The Creeping Death

CHAPTER XI THE DEATH SENTENCE

ALFREDO MORALES had become an inquisitor. His victim was Vic Marquette. A shrewdly watching spectator, Pierre Armagnac listened to the questioning. Jose and Manuel, rifles crooked over elbows, stood in readiness behind the man whom they had captured.

“Good evening,” remarked Morales, in a suave tone. “May I ask the purpose of your visit?”

No change of expression appeared upon Marquette’s stolid countenance.

“A rather out-of-the-way spot, this cottage,” resumed Morales. “It is not surprising that we should wish to know the identity of a chance visitor.”

Vic Marquette maintained his indifference.

“Who are you?”

The question snapped from the lips of Alfredo Morales like the crackle of a whip. The Argentinian’s eyes were flashing angrily, as he demanded the identity of the prisoner.

“I happen to be a guest at the Westbrook Inn,” replied Marquette, speaking for the first time. “I was walking through the woods, and I saw the light of the cottage. I approached, not expecting the welcome that I have received.”

A sneer appeared upon the Argentinian’s lips. He knew well that Marquette was bluffing. He had expected such a statement.

“Visitors are not welcome here,” he said. “unless they state their name and purpose.”

“My name is not important,” retorted Marquette, “and I have no purpose here.”

“This is private property,” stated Morales. “It is risky for a person to enter here unasked. I regret to say that I cannot be held responsible for any accidents” — he accented the word in a sinister tone — “that might occur to intruders.”

Marquette had no reply. Morales glared at him; then seeing that the secret-service man was obdurate, he spoke to Jose and Manuel.

“Search him,” he ordered.

Manuel obeyed, while Jose kept watch. The one item that came from Marquette’s pocket was a businesslike automatic that Manuel tossed on the floor. Then Manuel stepped back and joined guard with Jose.

MORALES reached forward and picked up the automatic. Jose watched the action. An odd look appeared in Jose’s eyes. At the very spot from which Morales had lifted the gun, Jose saw the shadowed silhouette of a man’s features!

Morales, apparently, did not notice the shadow. But Jose’s eyes moved along the floor, following an extended blotch that terminated at the window.

The greasy-faced man trembled. It was with an effort that he managed to retain his rifle.

Had it not been that Morales was interested in other matters, the leader would have noticed the servant’s trepidation. But Morales, now that he had examined the automatic, was again ready to question Vic Marquette.

This time, Morales spoke in a harsh voice that brooked no delay. He betrayed impatience in his words.

“Who are you?” he snarled. “Why are you here? Answer — or take the consequences!”

Vic Marquette did not answer. He knew well that he was dealing with two dangerous men. Both, he realized, were foreigners. Anything that Marquette might say would lead to the one fact that he did not wish to reveal — namely, his connection with the secret service.

Lurking near the house, Vic had been trapped by Jose and Manuel. They had been lying in the clearing after their capture of Pierre Armagnac. Now, facing two men from other countries, Vic knew that he could expect no mercy if he told them who he was.

Of all the forces of law in the United States, these men would be most antagonistic to the secret service. So long as they doubted, Vic might remain secure. That, he felt sure, was his only chance.

Vic Marquette was a great believer in luck. Usually, he was a man of caution. But here, at Westbrook Falls, he had blundered unwittingly into a trap that he had not believed could exist.

Morales was talking in a low tone to Armagnac. Suddenly Morales turned a quick glance toward Marquette, and put a sharp question to take the prisoner off guard.

“You are one of Partridge’s men, eh?” he asked.

Vic made no response. His expression puzzled Morales. There was nothing to show that the name was known to the prisoner. At the same time, this fellow had the perfect poker face. The fact that he betrayed no surprise might well mean that he had been prepared for such a question.

Again Morales went into conference with Armagnac. Morales had a great respect for the Frenchman’s shrewdness. The fate of the prisoner was resting in the balance. Morales wanted advice.

“Shall we hold him or—”

Morales did not finish the question. Armagnac knew the alternative that he was suggesting.

“That depends,” whispered Armagnac.

“Depends upon what?” asked Morales.

“Your plans,” declared Armagnac, in a low tone. “How soon do you expect to act?”

“As soon as you have done your work.”

“I shall complete that to-morrow.”

“Then I can act on the next night.”

A cruel smile appeared upon Armagnac’s bearded lips as he heard this statement. With only two days ahead, the Frenchman preferred certain action.

“I have been watching this man,” he whispered. “He has no contacts at the inn. I think that he is working alone. That means—”

Morales listened, but Armagnac did not finish the sentence. He turned his right thumb downward. The action indicated death.

VIC MARQUETTE was the victim of unfortunate circumstances. At the worst, he expected nothing more than harassing imprisonment. That was because he did not realize the situation existing between these two schemers who were discussing his fate.

Alfredo Morales, ruthless though he was, would scarcely have decreed death. But Pierre Armagnac had a reason for indicating the extreme sentence. He felt that somewhere in the mind of Alfredo Morales might lurk a suspicion of a connecting link between the Frenchman and the new prisoner — both of whom Morales had seen at the inn.

