Fingers of Death

CHAPTER XII. THE CONFERENCE

“YOU’RE wrong about it, Grady. Forget the idea.”

Safety Director Julius Selwick was speaking from behind his desk in the Holmsford city hall. Howard Grady, chief of detectives, stood before him.

“I can’t forget it, director!” protested Grady. “I agree with you that Maurice Pettigrew was a suicide. But this accidental death in Arthur Preston’s case leaves other possibilities.”

“There were people in the house!” objected Selwick impatiently. “This case is more obvious than Pettigrew’s death!”

“Maybe I’m wrong,” admitted Grady. “Maybe it was all that nut stuff up in the curio room that made me think of murder. Suits of armor — harpoons — all that sort of junk.”

Julius Selwick smiled indulgently. The chief detective left the office. As soon as he was gone, the director’s brow furrowed.

“Murder,” Julius Selwick mumbled. “Grady’s nearer to the truth than he thinks. One — two — three. Well—”

He shrugged his shoulders, and looked up as a man entered, bringing the late afternoon mail. Local deliveries were prompt in Holmsford. Selwick noted that several envelopes bore a noon postmark.

“Got to keep Grady off the trail,” muttered Selwick. “It’s tough enough as is, without him finding out anything. And if there’s any squealing. Well—”

With the indefinite remark, Selwick began to open his letters. An envelope ripped in his hands. Out came a folded paper. From it dropped a plain red card.

Julius Selwick examined the card. He laid it on the desk, and stared at the wall.

The wrinkles deepened in his forehead. He knew the meaning of this message. It was a summons that he had awaited for years; yet which he had not expected quite so soon.

The safety director glanced at a newspaper upon his desk. On the front page was a photograph of the old City Bank building, a landmark for twenty years, now about to be torn down. Work would commence before the end of the week.

Again, Selwick examined the card. He laughed gruffly. He tore it into fragments, and threw the pieces into the empty wastebasket. The torn envelope followed. Selwick laid the rest of his mail aside. He did not care to open it.

A PROMINENT figure in Holmsford business for many years, Julius Selwick had recently been appointed safety director because of his firm, unyielding personality. He had proven himself capable at cleaning up crime. He had laughed at the threats of racketeers who had tried to install themselves in Holmsford.

To-day, however, Julius Selwick appeared perturbed. In fact, his mental attitude had not been at its best for the past week. Howard Grady had noticed it; so had others; but none had made direct comment.

The safety director’s office opened on a much-used corridor, and as Julius Selwick rose to leave the office, an old gentleman hobbled in on a cane. He paused in front of the desk and offered a query.

“Is this the health director’s office?” he questioned. “I am from—”

“Two doors down the corridor,” informed Selwick.

“Pardon me, sir,” acknowledged the old man, with a bow.

The action was not noticed by Selwick, who was walking from the desk. He did not see the old man’s eyes. They brightened as the head was lowered. There, in the wastebasket, the old man spotted the fragments of the red card with the torn envelope.

He was the same old man who had been in the Holmsford County Building, beside the mail chute on the ninth floor. The Shadow, visiting the safety director’s office in Holmsford. The Shadow — perfectly disguised.

The old man followed Selwick from the office, and the safety director pointed out the office that he wanted. It had an anteroom, with a closed panel where one was required to ring a bell.

The old man bowed and entered. He did not ring the bell, however.

Spreading his arms, he pressed the ends of his ornate cane between his hands. The walking stick collapsed to tiny size as the hands came together. It dropped into the old man’s pocket. Whisking the hat from his head, the old man turned it inside out. It formed a new headpiece — no longer a brown hat with turned-up brim, but a gray one, with brim sloping downward.

Gloves peeled away; slender fingers ran over the old man’s face. The stooped form straightened. A waxed mustache made its quick appearance.

Within thirty seconds from the time that he had entered the office, the old man was a new individual — a stern-faced, mustached person, whose age appeared about forty. Leaving the office, the transformed stranger reached the elevator in time to take the same car as Julius Selwick.

From then on, The Shadow, in his new personality, did not lose sight of the safety director. Both arrived at the Elite Hotel, and it was not until Julius Selwick had entered the dining room for dinner that his trailer disappeared.

Harry Vincent went into the dining room shortly afterward. He, in turn, watched Selwick.

Harry was acting under new and mysterious orders, received by telephone in his room, whither he had returned at noon. He had filed a report on the dictaphone conversation. That had been removed from his table drawer during a temporary absence.

IT was nearly eight o’clock when Julius Selwick left the dining room. Harry followed and took a seat in the lobby. Various persons were passing through. Selwick lounged about, and Harry kept close watch.

He saw Selwick take the elevator and go upstairs.

A short while afterward, a small, darkish man came in and passed directly before the seat where Harry was stationed. Hardly had Harry seen him approach the desk before a small card nestled itself upon the chair arm, where Harry’s hand was resting. Turning curiously, Harry was surprised to see no one. There was a pillar directly behind him, but Harry had seen no one step out of view.

Looking quickly at the card, Harry was just in time to read this coded message: Watch the man who just entered. Cover him when he leaves.

The writing did a fadeout before Harry’s eyes. He knew the source of the note. It was from The Shadow.

That was sufficient. From now on, Harry had but one duty: to keep an eye on the stranger, who was now at the desk.

Harry observed the man’s features closely. Sallow and with short-clipped brown mustache, the face was easy to remember.

This man, like Selwick, headed for the elevator. Harry saw no one following him. He did not know that The Shadow, still disguised, had entered another car while he had been observing the man he was to watch!

Even to his trusted agents, The Shadow was a being of mystery. Harry had long known that fact; he recognized it now as never before.

