Fingers of Death

CHAPTER X. SAYBROOK HAS SUSPICIONS

WILLARD SAYBROOK was in the living room of the house which had once belonged to Josiah Bartram. Smiling and attempting a jocular attitude, the young man was talking with Grace Preston. But at heart, Saybrook was moody and ill at ease.

Fingers of death! Their menace still persisted. Flashing through Saybrook’s brain were the strange revelations that Hurley Adams had made tonight. Revelations that branded the old lawyer as a criminal!

Momentarily, Willard Saybrook wondered about Hurley Adams. A man who would have admitted crime as Adams had done was certainly placing himself in a bad light. Yet Saybrook was not too narrow to believe that a one-time crook could not reform.

Adams had confessed his errors under protest. He had done it so that Willard Saybrook would be able to avoid danger through rash action. That, at least, was Saybrook’s final summary.

For a while, Saybrook had held doubts of the old lawyer’s sincerity; had suspected that Adams might be playing a cagey game. But when he had reached the Bartram homestead, Saybrook had indulged in sober thought, and now felt a bond of warm friendship toward Hurley Adams.

Uppermost in Saybrook’s mind was the thought that he himself had expressed tonight. With fingers of death engaged in crime, much might be learned by seeking clews from the past. Such clews might lie here, in this house!

Saybrook was familiar with the circumstances of Josiah Bartram’s death and burial. He had gone over them, tactfully, with Grace Bartram. He realized that only four persons had been close at hand during the days before the old contractor had died. Those four were Grace Bartram, Doctor Felton Shores, Mahinda, and the nurse.

Doctor Shores had visited the house several times since Saybrook had arrived. As the family physician, he was particularly anxious to learn how Grace Bartram was recovering from the strain of her uncle’s death.

Shores had not come in this evening; but Mahinda was here, stalking back and forth on his usual errands.

The Hindu was garbed in a white, baggy suit, and he appeared and disappeared with the silence of a ghost.

Willard Saybrook felt nervous; and Mahinda increased his nervousness. Once, when Grace had called the servant, Mahinda had not appeared; but he had bobbed up later at an unexpected moment, to quietly accept the reprimand that he had received.

MAHINDA was out of the room now, and Saybrook took the opportunity to earnestly discuss the servant with Grace.

“This fellow Mahinda,” he remarked. “Is he reliable?”

“Of course he is!” exclaimed Grace. “What makes you think otherwise, Willard?”

“He wasn’t around a few minutes ago.”

“That means nothing. Poor chap! He has been terribly upset since Uncle Josiah died.”

“How many years was he with your uncle?”

“Twenty” — Grace considered — “twenty-two I think. I remember him ever since I was a tiny girl. A wonderful servant, Mahinda. He has been so faithful, Willard.”

“How was he while your uncle was ill?”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed the girl, in an admiring tone. “You know, Willard, he would have done anything for my uncle. I believe he would have killed any one who would have threatened Uncle Josiah — or myself. I feel very safe with him here.”

“Hm-m-m,” observed Willard Saybrook. “Sounds like a hint for me to be on my way.”

“Willard!” Grace’s voice was filled with protest. “You must not talk that way, darling. You must never leave. As soon as it is long enough after uncle’s death, we will be married—”

The girl’s worry over Saybrook’s comment caused her fiance to become soothing. He forgot his problems in his effort to make amends for his unkind remark. Grace became smiling once more; and the two chattered idly until Mahinda reappeared.

The doorbell rang suddenly, and Saybrook noticed the quickness with which Mahinda answered it. He had a sudden thought that the Hindu had been expecting that ring. When Mahinda opened the door, Doctor Shores entered.

The physician was as professional as usual; but he lapsed a little from his quietness as he greeted Willard Saybrook and Grace Bartram. He remarked that it relieved him to visit a place where every one seemed well and happy. Strolling about the room, Shores encountered Mahinda, and asked the servant for a drink of water. The Hindu bowed and went to get it.

Several minutes went by. Shores became laughingly impatient when Mahinda did not return. Grace, annoyed, started to rise, saying that she would find Mahinda. Doctor Shores politely told her to be seated.

“I know my way around,” he said, with a smile. “I’ll find old Hindustanee and give him blazes in his native dialect. Let me look for him.”

Willard Saybrook was puzzled when he saw Doctor Shores walk away through the hall. He had noticed, before, that the physician had a habit of making himself at home around this house. Tonight, after Mahinda had gone at the order of Shores, the doctor’s action of going in search seemed rather odd.

Saybrook had a sudden suspicion that the two wanted to speak in private.

