Fingers of Death

CHAPTER XX. THE SIGN OF CRIME

IT was nearly midnight when Hurley Adams came up the street to his home. The old lawyer hurried into the house and was met by Unger in the hallway. Adams was in a state of repressed excitement.

“Were there any messages for me, Unger?” he demanded.

“Yes, sir,” responded the attendant. “An important telephone call. Two calls, both from the same party.

Doctor Shores.”

“Felton Shores? What did he want?”

“He wanted you to come to see him — at once, sir. I did not know where to reach you.”

“Felton Shores!” Adams pronounced the name in a low tone. “So Felton Shores called me, eh? I can’t see him tonight. No, I can’t go there.”

“He said it was very urgent, sir.”

Hurley Adams became more calm. He was not anxious to betray his excitement to Unger. He considered the matter quietly and remarked:

“I had forgotten. Doctor Shores advised Miss Bartram to go away for a rest, and I advised the same.

Her fiance, Mr. Saybrook, is away. Call Doctor Shores and let me speak to him.”

Unger went to the telephone and called the number. He waited patiently for a few minutes; then announced that there was no response. Adams expressed indifference.

“Probably a matter of no consequence,” he said.

The lawyer and his servant had been standing in the front hall. Both had been engrossed in conversation.

Hence they had failed to notice that other eyes were watching them.

From the moment that Hurley Adams had come within close range of his home, he had been followed by a person who moved with inaudible stealth. The Shadow had been waiting his arrival. At this moment, the black-garbed watcher was peering through the curtains of the nearest room. The Shadow had entered the window, unheard and unseen.

“There was another message, sir,” remarked Unger. “A message from Mr. Thewkson, of the Holmsford City Bank—”

“Yes? Yes?” Adams queried quickly.

“Yes, sir,” responded Unger. “He said that the president had told him that you had inquired for copies of the records in the cornerstone of the old building.”

“I did,” said Adams, calming his eagerness. “That’s right. I had almost forgotten it. I asked him for them so that I might find if there were legal matters mentioned in them.”

“Mr. Thewkson stopped here, sir,” continued Unger. “He said that the president was away; but Mr. Thewkson has the records in his possession. The cornerstone was opened this afternoon. They must not be made public until the president’s return, Mr. Thewkson said; but he sent you these copies—”

As Unger produced an envelope, Hurley Adams could scarcely resist snatching it from the man’s hands.

The old lawyer barely managed to again cover his excitement. With the envelope in his grasp, he walked into the living room.

“It’s a trifle chilly, Unger,” he stated. “Light the fire in the fireplace.”

The fire was already built, and while Unger followed orders, Hurley Adams fumbled with the envelope.

The fire was crackling as a sheaf of carbon-copied papers came into the lawyer’s hands. Going through them rapidly, Adams stopped at one that bore the heading:

HURLEY ADAMS could scarcely wait until after Unger had walked out of the room. The old lawyer seated himself, oblivious to all but the papers now in his hand. He had no suspicion that eyes were watching him from across the hall. He did not know that The Shadow had witnessed the delivery of that envelope; that The Shadow was waiting here to see his reaction!

There were three paragraphs on the first page. Adams nearly ripped the sheet in his haste to find the beginning of the fourth paragraph. With the fire crackling at his side, the lawyer found the words he sought. The account read:

One of the finest tributes ever erected by a community was the Spanish War Monument built in 1905. It stands well back from the entrance of the City Cemetery. Its location is secluded, but its setting is appropriate, as it lauds the soldiers who died in their country’s service. The monument is a magnificent monolith. Most important is the copper plate upon its base, for this plate bears the inscription to those in whose memory the monument was erected.

The words stared forth as Hurley Adams read them more slowly. A gleam of triumph appeared upon the lawyer’s face. Here, after more than twenty years, was the secret of the hiding place in which Malcolm Warthrop and Stokes Bartlett had concealed the millions stolen during the transfer of funds at the City Bank.

The base of the Spanish War Monument! The monument had been erected a few years before the millions had been taken. Its location was indeed secluded. In all probability, the base was hollow, and Warthrop had been conversant with that fact.

