The Creeper

CHAPTER XVIII. DOLLARS AND DEATH

NINE o’clock. Far from Manhattan, the little town of Ridley lay blanketed beneath sodden night. Except for its main cross streets, this tiny Long Island hamlet was clothed in complete darkness. The cloaking blackness was particularly thick along the portion of the town that fringed Long Island Sound. Mist, rising from the water, added its soupy denseness to the gloom.

It seemed astounding that this secluded place could be no further than a dozen miles from Manhattan. To Reggie Spaylor, seated behind the wheel of an open roadster, the silence betokened absolute isolation.

The only sounds that Spaylor could hear were the occasional rumbles of steamboat whistles, plying through misty waters. Those evidences of human presence came from far out upon the Sound; a fact which brought malicious pleasure to the crooked athlete.

For Reggie Spaylor wanted no interference on to-night’s mission. He was the ace in The Creeper’s hand; a clever card deputed to play a winning game. Blackness and isolation were to his liking as he stared through the night, keeping his eyes in the direction of the house with the gables.

Reggie could not see that lonely building; but he was positive of its location. He had driven by the odd old house before he picked this waiting spot, half a block away.

A sudden glimmer attracted Spaylor’s attention. It came like a flaring beacon from a lighthouse; a glow high up, made flickering by the swirl of fog. It was the token that Spaylor had been awaiting. He knew the location of that light. It came from the second gable of the house that was now the residence of Montague Rayne.

Alighting from his roadster, Reggie strolled through darkness. He was pulling on his gloves; he swung his cane jauntily, purely from habit. His feet picked out the cracked cement sidewalk; his eyes chose their direction by watching the light from the gable. It was shining through a pale green windowshade, that light, and its rays were easy to discern.

Reaching the front of the old house the husky athlete tried the door. He found it locked; that did not matter. This house had many windows on the ground floor. Edging along the side, Reggie came to one and worked upon the sash. It was locked; but the wooden frame proved flimsy. One upward jolt brought a dull splintering. The lower half of the window raised. Reggie Spaylor climbed over the sill.

Pitch-darkness was within. Reggie’s footsteps sounded hollow amid unfurnished rooms. He was muffling his tread, searching for a stairway. He found it when he stumbled. Pausing, the highbrow crook listened.

No sound from above; his blundering had not been heard.

Taking no further chances, Reggie used a flashlight upon the stairs. With its aid, he reached the second floor and picked out a flight of stairs that led to the third. Halfway up those steps, he extinguished his torch. He needed it no longer; for he could see a streak of light shining from beneath a door. He had located the room in the gable.

CAUTIOUSLY arriving at the door, Spaylor tried the knob; the barrier yielded. With a quick thrust, he pushed the door inward and stepped into the lighted room.

He arrived just in time to see a stooped figure spring upward from a table in the far corner. A chair clattered to the floor; Spaylor smiled as he saw a trembling old man, whose withered face showed fear.

On the table lay a flat sheet of parchment; beside it, pages of penciled notes. The old man, recovered from his first surprise, was quick to turn the parchment downward. Then, with fists clenched but quivering, he cackled a challenge at the intruder:

“Who are you?”

Reggie Spaylor smiled.

“Just a friend,” he replied. “My name is Spaylor. Reggie Spaylor. Sorry that I had to intrude so unexpectedly; I suppose you did not hear my knocking at the lower door.”

The old man’s eyes were blinking. Spaylor parked his cane in a corner and drew off his gloves. Seating himself, he motioned the old man to do the same. Then, calmly, Spaylor put a question:

“You are Montague Rayne?”

The old man hesitated; then nodded, as he took his chair. Reggie’s gentlemanly manner had lulled him.

With a repetition of his friendly smile, Reggie came to business.

“I am here,” he stated, “in reference to a certain object which you recently purchased. I refer, Mr. Rayne, to a parchment scroll for which you paid five thousand dollars.”

Rayne stirred nervously. He watched Reggie’s hands. Both were in sight, like Rayne’s. The old man parried.

“A scroll?” he questioned. “A Latin scroll?”

“Yes,” returned Reggie. “One which formerly belonged to your friend, Bigelow Doyd. You paid a high price for it, Mr. Rayne. I am prepared to offer you a greater profit.”

Eyes gleamed sharply from the face of Montague Rayne. Withered features showed an avaricious look.

Then, suppressing his eagerness, the old man shook his head.

