The Creeping Death

CHAPTER II THE HAND FROM THE DARK

A SECRET mark?

The questioner was Detective Joe Cardona of the New York force. Standing beside the desk in Room 1414 of the Metrolite Hotel, he put the inquiry to the house detective and the hotel physician.

“Tell mark secret,” declared the doctor. “Those were the only words we heard him say.”

Cardona paced up and down the room. He looked toward the open window. He stared at the body on the floor, which the medical examiner had just inspected. Cardona walked to the writing desk and curiously surveyed the small collection of articles that had been taken from Jerry Fitzroy’s pockets.

Two objects commanded Cardona’s attention. One was a French coin — a gold twenty-franc piece. The other was a mottled brown feather.

“Outside of these” — Cardona indicated the two articles — “there’s nothing of importance except those papers that show this fellow’s name was Jerry Fitzroy. But a foreign coin and a bird feather — why was he carrying them?”

No one answered the question. The medical examiner was approaching to make his report.

“An unusual form of paralysis,” he declared. “A natural death. I see nothing to indicate violence.”

The house physician nodded to show his agreement with his medical colleague.

“All right,” said Cardona gruffly. “I’ll be here a while. You stay” — he nodded to the house detective — “and we can talk this over.”

As a matter of routine, Joe Cardona knew that all that remained was to order the removal of the body of Jerry Fitzroy. Yet before he sent that rigid form to the morgue, the detective was desirous of learning the answer to the questions that perplexed him.

The Metrolite sleuth watched while Cardona walked across the room and stared out upon the balcony. Cardona had a high reputation in New York. He was a crime solver in a class by himself. But here was a case that had no evidence of crime.

Cardona sat at the writing desk. He studied the unfinished scrawl that Jerry Fitzroy had begun. He grumbled in a dissatisfied tone. A man of intuition, Cardona sensed foul play, even though he could not trace it.

At last Cardona shrugged his shoulders. He reached for the telephone, intending to call and give orders for the removal of Jerry Fitzroy. At that moment, the phone bell rang. Cardona, answering it, heard the voice of one of his men.

“We just arrested a man in the lobby,” was the information. “He came in here, asking for Jerry Fitzroy—”

“What’s his name?” demanded Cardona.

“He won’t tell us. Wants to talk with you—”

“Bring him up.”

Cardona smiled grimly as he hung up the receiver. Here might be a clew. An unknown visitor, coming to visit Jerry Fitzroy after the man had died.

The house detective waited with interest. He wanted to see Cardona in action, grilling this man whom the police had arrested.

THERE was a knock at the door. The house detective opened it to admit two plain-clothes men who were bringing in a stocky, heavy man whose swarthy face was emotionless. Cardona studied the man who had been taken into custody.

“See what he’s got on him,” he ordered.

The plain-clothes men made a quick frisk. They brought forth a businesslike automatic, and handed it to Cardona. The detective stared at the captive.

“Carrying a gun, eh?” he demanded. “What do you know about this?”

The swarthy man was staring at the still form of Jerry Fitzroy. Cardona prompted him with another question.

“What’s your name?”

“You are in charge here?” the prisoner asked quietly.

“Yes,” declared Cardona.

“May I speak with you privately?”

A look of perplexity came over Cardona’s face. The request was an unusual one. Cardona suspected a ruse. At last he nodded to the plain-clothes men.

“Go on outside,” he ordered. “You, too” — he nodded to the house detective — “and wait by the door. There’ll be no trouble here.”

As the men obeyed, Cardona drew a revolver from his pocket and motioned the prisoner to a chair in the corner of the room. A few moments later, Cardona and the swarthy man were alone. Cardona was glowering and suspicious; the suspect was calm and expressionless.

“Spill it,” ordered Cardona. “Your name—”

“Victor Marquette,” came the response, in a quiet voice. “I don’t suppose that you have ever heard of me. I keep well under cover. I am a secret-service agent.”

“With the secret service—”

While Cardona spoke Vic Marquette calmly drew back his coat and turned back the inside of his vest. Cardona saw the badge that gleamed there.

“That is why I wanted a private discussion,” announced Marquette. “There are certain reasons why I do not want my identity known to any but yourself.”

Cardona, knowing that the man was genuine, calmly pocketed his revolver. Marquette’s words explained why he had been carrying an automatic.

The secret-service man’s next statement brought a new revelation.

“I am also anxious,” added Marquette, “that Fitzroy’s identity should not be known. He is — or was — a secret-service man also.”

“Ah!” Cardona’s exclamation denoted understanding. “You and he were working together.”

“No,” responded Marquette, shaking his head. “Fitzroy was working alone. I did not know he was here. But I received a call a short while ago, telling me to meet Fitzroy here at the Metrolite Hotel.”

“A call from whom?”

“I do not know. Probably some one whom Fitzroy had instructed to call me. I came here, only to be arrested by your men. I was amazed to learn that Fitzroy was dead. How did he die?”

