

  "My name is Vic Marquette," he said. "I came up here to see you, but I lost my way. I wasn't sure whether or not this was the right place."

  "Marquette?" questioned the scientist harshly. "I don't know the name. What is the purpose of this visit?"

  "A friendly call, Mr. Partridge," asserted Marquette calmly. "I've been trying to find you, because I've got something to discuss with you. Perhaps this will identify me better."

  He drew back his coat to reveal his secret-service badge. Partridge saw the metal gleam in the light from the car. He bowed courteously, in his characteristic role of friendliness.

  "Come right into the house, Mr. Marquette," he said. "I shall be glad to talk to you there."

  They went into the mansion, through the hall, to the laboratory. There, Partridge carefully removed his gloves, drawing each one off with the aid of the other, his hands touching nothing but the wrists. He doffed his smock, and laid it beside the gloves.

  "I was beginning an experiment," he remarked. "It was interrupted by the return of my servant, Vignetti. I sent him down to the station on an errand which he failed to perform. A trustworthy man, Vignetti, but, like all of them, he lacks perfection."

  Vic Marquette was studying the old man carefully. Lucien Partridge smiled and motioned to his visitor to come into the library. Ensconced there, Partridge looked questioningly at the secret-service man.

  "I GUESS you wonder why I'm here," began Marquette. "Well, I'm going to give you the details, Mr.

  Partridge. There's something phony taking place in this vicinity; and as near as I can make out, it may be directed against you. Have you any enemies, Mr. Partridge?"

  "Enemies?" The old man's echo denoted surprise. "I have only friends. This amazes me."

  "Well," declared Marquette bluntly, "there are some dangerous people not far from here. I found that out, nearly to my sorrow. In meeting them, I inferred that they were none too friendly toward you. So that's why I'm here to-night."

  Partridge was nodding in a dazed sort of way. This idea that he might have enemies appeared to perturb the old man. It gave new confidence to Vic Marquette.

  Since he had made his bold gesture, he felt convinced that no danger could be lurking here. As a secret-service man, looking into the affairs of persons who were inimical to Lucien Partridge, he felt a sense of strong security.

  "Let me go back to the beginning," said Marquette, in an open manner. "First of all, one of my companions in the secret service died very suddenly, not so long ago. His name was Jerry Fitzroy. Did you ever hear of him?"

  "Fitzroy?" Partridge did not appear to recognize the name.

  "I worked with Fitzroy," resumed Marquette. "I learned that he had been to Westbrook Falls. So I came to this vicinity to investigate. I was watching for suspicious persons. I found one."

  "Ah! Who was he?"

  "I do not know his name. He was a bearded man who appeared to be a Frenchman. I saw him at the inn."

  "A bearded man"—Partridge was thoughtful"—a bearded Frenchman. Was the beard very dark?"

  "It was black."

  "Ah! It may be the same one!"

  "Which one?"

  "The man whom Vignetti saw outside the grounds. I am an inventor, Mr. Marquette. I have chosen this remote and isolated spot so that no one will interfere with my work. I keep the place properly guarded.

  We are naturally suspicious of strangers. Such a man as you describe was unquestionably in this neighborhood."

  "I am not surprised to learn that," declared Marquette. "I followed that man one night. His trail led to a cottage in the woods."

  "Near here?" asked Partridge, in an annoyed tone.

  "On the other side of the river," responded Marquette. "Near the hotel. When I approached the cottage, I was seized by two men who dragged me into the cottage. There were two men there. One was the bearded Frenchman; the other appeared to be a Spaniard. They demanded to know my business."

  "You told them?"

  "No."

  "That may have been wise."

  "Perhaps. Perhaps not. I thought that they intended to keep me a prisoner. Instead, they put me in charge of one of their men—a greasy-faced villain— who was ordered to shove me off a cliff into an old quarry."

  "How did you escape?"

  "Well, the fellow changed his mind. Under persuasion. I suppose that he reported that he had killed me.

  So it was wisdom on my part to avoid that cottage for a while. But I did not conclude my investigations.

  Instead, I followed a new lead that brought me here."

  "That brought you here?"

  "Yes. In quizzing me, one of the two men happened to mention the name Partridge. After I had escaped, I made inquiries, and learned that you lived in this vicinity.

  "The expression of my captors appeared quite hostile toward you. So I thought that an interview between us might be to our mutual advantage."

  MARQUETTE'S words caused Partridge to conjecture. The old man's thoughts approached alarm. He had not suspected that Pierre Armagnac had friends here.