“The scroll is too valuable,” he declared. “I shall not sell it. I admit that I possess it; in fact, it is here upon this desk: but—”

“But you cannot decipher it,” smiled Reggie. “Is that the trouble, Mr. Rayne?”

“Exactly! Its wording is simple, Mr. Spaylor. It means — well, never mind the translation; it is simply a portion of a Latin fable. That is what perplexes me.”

“I learned about it by accident,” remarked Spaylor. “I was told that it cost you five thousand dollars. Suppose, Mr. Rayne, that I should offer you twice that sum.”

Montague Rayne’s head shook emphatically.

“Three times—”

Another headshake, more slowly. “Four times—”

Reggie paused; his tone a final one. Montague Rayne pursed his lips.

“Twenty thousand dollars,” decided Reggie Spaylor, rising. He reached in his pocket and drew forth a fat wallet. “Here you are, Mr. Rayne. The full amount — in bills of large denomination. Take it and keep the wallet as a souvenir. But first” — he paused, as Rayne was reaching forward — ”first I must have the scroll.”

RAYNE nodded. He picked up the parchment and turned it over. The gas lamp on the table — the only light in the room — was brilliant as it shone upon the script. Reggie could see that the scroll had been carefully embossed in jet-black ink. What pleased him more, however, was the smudge of dried blood on the edge of the parchment.

That proved the genuineness of the scroll. It was Slugger Haskew’s blood. Reggie received the scroll, and handed the wallet to Rayne. The old man stopped and pointed to the words upon the parchment.

Slowly, he read them aloud, chopping his pronunciation of the Latin words:

“Homine autem spiritum continente, ursus ratus cadaver esse, discedit.”

“You have translated the passage?” inquired Spaylor.

“Yes,” crackled Rayne. “It is part of a fable which concerns two men — one of whom was seized by a bear, but saved himself by pretending to be dead.

“Translated freely, this passage means: ‘But when the man held his breath, the bear, thinking him to be a corpse, departed.’ Only that one brief sentence, Mr. Spaylor; the rest of the scroll is no more than an embellished border. Curious, is it not, that my friend Bigelow Doyd should have chosen to value such a simple sentence?”

“Quite true,” agreed Reggie; then, eyeing the old man’s downturned face, he added: “Suppose you count the money, Mr. Rayne. Make sure that the entire sum is there.”

With trembling, eager hands, Rayne began to open the wallet. Spaylor rolled the large-lettered scroll and pocketed it. He picked up his cane with one hand; he turned his body as he did so; then, with a sudden twist, he swung about, yanking a revolver from his pocket. His finger was already on the trigger of his gun; his purpose was to shoot down Rayne in cold blood.

Rayne had heard him turn. As Reggie swung, the old man dropped the wallet, the bills half out of it, and uttered a maddened gasp as he leaped forward. His frantic speed was surprising; his clawing hands caught Reggie’s arm before the assassin could fire.

“No!” cracked Rayne. “No—”

Furiously, Spaylor hurled the old man back toward the table. Rayne’s doubled body straightened as he staggered. Hissing furiously, he still kept his clutch on Spaylor’s arm. They bowled against the table; it overturned, breaking the hose between the glass lamp and the wall. The light went out as it crashed upon the floor. The hiss of gas continued from the jet.

Spaylor had wrenched his gun hand free. He was trying to drive his revolver against Rayne’s head; the old man’s arms were flaying in the darkness, trying to stop the blow.

The strugglers locked; they rolled upon the floor. There the combat ended as suddenly as it had begun.

Of these two battlers, one was skilled to perfection. The other, though he had shown strength, could not hope to compete long with so capable a foe.

Thudding bodies rolled; then jolted upward. A head cracked hard against the floor; a gasp betokened final effort as a clutching hand tried to tug away the gun. Then a dulled revolver shot sounded in the gloom. Muffled echoes died; only the hiss of the gas jet continued.

Reggie Spaylor’s harsh chuckle sounded as the victor arose from the floor and stooped above the body that still lay there. The single shot had delivered death. Still chuckling, the victor clicked his flashlight and found the wallet; then the scroll. That rolled-up document had slipped from Spaylor’s pocket during the fight.

Two canes showed in the flashlight’s glare. One was Rayne’s; the other Reggie’s. Carefully choosing the latter, the present owner of the scroll made his way from the gable room, letting the gas jet continue its melancholy hiss.

He descended through total darkness; found the front door and turned a massive key that his fingers discovered in the lock.

