Dead Men Live

Chapter XI — Orlinov Speaks Facts

Seated in the living room of Ivan Orlinov's castle, Cliff Marsland was reviewing past events. His mind reverted to the events of two nights ago, when he had made his crafty visit to the side wing of the strange house.

Since then, Cliff had been chafing because of his idleness. He had done nothing since he had given his message to Clyde Burke. He could do nothing until he received some reply. Above all, he must restrain himself tonight, for a man's life might be at stake.

In New York, Glade Tremont was to meet Matt Hartley. That meeting held some sinister purpose. The Shadow had been warned of it. The outcome, therefore, would be to Glade Tremont's disadvantage. Meanwhile, Cliff must play his waiting game. It would be unwise for him to repeat his trip to the forbidden territory in the side wing of the house. Much though Cliff desired the excitement of another expedition, he could not afford to take chances that might bring an encounter with Ivan Orlinov or his henchmen.

Cliff had a very definite hunch that there was more of interest in this house than a mere laboratory or workshop. When circumstances would permit it, he intended definitely to learn the secret which Ivan Orlinov had managed to preserve so well.

He recalled the Russian's face as he had seen it by the firelight two nights ago. The mere recollection made Cliff feel uneasy.

While Cliff was picturing Orlinov, the man himself stepped into the room. Cliff looked up inquiringly. The Russian smiled pleasantly. He sat down and stared mildly at his secretary.

Then he began to speak in a pleasant tone of voice.

"It iss quiet, here," he said. "Very quiet."

"I enjoy the quiet," responded Cliff.

"It iss different from New York, nein?"

"Plenty different."

"Plenty different." Orlinov repeated Cliff's expression with a laugh. "You haff been here one week, Marslandt. It iss time now that I told you many things, so that you can be of more help to me. Yess?" Cliff Marsland affected a disinterested attitude.

"There are places here that I would like for you to see," continued the Russian. "Come. I shall show you where you haff not been."

He beckoned as he arose, and Cliff walked by his side.

They left the living room and crossed the hall. The door to the wing was open. With a bow, the huge Russian ushered Cliff into the forbidden territory.

Cliff restrained his enthusiasm. While he had been thinking of a visit here, he had not hoped to make it so soon. He looked about him as they passed the second door, and pretended to view the corridor as though he had come into it for the first time.

"There iss something strange for you to see," declared Orlinov. "It iss not here. It iss on the floor up above. Come."

They reached the stairs and went up to the second story. There Orlinov stopped before a closed door. Cliff noticed something now that be had not observed before, when he had been in haste to travel through the passage. This door — as well as the others on the floor — was fitted with a cross-shaped paneling that had a square center.

"Look."

Orlinov pronounced the word like the name Luke. Cliff was too interested to even notice the tone of the voice.

The Russian's finger was on the square center of the panel. A slight press, and the square dropped, revealing a small pane of glass. At Orlinov's bidding, Cliff peered within. He saw a beautifully furnished room — apparently one of a suite, for there was an open door beyond it. The room was carpeted with thick Oriental rugs. A huge bookcase stood filled with massive volumes.

The furniture was of heavy mahogany.

These features were of small interest to Cliff. His eyes were focused upon the inhabitant of the apartment. An elderly man was seated at a writing desk, tracing lines upon a sheet of paper. He appeared to have no interest in his surroundings. His face was long and solemn, his eyes dreary and dull. Orlinov drew Cliff away from the opening. He closed the panel. He beckoned, and Cliff followed him to another door. Here a panel dropped, and Cliff viewed another room, less elegant in its furnishings. This room also contained an occupant. He was a foreigner, a large-headed man with a bushy beard that bristled like a black brush.

He was wearing a pair of large spectacles. He was seated in front of a chessboard, studying the positions of the pieces. He did not notice Cliff's face peering through the opening.

"Come."

A third panel was opened for inspection. This room was a virtual duplicate of the second.

