The Creeping Death

CHAPTER XVI THE NEXT NIGHT

TWENTY-FOUR hours had passed since the death of Pierre Armagnac. Two men were standing in Lucien Partridge’s laboratory. One was the old man; the other was the faithful Vignetti. The Corsican was watching the completion of an experiment.

Lucien Partridge turned to Vignetti with an evil grin. He pointed to a test tube which contained a small quantity of a fine, grayish powder.

“There lies death, Vignetti,” declared the old man.

The Corsican grinned in fiendish fashion.

“This is what I have wanted, more than gold,” chuckled Partridge. “He who has gold must be able to deal death. My false gold brought me real gold. The death that I have given has been real death.

“But only with those gloves have I dealt death. Those gloves, deeply covered with the powder that gives the creeping death to those who would spoil my plans. Now, with this new powder, I can send death. Send it, Vignetti! Send it, anywhere — throughout all the world! Ah! What a vendetta this will be!

“Kings — presidents — men of wealth and fortune! They shall be my victims. You will help me, Vignetti. This powder, worked into harmless letters, will kill those who touch it. Not instantly — no, Vignetti, that would not be wise — but after a time, when no one can know the cause!

“Death will rule, Vignetti! Death as I deliver it! Soon we shall begin. With gold, I shall be the master of life! With my powder, I shall be the master of death! Such men as Armagnac — I shall not have to wait for them to visit me. I can send death to them!”

The old man’s face was a rhapsody of evil. A curious elation dominated him. His eyes were staring far away; his tone was reminiscent.

“Li Tan Chang!” he remarked. “His own invention brought him death. That night in Peking, when you were prompt with the knife, Vignetti. You suspected the approach of Li Tan Chang’s creeping death. After all, it is an Oriental malady; but that wise Chinaman was the first to use a means to deliver it.

“What would he think if he were alive to-day! You prevented my death, Vignetti. I learned the secret. Now I have developed a more potent poison. Where it required much of Li Tan Chang’s formula to work through the flesh, a small amount of mine will serve the purpose!”

The old man emptied the contents of the test tube upon a sheet of paper. Partridge was wearing laboratory gloves. Yet he used the utmost care as he slid the powder into a small, square box.

“I shall put it safely away,” he said. “We will not need it for a while, Vignetti. To-morrow. I shall prepare my list of those whom I would like to die. Men who have never seen me; men who have never heard of me; but all men who some day might try to obstruct my plan to rule the world!”

Vignetti nodded. He knew what was in his master’s mind. Partridge, speaking his medley of English and Italian dialect, continued as he walked toward the library.

“You shall help me, Vignetti,” he declared, “with this new method of death. Chance letters, mailed from here and there; all will carry the death that up to now I gave by hand.

“When people visit me, the old method will be best. It is much better that such people die far away. But for those who do not come — for those I want to die whom I do not meet — we will send this new powder!”

The old man put the box away in a table drawer. He brought out an envelope and opened it. The envelope contained a list which bore the names of many persons. Lucien Partridge chuckled gleefully as he studied this line of intended victims.

“Vignetti thinks it a vendetta,” he said softly, after noting that the Corsican had gone. “Ah! It is a vendetta; but such a one as the world has never known!

“The Romans had their lists of prescribed victims; those who were to die. But my list! Ah, all will surely die, unbeknown! Chaos will rule! Dynasties will perish; republics become ungoverned masses; great enterprises will fail!

“Men will be afraid to command. They will look for a leader. Then, as dictator for all the world, I shall rise as the master of all autocrats. Who else could do the same? I shall have the wealth of Croesus; the power of Napoleon; vast territory beyond the dreams of Alexander. The ruler of all the world!”

The old man sat in silence. His lips moved happily. Across his face flickered changing emotions that showed the turn of his eccentric mind. One moment benign, another moment fiendish, his expressions were the extreme in contrast.

VIGNETTI entered the room and interrupted the old man’s thoughts with a short announcement.

“Mr. Cranston is here,” he said.

A new expression came over Partridge’s face. This was one of perplexity.

