The Creeping Death

CHAPTER XV DEATH ARRIVES

ALFREDO MORALES and Pierre Armagnac were standing upon the flat roof of the cottage. A trapdoor lay open behind them. They were not concerned with the route by which they had reached this spot. They were examining a squat, bulky object to which Morales pointed with pride.

This object was a powerful, wide-mouthed mortar, firmly placed in the center of the roof.

“What do you think of this little toy?” questioned Morales, in a low voice.

“It is a beauty!” exclaimed Armagnac.

“You see,” Morales spoke again. “Look there.”

He pointed upward through the space amid the trees off toward the moonlit sky. Armagnac followed the direction that he indicated.

“That is the way to Partridge’s house,” explained Morales. “This mortar will send the messengers that I have prepared. That messenger will clear the way for me.”

A figure was rising through the trapdoor. Neither Morales nor Armagnac saw it. They were staring through the trees. The Shadow grew into a tall, spectral form that moved silently across the roof and merged with the darkness of the single chimney that projected above the house.

“The range?” questioned Armagnac.

“It is perfect,” answered Morales. “This mortar possesses remarkable accuracy. I have found the range by careful calculation. The target is a huge one — Partridge’s mansion.

“The building is visible from different spots along the gorge. I have surveyed it by military engineering. My range is perfect. It cannot fail.”

“But what will be the result?”

“Let me explain my purpose, Armagnac. There is one thing that we must counteract — that one thing is time. To attack Partridge; to overcome resistance; that would be easy. But it would take time. There are state police twelve miles from here. Once an alarm has been spread, they would come to the scene.”

“That is the danger, Morales. After you have begun the attack, you must work swiftly.”

“I am prepared for that. When the time has been set, I shall be waiting with a crew of men and motor trucks, ready to enter and remove the gold. It will be a simple matter, swiftly executed; but one factor is most necessary.”

“The way must be clear.”

“That is it, Armagnac. A stubborn resistance by Partridge and his men would bring about a disastrous delay. That is why I needed the information that you have brought me.

“If the gold were in the large mansion, where Partridge and his men are stationed, the task would present insurmountable difficulties.”

“Because of Partridge and his men? You will encounter them when you attack the workhouse—”

“Partridge and his men will be no obstacle,” interposed Morales. “They will be gone before we enter. They will be buried in the ruins of that old mansion.”

A short exclamation came from Armagnac. Now the Frenchman was beginning to understand the details of the Argentinian’s plan.

“This mortar,” said Morales, “will deliver a giant bomb squarely upon the roof of the mansion. There will be a muffled report from this side of the river; then a tremendous explosion when the bomb strikes the big house across the gorge. That will be the end of Partridge and his men. But should the gold be in the doomed building—”

“I understand. You would be unable to remove it.”

“Exactly. Now that I know where the gold is, I can get it. The wired fence; the protection on the workhouse; those mean nothing, so long as no living beings remain within. Alarms are utterly useless if there are none to hear them.”

“Your plan is perfect!” exclaimed Armagnac. “You can drive the trucks through the broken gate. Load them and leave. People will hear the explosion, of course—”

“What of it?” questioned Morales, as Armagnac paused. “Partridge is known to be a chemist. His experiments may logically involve explosives. The wreckage of his building will be attributed to his own negligence.”

“That is true, but the noise will bring many people to the scene.”

“The nearest spot is the hotel. That is six miles by road. An explosion, in the middle of the night, will create bewilderment at first. Then the improvised investigating squads will start. We will be gone when they arrive.”

Armagnac nodded. He realized that the plan was well founded. With a crew of strong workers, the removal of the gold could be swiftly executed. Morales smiled.

“The rescuers,” he said, “will come from above Partridge’s place. Both the hotel and the barracks are in that direction. They must cross the bridge over the gorge and take the narrow road. There they will find the way blocked by a wrecked truck. It will delay their progress, more than four miles from Partridge’s.”

“You could block the road altogether.”

“I do not wish to do so. The old, broken truck must appear to be an accident. It will allow more time to get away. I have estimated exactly, Armagnac. It will be a full hour before the first arrivals reach there.”

MORALES turned and started for the trapdoor. Armagnac followed him. When the two men reached the downstairs room, they found Jose seated in the chair, staring fixedly at the door through which they came.

“What is the matter, Jose?” growled Morales. “Are you still worrying about shadows?”

“Shadows?” questioned Armagnac.

“Yes,” sneered Morales. “Jose is becoming so apprehensive that I can scarcely trust him here. Every time he sees a shadow, he is frightened. I intended to leave Jose here to discharge the bomb; but I think I shall intrust that task to Manuel.”

“When will you attack?” questioned Armagnac.

“At three o’clock in the morning,” replied Morales. “To-morrow, I shall make all arrangements. We will be prepared at midnight. Three o’clock will be the zero hour.”

“An excellent time for operation.”