A stoop-shouldered, gray-haired man was pondering over a large book. He was making notations on a pad that lay beside him. He was the first to realize that he was being watched. He turned suddenly about and looked at the open panel with sharp, piercing eyes.

Orlinov closed the panel, and conducted Cliff along the corridor. He allowed brief inspections of other rooms. These resembled the ones that Cliff had seen, but they were not occupied. Orlinov maintained a cryptic silence. Cliff pondered. He followed the Russian to the first floor. There, Orlinov opened the doors of other rooms. These were workshops and laboratories, each fitted out in excellent style. Another apartment contained a vast array of bookcases and filing cabinets — a veritable library.

Finally, Orlinov led the way to the very room where Cliff had listened to the talk between the Russian and Glade Tremont. This proved to be a simply furnished office Orlinov motioned for Cliff to sit down. The Russian took a standing position at the other side of the room. Cliff watched him, wondering. He was completely puzzled by the strange sights that he had witnessed.

He felt sure that Orlinov was about to give an explanation. That, Cliff decided, would be both interesting and of value.

"They were comfortable?" came the Russian's question.

"They appeared to be," responded Cliff, knowing that Orlinov referred to the men upstairs.

"It iss well," said Orlinov. "They can haff comfort if they wish it. If they do not, they can haff trouble." Cliff accepted this ominous statement without making a response. He was anxious to hear Orlinov talk, but was too wise to question the Russian.

"Few haff seen them there," declared Orlinov. "Yess. Few haff seen them. That would not be wise. Do you know why?"

Cliff shook his head.

"Because," Orlinov was speaking solemnly, "those men are dead. Dead! Yess! They are dead men."

"Dead men!" Cliff echoed the statement in spite of himself.

"Yess." The man was coldly emphatic. "They are dead men. Dead men who liff!" Dead men who live!

The thought chilled Cliff Marsland to the marrow. His teeth clenched, and his face hardened, as he stared at Ivan Orlinov. Had the huge Russian gone crazy? His tone was serious; his expression had been positive.

A strange, wild glow had come into Orlinov's eyes. Cliff began to rise from his chair, thinking that he was dealing with a maniac. Then the Russian motioned him back with an imperious gesture. Orlinov's face became quiet. Cliff relaxed.

"When dead men liff," declared the Russian slowly, "there must be a reason. Yess? I shall tell you what iss the reason. Those men haff been useful. Iss it not nice to know that because you haff been useful, you can liff when you haff been dead?"

Cliff was staring hard at Orlinov. He did not like the peculiar emphasis in the man's tone.

It seemed that every remark was directed toward himself. Cliff sensed a dangerous situation developing. He remained calm in spite of his qualms.

"I haff told you what those men haff been," resumed Orlinov. "I haff told you that they haff been dead. You would like to know who they haff been? Giff me that pen from your pocket. Then can I write the names of them—"

Cliff's hand was moving toward his vest pocket. He realized suddenly that his fountain pen was gone. It was the pen that he had used in writing his message to The Shadow — the pen filled with the special ink that vanished after it had dried and been exposed to the air!

Realization dawned. Cliff knew that Orlinov was tricking him. His hand slipped away from his vest pocket, reaching for the handy revolver. Something cold pressed against the back of Cliff's neck. It was the muzzle of a gun. He knew that another move would mean instant death. He paused and waited.

"Ah!" exclaimed Orlinov, with a leering grin. "You are too wise to move. That iss goot — for you. You were not so wise to sit with your back toward that door. It iss Petri who holds that gun against you.

"You tink that you are wise, perhaps. You haff made a great mistake. Remember what you haff told me that one mistake can be too much. Why did you leave that fountain pen so carelessly?" The Russian's voice took on a tone of sarcastic reproach as he chided his victim.

"Yess" resumed Orlinov, "I haff found that pen this morning. I haff written with it. That iss strange writing that goes away so quick. Perhaps you haff found out too much. Perhaps you haff told someone. That iss why I haff talked to you tonight. You haff seen those men who still liff. That iss because you, too, will soon be one of those men.