The darkish man left the elevator at the fifth floor. At that very moment, Harry, in the lobby below, was learning his identity. Two men, close by, were discussing the stranger.

“You know who that was?” questioned one.

“Who?” asked the other. “The guy with the mustache?”

“Yes.”

“Sure I know who he is. Ernest Risbey. Wish I had his jack.”

“Guess he cleaned up plenty before he sold out his casting factory.”

Harry made a mental note of the name. Ernest Risbey. Evidently a prominent citizen of Holmsford.

ON the fifth floor, Risbey was totally oblivious to the fact that his name had been mentioned in the lobby.

He was also oblivious to some one who was watching him at close range. Sharp eyes were upon the mustached man as he stopped at the door near the end of a corridor — eyes that peered from a side passage when Risbey went by.

Three light taps. The door opened at Risbey’s signal. The man entered a gloomy room to find two others awaiting him.

One was Hurley Adams, with gray hair and pale face. The other was Julius Selwick, heavy-set and firm in visage. Risbey closed the door and joined the pair.

“We are all here,” remarked Hurley Adams, in a low tone.

Julius Selwick nudged his thumb toward a door at the side of the room.

“The next room is empty,” explained Adams. “I made sure of that before I engaged this one. I stated that I wished to be in a quiet spot. You saw my name and room number on the register?”

Both Selwick and Risbey nodded.

“To business,” declared Adams quietly.

The door at the side of the room was slowly opening. Inch by inch it unclosed, unseen by the three who had forgotten it. The blackness beyond the door seemed to project itself into the room.

The door closed, as silently as it had opened. The tall form of The Shadow stood in view. The gleaming eyes shone momentarily; then The Shadow merged with darkness beyond a huge dresser that was set against the wall.

“To business?” Selwick put the question. “The time has not yet arrived.”

“An important time is here,” responded Adams. “This is an emergency. We must settle a pressing problem.”

Selwick became silent. Risbey’s face took on an expression that was half cunning, half worry.

“Millions are at stake,” asserted Adams slowly. “Those millions were to be shared by six. Tonight, there are but three of us.”

He paused to look at the other two men. Both seemed to share a momentary worry. Was that expression feigned or was it real?

“Within a week,” continued Adams, “we shall — I hope — meet again to divide the spoils. Unfortunately” — he said the word as though he meant it — “three of our number have died within the past week.

“That fact is not to my liking. I should have preferred to see all share and share alike. Some plot has arisen — a plot of elimination. Unless our secret has been betrayed, the plotter is one of us three. He is more than a plotter; he is a murderer!”

“I feared this,” said Risbey, with sudden nervousness. “Those three deaths have amazed me. Tell me, Adams. You believe that one of us—”

“Is a murderer? Yes!”

Risbey shifted restlessly in his chair. Adams watched him intently. After a short pause, the lawyer turned to Selwick.

“That is my opinion,” Adams repeated. “What is yours?”

“I don’t know,” responded Selwick, in a gruff tone. “If your idea is correct, Adams, it’s either you or Risbey. I’m not worrying. Nobody’s going to get me.”

“Let us forget the past,” suggested Adams. “We are close to the goal for which we have waited twenty-odd years. There is sufficient wealth for all of us. I am willing to make this agreement: assuming that I am responsible for what has occurred — in any way whatever — I will assure both of you that nothing further will occur in the way of death. Are each of you willing to assert the same?”

“I am,” affirmed Risbey. “I’m not responsible; but if I were, I’d call it quits.”

“If I have been a murderer,” said Selwick, with a short laugh, “I’ll lay off from now on.”

THE three studied one another. A feeling of mutual mistrust prevailed. Hurley Adams shook his head wearily. He gave the impression that he had expected great results from this conference, but was now disappointed.

“I’ll put a new slant on it,” suggested Selwick. “If one of us three is the killer, it’s a sure bet he isn’t going to say so. But it’s also sure that if he’s wise, he’ll quit right now.

“As long as there are three of us, no one can be sure who the slayer is — because there’s two to pick from. But if the murderer kills one of us — then there’ll be only two. The innocent man will know the other is guilty.”

A relieved expression came over Ernest Risbey’s face. The darkish manufacturer was impressed by Selwick’s statement. He bore the look of a man who has been freed from an impending threat.

“Good logic,” said Hurley Adams quietly. “It had not occurred to me in just that way. I am glad you spoke, Selwick. You have given good reason why we three should be in accord. Remember — when only two remain, the innocent man will be on guard. We are in agreement now.”

“Then,” said Risbey, “we shall meet again—”

“When the cornerstone has been opened. Its contents will be made public, including the historical sketch.

That is a customary procedure. Forget the past. Remember: the spoils are safe with three of us. With two, there is danger. With only one — well, that may be impossible. The man who killed did wrong. But there is no use for regret.”

The conference was ended. Hurley Adams had won his point, with Julius Selwick’s aid. The three men arose and left the room one by one.

Into the gloom came The Shadow. Standing like a specter from the afterworld, he laughed in a tone that was weird and low. Soft taunts of chilling mockery came from the walls of the gloomy room.

In the lobby below, three men were going their separate ways. Two of them, however, displayed discretion, if only as a gesture. Julius Selwick, the first to leave, was met by a detective from headquarters as he neared the door.

Hurley Adams was not lacking in a bodyguard. His man, Unger, joined him as he walked across the lobby. Ernest Risbey, alone, had taken no precaution; nevertheless, he, too, was provided for, though without his knowledge.

A young man followed as Risbey went from the hotel. Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow, had been detailed to watch him tonight. The Shadow had foreseen that the other two would be wise enough to have their own men. He had intrusted the safety of the third to Harry Vincent.