Fingers of Death

CHAPTER I. DYING WORDS

A SPECTRAL gloom seemed to pervade the room where Josiah Bartram lay. Perhaps it was the silence that caused the strange condition; perhaps it was the appearance of Bartram himself. Grace Bartram sensed the tenseness the moment that she entered her uncle’s bedroom.

Josiah Bartram was a man just past middle age; but his appearance tonight marked him as an old man.

His form was motionless beneath the coverlets of the bed. His face, with eyes staring straight upward, showed a yellow hue against the whiteness of the pillows. His hands, too, were yellow, as they slowly twitched upon the surface of the bedspread.

Josiah Bartram was not alone in the room, but the old man seemed entirely unconscious of the presence of the others.

One of these persons was a white-garbed nurse. The other was Mahinda, the old man’s trusted Hindu servant. The nurse was seated at a table, writing a report. The Hindu was standing stolidly beyond the foot of the bed.

Grace Bartram saw all three persons as she tiptoed into the room, but the only one to command her direct attention was her uncle. The sight of that pathetic figure brought a look of anguish to the girl’s face as she advanced softly toward the bed.

JOSIAH BARTRAM seemed to detect his niece’s approach. His eyelids closed and he spoke in a low, feeble voice. His words were uttered in a dull monotone from lips that scarcely seemed to move.

“Grace — Grace” — there was an effort in the old man’s speech — “you will remember — remember all that I have told you. Remember that all my worldly goods belong to you — that, when I die, there is to be no ceremony—”

Grace Bartram had reached a chair beside the bed. Her soft hands were grasping her uncle’s scrawny fingers; her soothing voice was uttering words of comfort to allay the old man’s fears.

“You will be better, uncle,” said the girl. “Doctor Shores will be here shortly. I telephoned to him after Mahinda told me that you were — that you were not feeling as well as before—”

As the girl’s voice wavered, Josiah Bartram spoke again, in the same slow monotone.

“Do not forget Mahinda,” he said. “Live here, Grace, and be happy. Mahinda will always be trustworthy. He is faithful; he will protect you — after I am gone—”

These words increased the girl’s unhappiness. Bravely, Grace tried to overcome Josiah Bartram’s belief that he was about to die. The old man’s hands ceased twitching. As he rested quietly, Grace heard the faint ringing of a distant doorbell. She saw Mahinda, the Hindu, walk softly from the room.

Grace was sure that the bell had announced the arrival of Doctor Felton Shores, the attending physician.

Motioning to the nurse to keep watch, the girl rose silently and left the room. She closed the door behind her, and hurried across the hall to the stairway that led to the first floor.

On the steps, she saw that her surmise had been correct. Mahinda had just admitted Doctor Shores. The physician was removing his hat and coat. Grace hastened down the stairs and approached the physician.

Doctor Felton Shores was recognized as the leading man of medicine in the city of Holmsford. For years, he had been Josiah Bartram’s physician. There was nothing surprising in that fact, for Doctor Shores was the practitioner most favored by the wealthy members of the community; and Josiah Bartram, successful building contractor, was regarded as one of the wealthiest men in Holmsford.

There was a quiet, assuring tone in the physician’s manner that had always impressed Grace Bartram.

She felt sure, now, that this one man could be relied upon to offset her uncle’s critical condition.

“Good evening, Grace,” said Shores, in a placid voice. “Your message was waiting at my home when I returned from a call. Did I understand that your uncle’s condition appeared to be less encouraging?”

The girl nodded.

“Yes, doctor,” she asserted. “He has relapsed into the same weakened state that he was in before. You brought him out of it three days ago. I can only hope that you will succeed again. But—”

The physician patted the girl’s shoulder when he noted that Grace’s voice was faltering. He did not appear to be alarmed; and the action was encouraging.

“Your uncle’s condition is serious,” declared Shores, “but I can hardly regard it as critical. You must not be worried, Grace. With plenty of rest and careful treatment, I believe that he will show a marked improvement.”

“I had hoped so,” responded the girl solemnly. “I had hoped so, doctor, until to-day. But when my uncle talked to me—”

Grace Bartram’s eyes were moist as they looked toward the physician’s sympathetic face. Doctor Shores, adept in human understanding, could see that the girl’s mind contained a burden.