For Armagnac to indicate mercy would have been to excite doubt. With this prisoner a common enemy, the more drastic the fate proposed by Armagnac the better established would be the alliance between the Frenchman and the Argentinian.

So calloused was Armagnac’s decision that Morales did not hesitate further. He knew that the rest lay in his hands.

There was no more need of questioning Vic Marquette. All indecision was ended. Action alone remained.

In the midst of this dramatic scene, one man was experiencing a fantastic terror. It was not Vic Marquette, who calmly watched the men who were deciding his fate. The worried individual was Jose. With eyes still upon the floor, the squat, greasy man stared at the mysterious shadow that lay before him.

The shadow was alive! Backward and forward it moved — a silhouette without a human form to cast it! To Jose, it was a sinister creature that seemed to view him with invisible eyes!

Both superstitious and intuitive, Jose was convinced that unseen eyes were watching him. He was sure that here, in this strange country, he had come under the domination of one of those weird phantoms of another world — a being that could strike him dead!

Jose, brutal and uncouth, feared no human enemy. But all that lack of physical fear was counterbalanced by his terror of the unknown.

Here, at this cottage, he had been obsessed by shadows. Now one was alive, and at his very feet!

As the long shadow moved toward him, Jose cowered away, almost expecting to see it rise and materialize into a black being that would overpower him with ghostlike clutches!

In another moment, Jose would have betrayed his terror with a wild, frightened scream. But as he watched, the shadow on the floor began to move away. It dwindled toward the window, and both horror and relief dominated Jose’s superstitious mind. He trembled as he saw this convincing demonstration that the black blotch was alive; he panted in relief because it was no longer haunting him.

Now orders were coming from Morales — orders which Jose must obey. The leader was calling for a rope to bind the prisoner. Manuel responded before Jose could recover from his inertia. So Jose remained on guard, the muzzle of his rifle against Vic Marquette’s ribs.

From the corner of his eye, Jose watched the floor. The weird silhouette did not return.

Manuel arrived and bound Marquette’s arms. Morales took a coil of rope. He signified for Armagnac to accompany him.

Under the direction of Morales a procession left the cottage and crossed the clearing. First was Vic Marquette, his arms tightly roped behind him. Jose followed with the rifle, forcing Marquette onward. Then came Armagnac, suave and interested.

Last of all was Morales, carrying an automatic in his right hand, a coil of rope about his arm, and a flashlight in his left hand.

THE illumination of the electric lantern showed a vague path ahead. Vic Marquette walked stolidly along it. Strange, grotesque shadows shimmered across the path. Jose noticed them and shuddered.

The path went off into the woods away from the gorge, a distance of a quarter mile. It came to an abrupt ending by a large mound of rock.

Morales gave a low command. Dropping his rifle, Jose drew a huge handkerchief from his pocket and gagged Marquette.

Morales held the rays of his lantern on the scene, with the automatic ready. Jose tumbled Marquette on his back; then took the coil of rope from Morales. The henchman used it to bind Vic Marquette’s legs.

Pierre Armagnac was an interested spectator. He knew that Vic Marquette was to die; but he had not anticipated the method. Now he was to learn the system which Morales intended to use.

Jose carried Marquette to the mound of rock. Morales beckoned, and Armagnac followed. As they reached the mound, Morales held out a warning arm. The Frenchman stopped. He was at the verge of a clearing, dull moonlight bathing the vista beyond.

Morales stooped and picked up a small stone. He tossed it in the air. It disappeared as it dropped in the clearing. After long seconds, a tiny plunk came from below.

Armagnac understood. They were at the edge of a precipice, with water far below.

“A quarry,” whispered Morales. “A straight drop of a hundred feet; filled with stagnant water and slime. There is no one near here, but a splash is better than a gunshot, which might be heard for miles.”

“The body?” questioned Armagnac.

“Jose is taking care of that,” responded Morales. “See? It will remain at the bottom for a long time.”

In the dull moonlight, Jose was affixing heavy stones to the body of Vic Marquette. It was now that the secret-service man realized the death that threatened him. He writhed upon the ground. Jose dealt him a tough blow. Marquette, half-stunned, lay still.

“Come,” whispered Morales. “It is better not to wait.”

“Why not?” questioned Armagnac.

“The road,” replied Morales. “It is not far away. We will go there and make sure that no one is parked near there. Sometimes cars stop.”

Morales spoke to Jose, cautioning the underling to wait several minutes before proceeding. That would allow time for Morales and Armagnac to return, should they spy any one in the neighborhood. The sound of a heavy splash might carry to the road through the woods.

The flashlight glimmered through the trees as Morales and Armagnac retraced their footsteps. In the moonlight, the squat form of Jose was monstrous as it worked above the prisoner, taking care to attach the stones so that they could not possibly come loose.

Pierre Armagnac had passed the death sentence; Alfredo Morales had given the orders; Jose was to be the executioner of Vic Marquette, who was doomed by these fiends to a terrible death.

Only the moonlight showed on the mound of rock above the quarry — the moonlight which brought flickering shadows and among them a long, motionless silhouette which neither executioner or victim could see.

A blotch at the edge of the great quarry — nothing more than a shade of night. Such a trivial, formless object alone lay between Vic Marquette and the death which yawned below!