Doctor Felton Shores and Mahinda, the servant! What could they have in common? The thought came to Saybrook that they could only have formed an acquaintance during Josiah Bartram’s lifetime, and specifically during the period when the old contractor was experiencing his final illness!

WHILE Saybrook was reflecting thus, Mahinda returned, carrying the glass of water. He seemed surprised not to see Doctor Shores. He set the glass of water on the table, and walked from the room without comment.

Saybrook wondered where he was going now. The ring of the telephone answered the question.

Mahinda reappeared and answered it.

“Doctor Shores?” The Hindu spoke with an odd accent. “He is here, sir. I shall call him.”

The situation was now reversed. Mahinda had gone in search of the physician. The quest did not take him long. He returned, followed by Shores, who was laughing. The physician spied the glass of water and drank it before he answered the telephone.

A serious look replaced the doctor’s smile when he heard the voice over the wire. He hung up the receiver and turned, a glum look on his face. He caught the questioning gazes of the other persons, and finally decided to explain.

“Too bad,” he said. “An accidental death. Prominent man in town, too. My patient. I must go up there now.”

“Who?” questioned Saybrook.

“It’s Arthur Preston,” informed the physician. “Shot himself while he was in his curio room, examining an old-fashioned pistol. The gun was loaded.”

“What a shame!” exclaimed Grace Bartram.

“Terrible thing,” observed Willard Saybrook. “Particularly as it follows the Maurice Pettigrew matter.”

Saybrook had made the statement almost without thinking. He realized that it was a mistake to have referred to Pettigrew in any manner after what Hurley Adams had said tonight.

He looked toward Doctor Shores to see what the physician’s reaction had been, and he noted a look of deep worriment upon the man’s face.

Making a hurried farewell, Shores left the house.

New thoughts were whirling through Willard Saybrook’s mind. Arthur Preston! Could he have been another of the conspirators over whom Hurley Adams claimed great danger lay?

Another idea struck Saybrook. Funny that the call should have come here for Doctor Shores. The physician must have left word at his home that he could be reached at Bartram’s.

Probably a period of time had elapsed between the exact minute of Preston’s death and this call. How long? Where had Shores been in the meantime?

Saybrook wondered. He tried to picture what might have happened at Preston’s home. The man had evidently been found dead. Would they have called Doctor Shores right away?

IT was after twelve o’clock now. Grace went upstairs, and Mahinda, disappeared. Willard Saybrook remained smoking for half an hour, still wondering about the Preston case. He heard a knock at the door, and opened it, to find Shores outside.

“Ah!” exclaimed the physician. “So you’re still up? Just driving by on my way home — thought I’d stop in a minute. Too bad about Arthur Preston” — the physician shook his head sadly — “too bad. I’m used to death, but when it occurs so uselessly—”

“How long ago did it happen?” questioned Saybrook.

“About an hour before they called me here” — Doctor Shores hesitated — “no, maybe it was less than that.

There’s a physician living next door to Preston’s. They called him in. Then they began to phone me. Tried a lot of places and then called here.”

The physician gave a brief description of circumstances as he had found them at Preston’s; then he glanced questioningly toward the living room.

“Grace has retired?” he asked.

Saybrook nodded.

“Where’s Mahinda? Did you let him go off duty?”

“I guess he went off duty of his own accord. Glad I was up when you stopped by, doctor. I’m just turning in now.”

Saybrook accompanied the physician to the front door. After Shores had gone, he stood staring out into the darkness. He did not see the car parked down the street. It was Harry Vincent’s coupe. It had been there off and on during the evening.

The car pulled away shortly after the young man closed the front door, but the vigil had not ceased. New eyes had taken it up — eyes that had appeared in the darkness after Harry Vincent had gone.

Those eyes peered through the window. They saw Willard Saybrook, but he did not see them. They were most mysterious eyes, those eyes of The Shadow!

After Saybrook had turned out the lights and gone upstairs, the eyes remained in the darkness outside the house — the only visible signs of a figure that moved with the invisibility of night itself.

The Shadow, unlike Harry Vincent, did not avoid a close approach to the Bartram mansion. In fact, after his first inspection of the place, the strange investigator moved across the grounds at leisurely pace. His blackened form made a blot as it passed the white marble front of the mausoleum where Josiah Bartram lay buried.

Then, The Shadow was swallowed by the night. His disappearance ended the long chain of mystery that had begun since early evening.

Why had The Shadow come to this spot? Had he, like Willard Saybrook, decided that the clew to strange deaths might best be found at the place where such death had first begun?

Later events might tell. For the present, all was veiled.

Only The Shadow knew!