“Cranston,” he said thoughtfully. “Yes, we received his telegram to-day. It referred to the New Era Mines. Urgent business, so he said. I must see him, Vignetti; but I doubt that he can know much. However — I expect you to be ready—”

Vignetti nodded and left to usher in this guest who waited at the gate.

A few minutes later, a tall man attired in evening clothes entered the library. Lucien Partridge arose to greet his visitor.

“Mr. Cranston?” he questioned.

“Yes,” came the reply. “My name is Lamont Cranston.”

Lucien Partridge was oddly impressed with the appearance of his visitor. Never, throughout his long life, had the old man met such an unusual personage.

Lamont Cranston possessed a face that was enigmatical. One could not have divined his age from his features. He seemed young, yet old; quiet, yet purposeful.

His face was chiseled like that of a sculptured statue; at the same time, it possessed a masklike quality that betrayed no emotions. Two sharp, piercing eyes glowed on either side of Cranston’s hawkish nose; yet there was neither suspicion nor unfriendliness in that steady gaze.

Even in his voice, Cranston exhibited a remarkable contrast. His tones were deliberate and easy; still they carried an even note that made each syllable stand out distinctly by itself. Lucien Partridge felt himself dominated by the personality of this amazing individual.

So keenly was the old man studying his visitor that he did not observe a peculiar phenomenon that accompanied Lamont Cranston. Across the floor, spreading like the spectral shape of a gigantic bat, lay a huge shadow. As Cranston turned toward the chair which Partridge indicated, that shade took on the aspect of a long, thin form, topped by a broad-brimmed hat.

Perhaps the changing shadows were due to the peculiar lighting of the room. Whatever the case might have been, the final shade still remained after Cranston had seated himself. It was then that Partridge turned an inquiring gaze toward his visitor.

“I HAVE been wondering why you wished to see me, Mr. Cranston,” Partridge remarked. “It is not often that I receive visitors.”

“So I have understood, Mr. Partridge,” returned Cranston, in an even, smooth tone. “Clifford Forster — Lawrence Guthrie — both were friends of mine. I know that they have visited you.”

A faint trace of suppressed worry appeared upon Partridge’s countenance. The old man quickly recovered from his betrayed emotion.

“Yes,” he responded. “Both have been here. Poor Forster — I understand that he is dead.”

“Yes,” returned Cranston, “Forster is dead. But I am surprised that you have not mentioned Guthrie also. He died since Forster.”

“Guthrie — dead!”

“Yes, he died — like Forster — on a train in Canada.”

An expression of feigned regret appeared upon Partridge’s face. He hastened to make a cunning statement.

“Both were acquaintances of mine, Mr. Cranston. Merely acquaintances, you understand.”

“So the world believes,” responded Cranston, with the faintest trace of a smile. “But I happen to have obtained information of a different sort.”

“Which is—”

“That both Forster and Guthrie were concerned in some enterprise which caused them to deal with you — an enterprise that also involved the New Era Mines.”

“Where did you receive such information?” questioned Partridge coldly.

“Through my intended purchase of stock in the New Era Mines,” responded Cranston. “There I learned of certain negotiations upon which the success of the mine depended.

“Forster evidently had contracts and other documents. These were not found after his death. However, I was able to trace a connection with Guthrie and one with yourself. That is why I have come to see you; in the hope that you can tell me all the details.”

“Mr. Cranston” — Partridge’s eyes were gleaming in a friendly manner — “there was a slight connection between both of those men and myself. I have not made the fact public, because our slight negotiations were intended to be kept private.

“Here, in my laboratory, I have made experiments in the refinement of gold. Lawrence Guthrie learned of it. He included Clifford Forster to consider taking an interest in those experiments. Our friendships were in the making. Clifford Forster visited me here, some time before he died. Lawrence Guthrie also called to see me on occasions.”

“Did he come here after Forster’s death?”

“I am not sure” — Partridge was speculative — “indeed, I scarcely think so, Mr. Cranston.”

