Fingers of Death

CHAPTER XIII. HIDDEN FINGERS

HARRY VINCENT’S instructions were plain. He was to follow Ernest Risbey and discover where the man went. It was probable, Harry knew, that Risbey would go to his home. Once he had seen the man reach that spot, Harry was to keep watch and, if he suspected any danger, make a call at the house.

With his mythical occupation of a construction representative, Harry had an ideal method of approach.

The retired manufacturer was interested in building enterprises. As a logical caller, Harry could telephone word to The Shadow from Risbey’s home. A mere call to the hotel to inquire if any one was in his room would be the signal. The Shadow — in Harry’s room — would answer and receive the information.

All this had been arranged in instructions which Harry had received during the day. Nevertheless, Harry did not know entirely what was afoot.

There was a reason why he had been placed on this duty tonight. Hitherto, murders had occurred at intervals. One was unlikely on this evening. Hence, The Shadow, with other plans on hand, had intrusted the guarding of Ernest Risbey to Harry Vincent.

Ernest Risbey had left the hotel lobby immediately upon arriving there. He walked across the street to a drug store and ordered a soft drink. Harry kept within watchful range.

After several minutes, Risbey came out; he returned as an afterthought and purchased some cigars. Fully ten minutes had passed since his exit from the hotel.

Risbey stood beside the lighted curb, engaged in continued thought. He began to glance nervously about him; then, tugging at his mustache, the man walked along the street until he reached an expensive sedan that was in a row of parked cars.

This was Harry’s cue. The Shadow’s agent hurried to his own car, which was across the street, and seated himself at the wheel. The street was broad and afforded sufficient opportunity to turn. Gazing through the rear window, Harry waited to see the direction in which Ernest Risbey intended to go.

The manufacturer was in no great hurry. After entering the front seat of his sedan, he sat idly at the wheel, thinking over the conference that had taken place in the hotel. At last, Risbey fumbled in his pocket, produced a key, and turned on the ignition switch. He also lighted the dashboard. Then, with one hand upon the wheel, Risbey prepared to turn on the lights prior to starting the car.

Had he glanced into the mirror before him, the manufacturer would have seen a ghastly sight. Rising from the rear portion of the car, looming now directly behind his shoulder, was a fiendish face that wore a look of hideous glee. Beside the face was an extended hand which held a needle-pointed object of metal.

Face and hand were coming slowly forward; then the fingers of the hand were most conspicuous.

Fiendish fingers that had taken lives; they were about to demand another victim!

The tip of the needle was scarcely an inch from Risbey’s unprotected neck when the manufacturer, by some chance, happened to see the mirror. In the reflected surface he saw the claws that held the hypodermic.

Fingers of death!

HORRIFIED, Risbey knew their mission. A gasp of recognition came as he saw the blurred face that showed in the gloom. Then, before the manufacturer could act to save himself, the hypodermic needle jabbed into his neck. Thrusting it with devilish venom, the fingers tightened as they did their evil work.

Ernest Risbey slumped behind the wheel. The fingers still remained; then slowly drew the needle point away.

Risbey’s lips were moving, but no utterance came from his throat. A blotch upon his neck narrowed to an ugly pin mark.

Face and fingers were withdrawing. The door on the curb side opened and closed. The murderer was gone.

Alone, in the soft light from the dashboard, Ernest Risbey lay dead.

Another of the conspirators had met his end! Within a half hour after Hurley Adams had delivered his ultimatum, and Julius Selwick had responded with a logical plea for no more deaths, Ernest Risbey had been slain.

When news of this foul deed would be learned, Adams or Selwick — whichever one was innocent — would suspect the other of the chain of crimes, and would be on guard!

No one had seen this murder in the dark. No one had even suspected it; but across the street, one man was wondering why Ernest Risbey had not decided to drive his car away.

Harry Vincent, watching, let minutes slip by as he waited for Risbey’s move.

Did the man suspect that he would be followed? What was he doing so long in the car?

As time went tensely by, Harry feared that Risbey might have dodged out of the automobile unseen. Such would have been an easy matter, for the side toward the curb was invisible from Harry’s coupe.

This was time for investigation, Harry decided. Leaving his car, the young man sauntered across the street. He walked past the sedan; then, seeing no one close at hand, retraced his steps and paused to light a cigarette as he stood beside the parked vehicle.

AS the flame from the match died away, Harry saw the man within. He glimpsed the form of Ernest Risbey, slumped behind the wheel. The man’s upturned face was tilted sidewise. Sightless eyes stared toward the door near the curb.

Those eyes told their story. Harry knew that Ernest Risbey was dead!

Acting quickly, Harry opened the rear door of the car with his left hand, while his right drew a revolver and held it hidden by his body. Harry was ready for the assassin, but the light streaming in from the street lamp showed no one there. The slayer had departed, leaving no clew to his identity.

Upon the dead man’s neck was the tiny crimson spot that showed how doom had come. The mark was slowly fading, that mark which fingers of death had caused!

Quickly, Harry Vincent stepped away from the sedan, closing the door. People were approaching on the street. Harry was fortunate to escape their notice as he hurriedly walked behind the big car.

Arriving at his room in the hotel, Harry found the place empty. He hurriedly penned a coded note, telling what had occurred, and placed the message in the writing-table drawer. Then, knowing that The Shadow would be here shortly, Harry left the room. When he returned, after putting his coupe away, he found that the note was gone.

The Shadow now knew that Ernest Risbey was dead. Until further word came from his mysterious chief, it was Harry’s duty to remain here and await the summons.

Peering from the window, Harry could distinguish Risbey’s car across the street. It was the same as before — and Harry knew that the body of the dead man must still be there, awaiting discovery later in the night.

Keenly though Harry watched, his eyes did not detect the tall form in black that moved away from the side of the parked sedan. Like a creature of invisibility, shrouded in his cloak of sable hue, The Shadow had gone to the spot of death — and had left, unseen.

A phantom of darkness, The Shadow could escape the eyes of all passers. He was seen by none in Holmsford that evening. Nevertheless, his presence was there.

It hovered, later, amid the blackness that surrounded the gloomy mansion where Josiah Bartram had lain during his last illness. Sharp, glowing eyes were peering from the dark when Doctor Felton Shores emerged from the house. The physician had been visiting there again, this evening.

When all was silent on the lawn, a low laugh sounded. Scarcely more audible than the sighing whisper of a breeze, it betokened uncanny mirth. The mockery of that laugh signified a knowledge of hidden mysteries.

Once more The Shadow had been balked by the fingers of death. They were due to work again; and when they did, The Shadow would be prepared for them!

Long after midnight, a phantom shape was watching from the darkened front of the Elite Hotel when a passing patrolman stopped to examine the sedan that was now parked alone on the street. A startled grunt came from the officer as he saw the dead body in the car.

After a brief examination, the policeman hurried away to call up headquarters. In the silence of the street, the whispered laugh of The Shadow resounded once again.

The phantom shape was gone when the patrol arrived to take away the body of Ernest Risbey, the newest victim who had fallen prey to fingers of death!