  The Frenchman's visit had been accepted by Partridge as a bluff; for he had doubted the statements which Armagnac had made concerning operations in foreign countries. Now, it appeared that others were associated with Armagnac's purpose; and they were still free to continue whatever work they contemplated.

  For the first time, Lucien Partridge was apprehensive for his gold. He had
detected Armagnac's interest in where the gold was kept; in fact, Partridge had led Armagnac to that spot so that he might study the Frenchman's reaction. But he had been fooled when he had believed that Armagnac had come here alone.

  Partridge's thoughts turned to Lamont Cranston. He doubted that Cranston could be connected with Armagnac. Of one thing Partridge felt certain: that he had managed to keep his affairs segregated. No, Cranston was a menace from another quarter.

  What of this man—Marquette? Unquestionably, he was a secret-service agent—the same as Fitzroy, who had come here to make cautious inquiries, not suspecting that Partridge was the brain behind a world-wide plot. Until now, Partridge had felt security in his ability to pass himself as a friendly, harmless old man.

  A glance at Marquette convinced him that the ruse would still work so far as this one individual was concerned.

  Armagnac, of course, could not have been deceived; but now Armagnac was dead—one less enemy with whom to contend. Cranston—there was no question about him. So long as he lived, Cranston would be a menace.

  But Partridge was not dealing with Cranston at present. Marquette was the danger of the moment.

  The secret-service man was waiting for Partridge to speak. So far, Partridge had evidenced no suspicion.

  Hesitation would produce suspicion.

  Partridge realized that as long as his enemies came one by one, they were playing into his hands.

  Marquette, though unsuspicious, was an enemy; for he was seeking to trace the cause that had brought death to Jerry Fitzroy.

  Marquette must be lulled. That was Partridge's dominating thought. Quickly the old man shifted other matters from his mind. He returned to the primitive plan that he had found so effective in the past.

  Marquette knew too much. It would be best to dispose of him before he learned more.

  In conformity to his usual practice, Partridge began to prepare his victim for the slaughter. He adopted a pose that indicated deep concern. When he spoke, he lowered his crackly voice as though speaking in the strictest confidence.

  "Danger has always threatened me," he said. "That is because men have sought to steal the products of my inventive mind. Sometimes plots have been made against my life. This house of mine, with its great fence about it—this is no eccentric idea. It is my protection against those whom I know to be dangerous."

  Vic Marquette listened intently. The old man's speech seemed truthful. Marquette knew that there were men across the river who were dangerous and inimical to Lucien Partridge.

  He made a mental comparison between his adventure there and his reception here. On the face of it, Lucien Partridge appeared to be a persecuted man, apprehensive of the designs of men who were unquestionably villains.

  "I am being preyed upon"—Partridge's words were vague and rambling—"by persons whom I have never seen; by men whose identities I do not know. Only some good fortune has kept me from disaster."

  As the old man talked on in the same vein, Vic wondered if The Shadow might be the one responsible for the good fortune that had saved Lucien Partridge from harm. In his wheedling speech, the old man had luckily struck upon a trend of thought that was producing a strong effect upon Marquette.

  "If I were sure"—Partridge's words were tinged with artfully feigned doubt—"that you were a friend, I would tell you of much that I have suffered. I must be cautious in what I say, for my enemies will stop at nothing.

  "Would it be possible for me to meet you somewhere other than here? Some place where I am not afraid of spies—where I am not worried about my inventions?"

  "Where would you suggest?"

  "I can come to New York. All would be safe here, for I can trust the men who work for me. But it would not be wise for us to travel there together. Suppose"—the old man was thoughtful as he proposed the plan—"that you leave on the early-morning train; then I can come later in the day, bringing only Vignetti with me."

  Marquette controlled a sudden suspicion that arose in his mind. He formulated a quick plan.

  Let Lucien Partridge think that he had left Westbrook Falls. He could remain here, watching, to make sure that the old man would go to New York as he promised. Then Vic could follow.

  THE secret-service man produced a card from his pocket and wrote the name of a hotel upon it. He handed the card to Lucien Partridge. The old man read the address.

  "Meet me there," said Vic, "at ten o'clock to-morrow evening. I shall prove conclusively that I am the man I represent myself to be. By cooperating with me, you will be able to protect yourself against all who wish you harm."

  This time, it was Lucien Partridge who was deceived. He saw no subterfuge in Marquette's statement.

  He was convinced that his visitor intended to go to New York on the early train. The old man glanced at the clock.

  "It is nearly three," he said. "The Limited arrives in Westbrook Falls at four thirty. I shall have Vignetti drive you to the station."