"When a man iss bad for us, we kill him. But not if he iss to be of use. It may be that you will be of use. It may be that you will not. We shall see, yess?"

Cliff's face was obdurate. He expected Orlinov to question him, now that he was suspected of a plot. The Russian's eyes were blazing, and Cliff detected a suppressed frenzy there. Let the man try, thought Cliff. He would learn nothing of The Shadow!

Orlinov seemed to be reading Cliff's thoughts. He laughed as he rose and came closer.

His eyes stared toward Cliff's face. His lips formed a wicked, evil grin.

"You will say nothing? Goot! It does not matter. If you haff learned nothing, it can do no harm. If you haff heard — last night — that will be no goot. We haff made things so that it cannot matter." His shrewd eyes were watching to see if Cliff betrayed alarm. Orlinov would gain nothing by his survey of Cliff's poker face. The bearded man shrugged his shoulders.

"You tink that you are strong?" he questioned. "You tink that you are wise? We shall see of that. You haff been sent here by someone. There iss just one man that it could be. That iss the man they call The Shadow."

Cliff failed to indicate that the surmise was correct.

"You tink that you will not talk," laughed Orlinov. "That iss not needed now. That chance you will haff some time after this — if it iss needed. You will know then how I haff found the way to make people talk.

"There iss one thing that can keep you from trying to be wise. You haff seen the men who haff once died. They keep quiet now. Yess, they haff known what it iss to die. So you shall see the same. My goot friend, the doctor, he hass given me a way."

Lacking understanding, Cliff expected to receive a revolver shot from the man stationed behind him. But as Ivan Orlinov approached and stood beside him, Cliff realized that something different was to take place.

Orlinov was speaking quietly, now, except for guttural chuckles that interrupted his words.

"Yess," he was saying, "if this man, The Shadow, hass tried to make trouble, he iss too late. He will find trouble for himself. So it may be that we shall not find you to be of use to us. We shall see." The words made Cliff tighten his lips. He realized now that there had been ample time for Orlinov to communicate with New York.

By a mere chance, the Russian had picked up Cliff's pen. Thus had he divined the reason for Cliff's presence here. Orlinov — Tremont — and a third whom the Russian called the doctor — all were superfiends. The plot against Matt Hartley was not scheduled until tonight. Cliff knew well that Glade Tremont was now cognizant of the new turn that had occurred here in Glendale. The Shadow must be warned!

But how?

Instant death threatened Cliff Marsland if he dared to move. He was staring straight ahead, seeing neither Orlinov nor Petri. He did not see the bearded Russian's hand approach his arm, carrying a tiny, shining object in its grasp.

The sharp point of a hypodermic needle stung Cliff's arm. He sat motionless, still staring.

He felt a strange, unexplainable weakness. The room was growing black about him. His body swayed. He forgot the pressure of the gun upon his neck. His veins seemed chilled — freezing within his body. Orlinov laughed as Cliff Marsland's body slumped in the chair and became rigid. Cliff heard that laugh from the midst of whirling blackness. Then his brain ceased to function. Orlinov stood looking at the form in the chair. To all appearances Cliff Marsland was dead. The same fate had befallen him as that which had been the lot of Clark Murdock, when the chemist had struggled with Doctor Gerald Savette.

A laugh came from the Russian's bearded lips. In his native tongue, he spoke to Petri, the stalwart servant who still stood with gun in hand. Petri answered. He and Orlinov picked up Cliff Marsland's body from the chair.

Together they took their burden up the stairs to the second floor, Heavy though Cliff was, the Russians carried him with ease.

Orlinov ordered his man to set the body on the floor. Then the bearded Russian unlocked a door that led to one of the smaller rooms. The two men carried the rigid form into the apartment and placed it upon a couch beside the wall.

There was no indication that Cliff Marsland still lived. A corpselike pallor had settled on his face. But Ivan Orlinov, leering hideously, showed more interest in that form than he would have wasted upon a mere corpse. He knew that his victim would awaken later.

Cliff Marsland had become one of the dead who lived!