“I must tell you an important fact,” said Cranston, in a kindly tone. “Lawrence Guthrie was suspected in the death of Clifford Forster. Hence Guthrie’s death has caused much comment.”

A look of vague understanding seemed to trouble Lucien Partridge. Noting it, Lamont Cranston hastened to add further remarks.

“Knowing that your name was connected with both men,” he resumed, “I thought it best to call on you — to learn if, by any chance, either of these two had ever evidenced an enmity for the other.”

“You are a police official?” quizzed Partridge.

“No,” asserted Cranston, “I am merely a financier who is interested in the success of mining enterprises. Due to my proposed purchase of New Era stock, I am naturally concerned with the underlying affairs of that company.

“I have discovered traces of facts that I have told to no one. Indeed, there is no connection whatever between myself and either Guthrie or Forster.

“I came from New York last night. I registered at the Westbrook Inn under an assumed name. I do not want my presence here to be known to any one. I waited until evening to call on you.

“After dining at the hotel, I was taxied here. I must go back to the inn to get my luggage and leave on the late train for New York. But I was desirous of making your acquaintance, for the reasons that I have mentioned.”

“I understand,” nodded Partridge. “Well, Mr. Cranston, time is too short for us to discuss these matters now. If you had come earlier in the evening — but it is nearing midnight. If I were sure that you alone knew of Forster’s connection with Guthrie—”

“I alone know that fact,” interposed Cranston.

“Then,” continued the old man, “I might be able to do something for you. Could you arrange matters so that you could return here — say within a week or ten days?”

“Gladly, Mr. Partridge.”

“That would be excellent. You must allow me time to consider matters; to locate correspondence which I had with Guthrie and Forster. Say nothing about this matter until you hear from me.”

LAMONT CRANSTON arose and bowed. He extended a card that bore his name and address. Vignetti entered and aided the guest to don his coat and hat.

“I left the car waiting outside with the driver,” explained Cranston. “So I shall leave you now.”

“One moment, Mr. Cranston,” remarked Partridge hastily. “You have time to see my laboratory. It is only a few steps away.”

He led the way, with Cranston and Vignetti following. The shadows of the three merged; but that cast by Cranston seemed to obliterate the others as they entered the lighted laboratory.

Partridge spoke to Vignetti; the Corsican obtained his master’s smock, and brought a pair of gloves from the rear section of the table drawer.

“An excellent laboratory,” commented Cranston, gazing about him.

“Yes,” replied Partridge, as he donned the smock and pulled on the gloves. “I always experiment at night.”

“Then I shall bid you good night,” said Cranston courteously, as he turned toward the door.

“I shall go with you to the car,” offered Partridge.

Cranston, tall and imposing, preceded Partridge across the hallway and along the walk to the iron gate. As Partridge spoke to him, Cranston did not appear to hear the old man. He kept on and reached the car. Partridge, with Vignetti at his heels, hurried to the open window of the sedan.

Lamont Cranston pushed a package aside. He lifted something from the seat beside him. Lucien Partridge, wishing him good speed, could not see his hands in the dark until the moment came for the final parting.

“Good night,” said the old man, extending his gloved hand, just as Cranston ordered the driver to proceed.

“Good night,” responded Cranston, as he reached to accept the clasp.

A curious smile was creeping over Partridge’s features as he extended that fatal hand, which bore the poisoned powder upon its glove. The clasp was made, unnoticed by the driver. Suddenly the car shot forward; Partridge was forced to release his clutch. He stepped back, to catch a glimpse of Cranston leaning from the car, waving a belated good-by.

A sharp oath came from Lucien Partridge’s lips. The cry was echoed by a growl from Vignetti. For in that last flash, Partridge had seen something which he had not noticed during the handclasp.

He knew now why Lamont Cranston’s hands had not been visible in the car. The discovery made him wild with rage. Upon entering the sedan, Cranston had donned a pair of long black gloves!

Partridge’s handshake that bore the creeping death had gone to naught! Glove had met glove. Lamont Cranston — otherwise The Shadow — had frustrated the shrewd purpose of the fiend!