The plate on the front of the base. It must be removable! Behind it, packed away, were the funds!

Waiting there, for some one to take them! Waiting for a group of conspirators of whom only one remained!

There was one grave danger — that some one else had learned the secret of the paper in the cornerstone.

Hurley Adams had been anticipating that. Hence his request to the bank president that he might see copies of the papers in advance.

Others — if there were others — would wait until the historical sketch was published in the newspapers. In the meantime, Hurley Adams knew!

The lawyer swung his arm, and the carbon papers fluttered into the blazing fire. Caught by tongues of flame, these copied documents burned rapidly. There was no need for the records now. The old man knew — and this was his opportunity!

Hurley Adams stared at the fire. The glow showed strange emotions on his face. At times, the lawyer’s expression was crafty. At others, it became almost benign. What was passing in the mind behind that face?

The lawyer’s hands, too, were expressive. They moved in grasping fashion; then opened and lay still, with fingers spread apart.

What was Hurley Adams planning?

When Unger entered the room, the lawyer had become thoroughly composed. His face was almost wistful. He seemed very tired and incapable of great effort. He was a man who had made a strange decision. The Shadow, peering from the curtains, waited for its manifestation.

“Unger,” said Adams, “I am going away for a while. I shall not need you after to-morrow afternoon. You may leave when I go out to dinner to-morrow. I shall pay you during my absence — in fact, I shall pay you in advance. You can visit your family for a while.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Unger. “By the way, sir, shall I call Doctor Shores once more?”

A troubled look flitted over the lawyer’s face. He considered for a moment; then nodded.

“Call him,” he said.

Unger tried the number, with no result.

“I can’t understand it, sir,” he said. “Doctor Shores was very anxious to see you. He said that he would be there positively.”

“I cannot see him tonight,” declared the lawyer. “I am going to bed, Unger. Wake me at the usual hour.”

With millions in his grasp, Hurley Adams had resolved to wait. Why not? Those funds had lain in one spot for more than twenty years. They could remain another night. No one else could learn their resting place for a few days to come — if there were others who knew the secret whereby the millions could be found!

THE SHADOW had divined the lawyer’s decision; but The Shadow had not seen the paper which Adams had read! That paper had been destroyed, unseen by eyes other than the lawyer’s! When the old man had gone upstairs, the peering eyes disappeared. The Shadow was gone.

No visible sign marked The Shadow’s passage through the streets of Holmsford. When the black-clad phantom appeared, he stood before the door of the apartment in which Doctor Felton Shores resided.

Hurley Adams had not considered it important to come here. The Shadow had come in his place!

The door was open. The Shadow entered and reached the closed door of the office. His hand opened the door. A flood of gas surged forth. The Shadow drew the folds of the cloak across his face. Entering, he stood above the body of Doctor Felton Shores.

The hypodermic glimmered on the floor beside the dead physician. The confession lay upon the table.

The hand of The Shadow grasped the paper and carried it away. In less than a minute of quick observation, with breath held in the gas-filled room, The Shadow had made a quick survey of the scene.

The door closed as The Shadow left. In the outer room The Shadow read the confession word by word.

Its sudden break brought a low, grim laugh to The Shadow’s hidden lips.

Suicide might seem obvious; but not to The Shadow. He had seen the sign of crime within that room; had detected the insidious work of fingers of death.

Two ways of suicide; by injection and by gas. Again, The Shadow laughed. He knew the reason why both methods had been employed. The confession in his black-gloved hand ended just before Doctor Felton Shores had inscribed a name. That, to The Shadow, was the sign of crime. For he could supply the name that belonged there! The name of the living murderer!

People would be here shortly. They would find the body of the dead physician, but not the incomplete confession. They would not magnify the guilt of Doctor Felton Shores. His hands were not the ones that bore the fingers of death.

The murderer would think that some friend of the physician had kept the confession from the public. Even without the confession, the case would be classed as suicide.

But The Shadow knew the truth. Fingers of death had taken their final victim. There would be no more!