Morales did not respond to Armagnac’s reply. He was looking at Jose, whose eyes were staring across the room. Had Morales followed the direction of Jose’s gaze, he would have seen a long, silhouetted streak of blackness emerging from the door to the stairway. Morales had not closed that door upon his return to the room.

“Come, Jose!” exploded Morales impatiently. “Why are you so frightened? Have you seen any one, other than your shadows?”

Jose shook his head. He opened his lips as though about to speak. The shadow on the floor was moving warningly.

Both Morales and Armagnac were staring at Jose, who seemed to be seeing ghosts. The bearded Frenchman laughed as he moved a few paces across the room.

“Shadows can hurt no one,” said Armagnac. “What are shadows? Nothing!”

The bearded man was standing directly upon the silhouetted patch of blackness. Jose trembled. To him, that was a danger spot.

“Shadows?” Armagnac raised his arm so that his hand formed a shadow upon the wall. He moved his fingers. “See? There are shadows — they are nothing.”

Armagnac’s fingers became rigid. He stared at them in bewilderment. He raised his other hand. He tried to move its fingers. They, too, had stiffened. Armagnac shook his arms. They weakened and refused to function.

“My shoulders!” he cried. “They are numb! Something is happening to me! What can be the matter?”

The Frenchman began to sag. His legs could no longer support his weight. He collapsed upon the floor, his body covering that shadow which Jose dreaded.

Armagnac was gasping words in both French and English. Suddenly, his eyes were livid. A terrible horror was reflected in those optics as they stared toward Alfredo Morales.

“The creeping death!” gasped Armagnac. “I have seen it — have seen it kill — when I was in Saigon! Help me” — his voice was dwindling — “help—”

Armagnac’s lips were moving, but they formed no articulate words. Morales was leaning over him.

A sudden light of fury flashed in Armagnac’s eyes. A vivid recollection had come to him. His lips seemed to phrase a warning; then they moved no more. Firm, rigid they remained, pursed within the black beard. The staring eyes became glassy.

Pierre Armagnac was dead!

JOSE was wild with terror. To him, the fact that Armagnac had stood within the range of that patch of black upon the floor was proof sufficient of The Shadow’s power.

Staring beyond the Frenchman’s body, Jose saw a form in black. He thought that he caught the shudder of a vague, mocking laugh. Then, as Morales drew Armagnac’s body across the floor, Jose saw that the patch of black was gone.

“The creeping death,” remarked Morales thoughtfully. “In Saigon. Some strange malady to which he was subject. Poor Armagnac!” Morales laughed. “Well, his work was finished. Together, we might have encountered trouble in the future. When death strikes, it often strikes wisely.”

Thus philosophizing, Morales looked up to see Manuel entering the room. The slender, dark-faced henchman stared at the dead body of Pierre Armagnac.

“He is dead,” remarked Morales. “A great misfortune — for Pierre Armagnac. Perhaps not for Alfredo Morales. I am glad you have returned, Manuel. You, are more reliable than Jose. We shall drop this body in the quarry, you and I, while Jose remains here. Jose” — Morales spoke contemptuously — “is becoming faint-hearted. He does not like to look at death.”

Jose did not answer the derisive words. He watched while Morales and Manuel raised the body of Armagnac, and carried it from the house. Then he stared at the door that led upstairs. The floor began to blacken. Jose trembled.

The spectral form of The Shadow appeared from the stairway. Jose cowered in a corner. The Shadow laughed in a sepulchral whisper. He stood watching Jose. Then he spoke in his low, sinister tone.

“Beware, Jose” — the words seemed prophetic — “I have warned you. You have seen — death!”

The whispered laugh was repeated. When Jose again stared toward the spot where The Shadow had been, the room was empty. The being in black had gone.

LABORING along the path to the quarry, Morales and Manuel finally reached the mound of rocks. Their progress had been slow and troublesome.

Now they filled Armagnac’s clothing with small stones. Together, they pushed the body over the edge. A resounding splash from beneath marked the watery burial of Pierre Armagnac.

After Morales and Manuel had gone back along the path to the cottage, a shade of black appeared upon the sparkling surface of stone. Then The Shadow stood in the moonlight, staring downward into the quarry. A low, sinister laugh came from the hidden lips beneath the turned-up collar of the black cloak.

Pierre Armagnac was dead. Jose attributed that death to The Shadow. Alfredo Morales believed that it was due to a strange ailment. Manuel had no theory.

The Shadow, alone, had suspected the cause of that creeping death. He had marked the truth: that Pierre Armagnac had been murdered by the design of Lucien Partridge. Armagnac, himself, had realized it; but his frozen lips had failed to tell.

Armagnac was gone. The contest lay now between two men: Morales and Partridge. Both were ruthless; both were fiends of crime. What would be the outcome?

Only The Shadow knew. His laugh told that he, too, would enter into this strange conflict!