Fingers of Death

CHAPTER VII. THE MEETING

THE house in which Hurley Adams lived was not a large one. It was a secluded building, attractive, and surrounded by a large lawn. A street lamp caused long shadows from trees and shrubbery. Willard Saybrook, when he came up the walk to keep his evening appointment with the lawyer, noted those wavering shapes.

Saybrook was admitted to the house by a solemn-faced attendant. Adams was a widower, and lived alone, with one manservant in the place. Evidently Adams had given instructions to admit Saybrook immediately upon his arrival, for the servant solemnly ushered the visitor up the stairs.

Thoughts of shadows on the lawn were no longer in Saybrook’s mind. But the flickering splotches remained — all but one. As soon as the young man had entered the house, that shape detached itself from the others. It became an object of life — a token of an invisible person who owned it.

When it reached the wall of the house, the long patch of blackness transformed itself into a living being.

There, close beside the wall, stood the spectral figure of a being garbed in black. The folds of the cloak obscured the body. The brim of a dark slouch hat hid the features. Only two sharp eyes were visible — burning, brilliant optics that peered vividly through the night. Then the eyes no longer glowed. The form itself faded. The Shadow was slowly scaling the side wall of the house.

A silent, creeping specter, The Shadow made his way foot by foot toward a lighted window on the third floor. Invisible, black-gloved hands gripped projecting stones and bits of masonry. Twisted vines of ivy aided in the progress.

The Shadow reached his objective. His right hand, using a thin metal jimmy, silently loosened the catch on the window. The sash went up, without the slightest noise. The hand slowly urged the shade by inches.

Sharp eyes peered into the lighted room, and keen ears listened.

The third-floor room was a miniature library. Its walls held shelves from floor to ceiling. These shelves were ponderously arranged with heavy, buckram-bound legal volumes. A desk in the corner, a table, and three chairs constituted the only items of furniture.

The window through which The Shadow peered was one of three. The other two, at each end of the room, were set at the end of projecting alcoves, due to the slope of the roof.

HURLEY ADAMS, a serious look on his dignified face, was seated at the desk. The old lawyer’s white locks were scarcely more pallid than his complexion. Indeed, Adams had all the appearance of a man harassed by worry or ailment.

Willard Saybrook, standing in the center of the room, showed no signs of similar condition, but he was restless.

The apparent contrast between the two showed clearly that Adams was harboring some great problem, while Saybrook was annoyed because of his inability to understand certain matters that filled his mind.

“Sit down, Saybrook. Sit down.”

These were the first words that came to The Shadow’s ears. They were uttered by Hurley Adams, and the old man appeared a trifle relieved when Willard Saybrook took a chair and planted himself across the table. The faces of both men showed plainly to the silent observer at the window. The Shadow could see every change in emotion that flickered over either countenance.

Saybrook was waiting for Adams to speak. The old lawyer cleared his throat; then settled back in his chair, and acted as though at a loss for something to say. Saybrook showed signs of impatience. At last, he opened the conversation himself.

“Adams,” he said, “I have reached a decision on this matter — namely, the death of Josiah Bartram. I took your advice and said nothing, despite the fact that Doctor Shores has called at the house on several occasions. I was holding back, waiting only for something to occur. I feel that it has occurred now.”

“You mean the death of Maurice Pettigrew?”

“Exactly. The architect was once associated with Josiah Bartram. Ordinarily I would see no connection between the two. But with so strange a case of suicide following an unusual death, I come only to one conclusion.”

“Which is?”

“That Bartram’s death was not natural; and that Pettigrew was not a suicide.”

“What do you intend to do about it, Saybrook?”

“I plan to take up the matter with Safety Director Selwick. He has accepted Pettigrew’s death as suicide, and the coroner has supported that statement. Selwick knows nothing about the circumstances of Josiah Bartram’s death. I am going to confer with Doctor Shores — and with Director Selwick.”

Hurley Adams raised his hands protestingly at Saybrook’s words. A frightened expression showed in the older man’s gaze. Willard Saybrook’s proposed action filled him with apprehension. The young man stared curiously at his host; then, with a gesture of impatience, Saybrook started to rise.

Pleadingly, Adams motioned him to remain. The lawyer’s worried look turned to a tense shrewdness.

Saybrook wondered at the change; and as Adams began to speak, the words caused Saybrook to become attentive. He sensed that the lawyer had a revelation to make.

“SAYBROOK” — Adams had gained command over his emotions — “I am going to tell you why you must preserve silence. I am going to reveal a secret that I have kept for twenty years — a secret which should never leave my lips.

“Others have held the secret inviolate. It is only to preserve it that I am willing to divulge it to you — only because you, alone, have suspected foul play where others have made no comment.”