  Vic knew that he must accept the offer in order to avoid suspicion. That could work to his advantage.

  The ticket office would not be open. He would let Vignetti see him get on the train; then he would get off at the first stop, and ride back on a westbound local.

  "Come," said Lucien Partridge. "I shall summon Vignetti." He led the way through the hall.

  In the silence of that large mansion, Vic Marquette sensed that many men were present—guards who served Lucien Partridge and were in readiness for any attack upon this place.

  They found Vignetti in the laboratory. Lucien Partridge gave a sign. The Corsican helped the old man don his smock. As he drew on his gloves, Partridge was talking in Italian; then he turned to Marquette.

  "I am going back to work," he said with a smile. "I have instructed Vignetti to take you to the station. I shall say good-by."

  A clock in the corner of the laboratory was pointing to five minutes of three. Lucien Partridge extended his gloved hand to bid Marquette good-by. The secret-service man stepped forward to accept the friendly clasp.

  Lucien Partridge was smiling. Vignetti, behind Marquette, was leering. The secret-service man saw only Partridge—not the other. He sensed no danger in the old man's amiable parting action.

  For Lucien Partridge's smile was lulling and kindly. It was the smile he always wore when he reached forth to deal the creeping death upon an unsuspecting victim!

  Vic Marquette was ready to grasp the hand of doom!

  CHAPTER XIX. THE SHADOW INTERVENES

  AS Vic Marquette's hand was about to enter the deadly clutch of Lucien Partridge's poisoned glove, a startling sound broke the tense silence that existed in the old man's laboratory.

  The strident ringing of a loud alarm came as an unexpected token of approaching danger. The ringing broke and was repeated; throughout the distant portions of the house, other bells jingled as in answer.

  The effect of this interruption was instantaneous. Lucien Partridge paused, with hand outstretched, his eyes staring in amazement.

  Vic Marquette, startled by the noise, dropped back instinctively, dropping his arm to his side. A surprised scowl appeared upon Vignetti's face as the Corsican looked quickly toward the door.

  The sudden ringing of the bell had brought salvation to Vic Marquette. Because of it, he had escaped the handclasp proffered by Lucien Partridge. The timely intervention had temporarily freed the secret-service man from the menace of the creeping death.

  Heavy footsteps were pounding down the stairs. Partridge's henchmen were answering the alarm. Their prompt response inspired the old man to action. Forgetful of Marquette's presence, he uttered a cry that explained all.

  "The workhouse!" Partridge shouted. "Some one has entered there! The alarm! Hurry, every one—there is not a moment to lose!"

  He motioned to Vignetti as he passed him in a rush to the door. The Corsican hesitated momentarily, his eye on Vic Marquette; then, observing that the secret-service man was heading for the door also, Vignetti joined in the mad rush.
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  Flashlights glimmered through the dark as the rescue squad burst from a side door of the house and dashed across the lawn toward the workhouse. Vic Marquette was in the center of the mad surge, unquestioned by the scientist's henchmen, who supposed him to be a friend of the old man.

  Marquette let others pass him; at the rear of the crowd, his presence passed virtually unnoticed.

  Lucien Partridge, springing forward with amazing agility, was the first to reach the goal. He stopped abruptly at the door of the workhouse, only to see that the steel-clad barrier was closed.

  Vignetti arrived at his master's shoulder. The Corsican muttered excited words. Partridge, suddenly realizing their import, nodded. He tugged at his gloves, removing them swiftly, but with care. He let them fall upon the ground and dropped his smock with them.

  Not for one moment did the old man take his eyes from the metal-sheathed door of the workhouse. His men, armed with revolvers, were scattering about the little building, prowling the edge of the cliff, peering amid the trees. The vague ringing of alarms, back in the mansion, had ended.

  SOME one had tampered with that door—but where was the intruder? In a space of less than five minutes, the guards had swept through the area surrounding the shack. They were coming up now to report that they had discovered nothing.

  Partridge was glaring at his men. Vignetti was close beside the old man. Marquette was standing a short distance in the background.

  The situation was indeed an odd one. Whoever had tampered with the door of the workhouse had somehow managed to approach the little building without entering the grounds by way of the iron fence.

  That surrounding barrier was also protected by an alarm, which, through some mysterious cause, had not sounded.

  The door of the workhouse was closed; its strong lock indicated that the intruder had been frightened away. He could not have escaped by way of the fence, with its electric wiring. He could not have descended the cliff. He could not have sought refuge in the big mansion, a hundred yards away, for the surging rescuers had come from there with remarkable promptness.