Shores had known Grace since she was a child. He had seen her develop into beautiful young womanhood. He knew that she regarded him as a confidant.

He saw worry in the girl’s face. He watched her turn to see if Mahinda, the servant, was close at hand.

Then, he felt her pluck nervously at his sleeve and, at her bidding, the physician followed the girl into the gloomy, paneled living room that adjoined the hall.

THERE, away from any spot where they might be overheard, Grace engaged the doctor in serious conversation. Her eyes no longer welled with restrained tears. She was bravely trying to explain her apprehensions.

“Uncle talked to me, this afternoon,” declared the girl. “I was alone, beside him. He has a premonition that he is going to die. He seemed complete in that belief.”

“That is not serious, Grace,” responded Shores. “At the same time, it is sufficient to unnerve you “

“It is very serious, doctor,” insisted Grace. “Uncle impressed it upon me. He made me promise to see that he was buried without ceremony; to live here and retain Mahinda, who has been so faithful to him. More than that — he made me send for Hurley Adams.”

“His lawyer?”

“Yes. Mr. Adams was here a few hours ago. Uncle repeated instructions to him. Mr. Adams has his will, and is the executor of his estate. It is dreadful, Doctor Shores — dreadful — to see one whom you love — preparing for death—”

“It is not unusual, Grace,” interposed the physician quietly. “He will recover from that delusion. Is he resting at all comfortably?”

“Only when I soothe him—”

“An injection will help. He is nervous and needs sleep. His present condition may prove to be encouraging. It is at least a sign of arousal from the lethargy which has persisted since he first took to bed.”

The doctor’s emphatic tone was comforting. As Shores turned toward the doorway, the girl followed him from the gloomy room. They encountered Mahinda in the hallway. The Hindu bowed solemnly.

“I have told my master that you are here, sir,” he said to Doctor Shores. “He says that he would like to see you very much.”

The physician nodded and walked up the stairway, accompanied by Grace Bartram. The Hindu servant, moving silently, followed them at a respectful distance. When they reached the door of Josiah Bartram’s bedroom, Shores entered first, and Grace followed. Mahinda remained in the doorway.

Josiah Bartram moved his eyes as Doctor Shores entered. The old man recognized the physician, and stared at him with glassy eyes. Shores took the chair beside the bed, and felt the patient’s pulse.

“I am going to die, Felton,” announced Josiah Bartram, in a crackly monotone. “I have talked to my lawyer. I have talked to my niece—”

Doctor Shores slowly shook his head.

“You will recover, Josiah,” he said. “Your condition is improving right along. You are a young man yet. This illness will not continue much longer.”

The physician beckoned to the nurse. The woman approached and assisted with the hypodermic. Josiah Bartram’s arm was bared, and the injection was completed.

Grace Bartram looked on. She could see the pockmarks of previous injections upon that pale, weak arm. This treatment had been utilized at intervals during Josiah Bartram’s confining illness.

“You will talk with Hurley Adams,” continued the old man in his monotonous voice. “Talk with him, Felton. See that all the details of my plans are carried through. I want a quiet burial, in my own mausoleum — beyond the house — quiet — and soon — when — I die—”

The voice faded away as Josiah Bartram rested more easily upon his pillows. His pale eyelids had closed. Doctor Shores arose and gave instructions to the nurse. He turned to the door and gripped Grace’s arm, signifying for the girl to come with him.

Mahinda stepped aside as the two made their exit. The Hindu closed the door. Josiah Bartram, resting comfortably, was alone, in charge of the nurse.

“No cause for worry,” remarked the physician, as they reached the foot of the stairway. “I look for rapid improvement. We must humor him if he continues to talk about his plans—”

The ring of the doorbell interrupted the speech. Mahinda appeared upon the stairway in answer to the call.

Both Grace Bartram and Doctor Felton Shores watched as the servant opened the front door to admit a tall, dignified man, whose white hair formed a conspicuous mop as he removed his hat.

THE visitor was Hurley Adams, Josiah Bartram’s attorney. He bowed to Grace Bartram, and nodded to Doctor Shores. He approached, and began to question the pair.

“Is Josiah worse?” asked Adams.

“His condition is serious,” admitted Shores, “but I see no cause for immediate alarm.”

“It worried me this afternoon,” asserted Adams. “His constant thought of death — his desire that I would respect his dying wishes—”

“That,” said the physician seriously, “is an unfortunate point. Sometimes, the positive feeling of death does bring an unexpected demise.”