Willard Saybrook was seated now. He sensed from the old man’s tone that Adams had a great burden on his mind. Within a few minutes, Saybrook felt that he would know something of the mystery that had surrounded the deaths of Josiah Bartram and Maurice Pettigrew.

“First” — Adams was stern — “you must promise to reveal this secret to no one. You must also be willing to assume the risk that lies over those who have possessed it. It is only my fear that you might resort to hasty action that prompts me to take you into confidence. Do you understand?”

“Does this secret involve Grace Bartram?” questioned Saybrook.

“Yes,” responded Adams. “It does.”

“Her safety?”

“Her safety may be at stake.”

“I promise, then, to maintain silence.”

“No matter how startling the secret may be?”

“No matter what the secret may be.”

“Even though it might make you party to a crime?”

“That makes no difference to me.”

Hurley Adams caught the sincerity of the young man’s tone. He studied Saybrook momentarily; then settled back in his chair and began to speak in a reminiscent voice.

“Twenty years ago — or more” — Adams was reflective — “a group of men in Holmsford planned a crime of tremendous proportions. Doubtless you have heard of it. The crime was the appropriation of millions from the Holmsford City Bank.”

A look of amazement swept over Willard Saybrook’s features. He had heard of that event; he, like most others in Holmsford, knew the details. But they did not jibe with the statement made by Hurley Adams.

As a result, Saybrook offered a correction.

“You say a group of citizens!” he exclaimed. “I understood that there was but one, and that he succeeded, even though he never reaped the harvest. Malcolm Warthrop, president of the Holmsford City Bank—”

Hurley Adams smiled wanly and raised his hand for silence. Willard Saybrook subsided, knowing that he was about to learn startling facts.

“Malcolm Warthrop,” stated Adams, “was the chief conspirator. Through his position as president of the bank, he arranged a theft of millions when the bank funds were transferred from the old building to the new. He did it cleverly, Saybrook, and he did it with the aid of one man: Stokes Bartlett, his secretary.

“But Warthrop and Bartlett did not attempt to remove the cash from Holmsford. They had charge of the transfer, and through some ingenious method they managed to carry the funds to a suitable hiding place which they had arranged. In this manner they totally avoided suspicion.

“It was Warthrop’s plan to leave Holmsford for a vacation. Bartlett was to go with him. The pair would never have returned.”

“What about the money?” questioned Saybrook incredulously. “How were they going to get it?”

“I am coming to that,” said Adams, in a tense tone. “That is the very point that involves the other conspirators.

“Malcolm Warthrop had two problems: first, the gaining of sufficient wealth to make flight to a foreign land worth while; second, the obtaining of the stolen funds after he had fled.

“The only time to perform his crime was at the date set for the transfer. Accordingly, he conspired with certain men in Holmsford to arrange for large loans or appropriations, so that the cash would be available. This made it natural for the bank to have a tremendous supply of money on hand. That settled the first problem. Warthrop used the same men to settle the second question. They were to unearth the wealth after his departure, and send him his share.”

Willard Saybrook nodded. This was amazing news to him. He had known that the City Bank had been rifled of great wealth; but he had never understood that there had been an organized method of bringing the money there.

“WASN’T Warthrop afraid of a double cross?” Saybrook questioned. “Leaving the money in Holmsford after he had gone—”

“Not a bit of it,” responded Adams, slowly shaking his head. “The other men were reputable citizens, who intended to remain in Holmsford. Warthrop, unless he received his portion, could easily have broken the conspirators. It was a marvelous scheme — but it failed. You know why, of course, now that I have given you the inside.”

“Yes. Warthrop — was killed, wasn’t he?”

“That’s it. Bartlett also. Just before they were ready for their departure, a few days after the transfer of the money, State banking examiners paid an unexpected visit. They entered the vaults with the cashier.

They found leaden disks stored away in place of gold coins. They discovered sheaves of blank paper topped with government notes.

“Warthrop was at home, and the examiners were quick enough to suspect him. They went to his house, accompanied by police. They surprised Warthrop and Bartlett on the point of leaving the city.

“The result is a matter of local history. Warthrop and Bartlett were armed. They resisted invasion. They fought off the police, and also set fire to all the papers in Warthrop’s home. They nearly escaped; but Bartlett, and then Warthrop, were killed at the conclusion of the fight.”

“And the money?” Saybrook fairly gasped the words. “It was left here in Holmsford? I know that it was never recovered—”

“It is still in Holmsford,” said Adams solemnly. “But the other conspirators have no record of where it is hidden.”

“Didn’t Warthrop tell them?” quizzed Saybrook.

“He intended to tell them,” explained Adams slowly, “and in order to do so subtly, he chose a most unusual method. When the cornerstone of the new bank building was laid, Warthrop placed within it a historical record of the city of Holmsford. Only two men saw that historical sketch — Warthrop and Bartlett. Its fourth paragraph names the place where the money is concealed.”