OUTSIDE, a man had approached the front of the old house. Standing beside the decayed wooden steps, he was waiting for Reggie Spaylor’s exit. That waiting man was Rick Parrin; his hand was resting against the wooden wall of the house. As the door opened, Rick ran his fingers in crawling fashion, clicking a sinister signal against the house front.

Footsteps paused in the darkness of the porch. Rick repeated the signal. A cane clicked against the flooring; then a freed hand made a creeping answer against one of the porch posts. The countersign had been answered. Rick whispered hoarsely.

“Did you get the scroll?”

“Yes,” came Spaylor’s tone, calm but guarded. “I experienced difficulty, however. Did you hear the shot I fired?”

“No. I saw the light go out, though. Did you have to bump the old gent?”

“Yes. Here is the scroll. It would be best for you to deliver it. I can take no chances.”

Parchment crinkled as Rick received the scroll in the darkness. It was followed by a statement, that came a bit shakily.

“I’ll have to keep going.” Reggie’s tone was troubled. “Tell The Creeper why I left. I’ll communicate with him later. Maybe the old man’s friends will wonder who killed him.”

“That’ll be taken care of,” returned Rick. “Slide on down to your car and get going. I’ve got a couple of men watching; they’ll see that you get away. You pulled your job; I’ve got mine; and then there’s others besides us.”

Rick waited in the darkness, listening to hurried departing footsteps that were punctuated by the occasional clicks of Reggie Spaylor’s cane. A hush followed; after a short interval, the motor of the roadster started. The car slid away; its lights did not come on until it had neared the next corner.

Rick was already on his way, hurrying past the side of the house, down toward the Sound, where he gained a parked coupe. The scroll came into the glare of the dashlight; like Reggie, Rick grinned when he saw the bloodstain. Then Rick, too, was on the move. He drove toward the center of town; then skirted the lighted district to reach a through road.

Rick stopped near a driveway. A man came up to his car. The fellow was Carning. He was with Gus; the two had been in a parked sedan. Carning gave the information that he wanted.

“The roadster went by,” he stated. “Gus and I spotted the license number. It’s all jake.”

“Good,” decided Rick. “Listen: Before you and Gus pull out, blink your rear light three times. Before you start. Get it?”

“Blink the rear light?”

“You heard me.”

“All right, Rick.”

The coupe drove away. Carning returned to the sedan and told Gus what to do. Though the driver was puzzled, he followed the order, blinking the lights thrice. The sedan rolled from the drive toward Manhattan.

A FEW moments later, lights blinked from the innermost recess of that deserted drive beside the road.

Another car had been parked there; neither Gus nor Carning had known of its presence. It moved forward — a rakish touring car — and swung toward the hamlet of Ridley.

Five minutes later, the touring car stopped near the old house with the gables. The man at the wheel growled an order. The driver of the touring car was Zimmer Funson. At his command, three touts dropped to the ground. Carrying cans that gurgled with liquid contents, they approached the gabled house and entered.

Five minutes was all they needed. They returned, climbed aboard with the empty cans, and huddled low while Zimmer started the car. Soon this crew was speeding along the road. One of the touts — Jocko — was telling of their procedure.

“Poured out all the kerosene, Zimmer,” stated Jocko. “In every room — up the stairs. Found plenty of newspapers besides the ones we carried. Soaked all of them. Boy, will that joint blaze!”

BACK near Long Island Sound, a crackling roar was rising from within the house with the gables. Huge flames were sweeping the ground floor; catching the tinderlike walls, they consumed the frame building like dried kindling. Shouts were coming from about the town. People were racing out into the night to see the conflagration.

A puny fire engine came clanging from an old fire house. By the time it reached the corner, the flames were past control. No one dared enter the gabled house to see if any person needed rescue. Watchers saw the licking fire tongue to the third floor; then came a burst that formed the climax of the holocaust.

A puffing explosion ripped the gable on the right. Fire had reached the gas-filled room; the blast shattered beams and walls. The summit of the gable quivered; then, as the lower floors gave way, the roofed peak tumbled pell-mell into the roaring furnace beneath.

With it went the dead body that had lain upon the floor of the third-story room. Should any traces of it remain after the fire had subsided, investigators would decide that Montague Rayne had died amid the conflagration. But they would never guess that the victim in that house had first received a bullet through his heart.

That death had been covered, by order of The Creeper. Never would Reggie Spaylor be charged with the murder of Montague Rayne. The Creeper had prepared to protect the lieutenant whom he had sent forth to deliver murder. Death was the price that The Creeper had deliberately planned to pay for Bigelow Doyd’s great secret.