“This is a great burden for you, Grace,” said the lawyer, turning to the girl.

“I’m bearing up,” responded the girl. “Willard Saybrook will be here within a few days. It will be good to have him here. Uncle likes him.”

“Your fiance is a fine young man,” agreed Adams. “I am glad that Saybrook is coming.”

He motioned toward the stairs as he turned to Shores, indicating that he would like to see the patient.

The physician nodded, and Adams ascended. He passed the nurse at the top of the stairway.

Three or four minutes elapsed before Adams reappeared. He tiptoed down the stairs and spoke to Shores and Grace Bartram.

“Resting quietly,” said the lawyer, with a gentle smile. “I watched him as he slept, but did not disturb him.”

While Adams spoke, the nurse came across the hall. She had been to the kitchen to obtain a pitcher of water. She went up to the sick room. Adams, in the meantime, bowed good night. Mahinda opened the front door, and closed it after the departing attorney.

While Shores talked with Grace Bartram, Mahinda went in the direction of the kitchen. Thus the physician and the girl were alone when a scream came from the top of the stairs.

“Doctor Shores!” The nurse was calling. “Doctor Shores! Come at once!”

The woman’s call showed consternation. There was a moment of breathlessness; then Shores headed up the stairs. Grace Bartram followed with all haste. They found the nurse at the door of the sick room.

They saw the cause of the alarm.

JOSIAH BARTRAM was sitting upright in bed. His eyes were gleaming in a wild, frenzied stare. His arms were doubled across his chest. His fingers were gripping his throat, and he was gasping broken utterances.

“I am dying!” Bartram screamed hoarsely. “Dying — dying as I said I would die! Grace! Remember! Remember!”

Felton Shores was by the bed, gripping the old man’s shoulders. Bartram’s terrible gaze centered itself upon the physician.

Mahinda had appeared at the door; now, behind him, arrived the face of Hurley Adams. The old lawyer had heard the nurse’s cries from the street, and had rushed back into the house. Bartram’s eyes, the optics of a madman, could not see the faces at the door.

Dry lips parted in a hoarse chortle. The old man’s expression was uncanny. He seemed to be visioning a world beyond — a new existence that the others could not see. Delirium caught him in a convulsive wave.

His next words were the vague, mad statements of thoughts that were known to him alone.

“I feel death!” was Josiah Bartram’s cry. “Here — at my throat! Death! Fingers of death! See? See? Fingers of death!”

The old man’s hands were clutching his own throat. A convulsive shudder racked Josiah Bartram’s frame.

As Doctor Shores grasped the thin wrists, a long, weird gasp came from the old man’s lips. Josiah Bartram’s hands dropped away. His body wavered and fell back upon the pillows. His head tilted crazily, and his eyes set in a glassy stare.

Those in the room formed a strange, stunned tableau, as they viewed the form that had so suddenly become a motionless object.

Hurley Adams was tense as his hand pressed Grace Bartram’s arm. The girl’s eyes were fixed in horror as they viewed Josiah Bartram’s face. The nurse was gripping the post at the foot of the bed. Mahinda, the Hindu, stood just within the doorway, as silent as a statue.

Even Doctor Felton Shores was transfixed by the strange suddenness of the old man’s collapse. He held Josiah Bartram’s wrists in a cold, firm grasp. It was the startling drooping of those wrists that brought the physician to his senses.

The first to regain his control, Doctor Shores leaned over the body in the bed and made a slow, deliberate examination, while the others watched, unspeaking. Rising mechanically, the physician turned and looked from one face to another. His eyes reflected the thought that was in every mind.

“Nothing can be done now,” declared Doctor Shores, in a solemn tone. “Human aid is ended. Josiah Bartram is dead.”

Grace Bartram repressed a sob. Hurley Adams tightened his lips. The nurse shuddered. Mahinda, by the doorway, remained as stolid as before.

Something had been said that caused this tenseness. Not the statement of Doctor Shores — indeed, the physician’s announcement had almost brought relief. The words that were in every mind were the words that Josiah Bartram himself had uttered.

“Fingers of death!”

Those were the dying words that had come from crackling lips. Words that might have been brought by delirium; words that might hold a sinister meaning.

“Fingers of death!”