“Ah! Warthrop stated that fact to the conspirators?”

“Yes. He also kept a copy of the record which he intended to send to one of the conspirators after he had fled. But the copy was evidently destroyed along with the papers that Warthrop and Bartlett burned.”

“You mean, then” — Saybrook was stammering in his amazement — “that there is only one record of the hiding place of the lost millions — and that record is—”

“The record,” interposed Adams quietly, “is in the cornerstone of the City Bank Building, which was already completed at the time of the robbery. Until that building is torn down, and the contents of its cornerstone made public, the money will never be recovered!”

“But the conspirators,” gasped Saybrook. “Haven’t they looked for the funds—”

“They have not,” said Adams firmly. “They were afraid. Remember: they were instrumental in causing the bank to have large sums on hand. That fact was never suspected. The longer the conspirators waited to collect their shares, the better. Particularly as they would surely be able to divide the portion allotted to Warthrop and Bartlett.”

“The time is coming then!” exclaimed Saybrook. “It is nearly here! The present bank building is inadequate. It is to be torn down within the coming month!”

Hurley Adams nodded.

“Saybrook,” he said seriously, “certain men held a common secret which would enable them to some day share and share alike, immune from suspicion because of the passage of years. Those men agreed among themselves — long after Malcolm Warthrop’s death — that when the great day came, the living alone would share.

“Each man harbored the secret; and now that the time is almost here, some one among them has evolved a fiendish scheme. That one man — or perhaps an outsider who has learned the secret — has planned to eliminate all others, so that he can appropriate the entire wealth when the cornerstone is opened. He alone will then be able to learn the hiding place of millions!”

“Josiah Bartram! Maurice Pettigrew!” Saybrook gasped the names. “They were two of the conspirators!

And you—”

“I was a third,” confessed Hurley Adams sadly.

A LONG pause followed. The silence of the room became tense. The old lawyer broke it with a serious, warning tone that was impressive to the younger man.

“Saybrook” — Adams shook his head as he spoke — “I entered that conspiracy by request. As a lawyer, as the only one who did not actually arrange for money to be in Holmsford, I was useful as an arbitrator.

“Long have I regretted my connection with the plot. It has hung as a menace above my head, as the sword of Dionysius hung by a thread above the head of Damocles.

“Years ago, I resolved that when the spoils were divided, I would not claim my share. But when Josiah Bartram died, and I feared that his death had been by foul means, I resolved to claim my portion, and to turn it over to the Bartram estate.”

“Tainted money,” observed Saybrook doubtfully.

“Money which Josiah Bartram would have accepted,” argued Adams. “That fact must not be forgotten.”

Willard Saybrook understood. He could see honesty in Hurley Adams; at the same time, he realized that the attorney was treating the whole affair in an impartial manner.

Why should other thieves share at the expense of one? That seemed to be the decision of Hurley Adams.

“My mind is not at rest,” stated the old lawyer. “I knew that I would have to tell Grace Bartram the facts about her uncle; but when Josiah died, I resolved to wait until the money had been gained. You see my position, Saybrook. I am bound to these men. To condemn them, is to condemn myself.

“But after Josiah Bartram’s death — even before you first spoke to me about it — I feared that Josiah had been murdered. One of the conspirators, I believe, has turned fiend. Yet I waited, hoping that I was wrong. Maurice Pettigrew’s death has convinced me that murder is afoot!”

“The others!” exclaimed Saybrook. “Who are they?”

“I must not name them,” said Adams. “To watch them or to warn them is my work alone. I cannot involve any other person. I have spoken to you because you are Grace Bartram’s fiance, and I cannot speak to her at present. In fact, it might be best that she should never know. Now, Saybrook, you understand why I demanded that you be absolutely silent.”

“Who do you think killed Bartram?” demanded Saybrook. “Who killed Bartram and also Pettigrew?”

“I do not know,” returned the lawyer. “I have been unable to point to any one of the conspirators. There is one whom I believe is innocent. I am almost ready to warn him. Perhaps I shall do so tonight.

“It may be that an outside murderer is at work — or that a conspirator is employing an agent. Those are factors, but I feel sure that some traitor of the group is responsible. However—”

Hurley Adams paused and looked steadily at Willard Saybrook. He saw that he had made no mistake in taking the young man into his confidence. He had gained Saybrook’s entire trust. Adams decided to make his added statement.

“You did not see Maurice Pettigrew’s body,” he declared. “I did. It was lying on the floor. The hands, Saybrook, were pressed to the dead man’s throat. It reminded me of Josiah Bartram when he died. I wondered if Pettigrew had cried out the words that Bartram uttered—”

“Fingers of death!” exclaimed Saybrook.

Adams nodded slowly, and repeated the fateful words in a tone that was low and barely audible:

“Fingers of death!”