“Paralysis. Natural death, apparently. But if you think—”

“I suspect nothing” — Marquette was thoughtful — “but I should like to know any peculiar circumstances—”

“Fitzroy spoke before he died,” interposed Cardona. “He said something about a secret mark—”

“A secret mark—”

“Yes.” Cardona drew a paper from his pocket. “This is what the hotel physician and the house detective said. Fitzroy, just before he died, was trying to speak. His words could not be understood, except these three: ‘Tell mark secret.’ Those words seemed to be part of a sentence—”

“Wait a moment” — Marquette was smiling — “I think I understand. I know what Fitzroy was trying to say. ‘Tell mark secret’ — with little gaps between—”

“Yes — with gaps between.”

“In full, ‘Tell Victor Marquette of the secret service’ — or something to that effect.”

CARDONA was thoughtful for a moment. Then he slowly nodded. He saw the connection.

“You’ve got it!” he declared. “He wanted to get in touch with you. That was the idea, eh?”

“Of course. Fitzroy knew I was in New York. He would naturally have tried to communicate with me. Did you find any articles upon his person?”

Cardona pointed to the writing desk. Marquette arose and went in that direction. Cardona indicated the gold coin; also the feather.

“What do you make of those?” he asked.

“The coin” — Marquette was thoughtful — “well, any secret-service man might pick up one of those. The feather — hm-m-m — it’s odd, but hardly significant. But just a moment — where’s Fitzroy’s badge?”

Cardona looked puzzled.

“We went through his pockets,” he said.

“Including his watch pocket?” asked Marquette.

“We may have missed that,” admitted Cardona.

Marquette stooped over the body. He reached into the watch pocket of Fitzroy’s trousers and brought out a secret-service badge.

“Fitzroy always carried the badge in his watch pocket,” observed Marquette. “Poor Fitz” — he looked solemnly at the body — “I didn’t expect to find him dead.”

“There’s no evidence of murder,” declared Cardona, “but the whole affair looks bad to me—”

“What are you doing with the body?” questioned Marquette.

“Sending it to the morgue,” responded Cardona, “unless you have some other plan.”

“Send it there,” said Marquette solemnly. “The less talk about this, the better. Fitzroy — this is strictly confidential — was engaged upon certain work of investigation. I see nothing to indicate that he was murdered. Nevertheless, it would be a great mistake to have it known that he was a secret-service man. You understand?

“Send the body to the morgue. I shall see to its identification, with very little said.”

Cardona nodded. He pointed to the articles on the table.

“You want those?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Marquette. “I can assure you that if Fitzroy was involved in any dangerous business, it must have taken place outside of New York. I may be able to trace his activities. If so—”

“I get you.”

Cardona walked to the door of the room. He summoned the men who were outside. They entered, surprised to see Marquette standing free.

“This man is all right,” said Cardona gruffly. “He’s an old friend of Fitzroy’s. We’re sending the body to the morgue. That’s all.”

He followed the three, and spoke in a low tone to the house detective. The two were outside the door during the discussion. Vic Marquette was leaning over the body while they were absent.

With deliberate action, Marquette slipped his fingers into Fitzroy’s watch pocket and drew forth a small slip of paper. His back turned toward the door, Marquette examined the paper.

He had noticed it when he had withdrawn Fitzroy’s badge, but had made no comment. The slip was a railroad coupon, indicating a cash fare paid from a town named Westbrook Falls to New York City.

Marquette was standing by the desk when Cardona returned with the house detective. In his hand, the secret-service man was holding an envelope.

Within that envelope, he had placed the slip of paper that he had found.

“These two articles” — Vic Marquette picked up the coin and the feather — “may be of some importance. I shall study them.”

He dropped the two objects into the envelope and carelessly laid the latter on the desk. He took the rest of Fitzroy’s belongings and put them in another envelope. Cardona nodded his approval.

“I think,” said Cardona, “that we can tell this man the circumstances — ” He was indicating the house detective.

Marquette was thoughtful; then gave his approval. In a low tone, Cardona explained Marquette’s connection with the secret service.

“Nothing is to be said,” warned Marquette. “I know what Fitzroy was doing. He probably gained some results. It will be my job to follow out his work.”

POLICEMEN arrived to take the body to the morgue. The dead form of Jerry Fitzroy was carried from the room. Cardona and Marquette followed, and stood just outside the door.

The envelopes which Marquette had used were lying, unsealed, upon the writing desk.

It was then that a strange incident occurred.

While the men at the door were watching the removal of Fitzroy’s body, something moved inward from the blackness outside the window. A human arm reached toward the desk. A black-gloved hand plucked the envelope that contained the coin, the feather, and the railway coupon.

A few minutes later, Cardona and Marquette returned to the room. They were preparing to leave. Vic Marquette picked up the two envelopes. The one that had been removed, was now replaced in its former position, by the same hand that had taken it.

The detective and the secret-service man went down the elevator together. They shook hands and parted outside the Metrolite Hotel. They went in opposite directions.

Alone, Vic Marquette opened the more important of the two envelopes. Standing near a light, he quickly examined the three articles. He smiled as he held the twenty-franc piece. He nodded as he looked at the railroad coupon; he frowned as he held the feather.

The significance of two articles was plain to Vic Marquette as he went on his way. The gold coin and the railway coupon held a definite meaning. The feather — despite the fact that Marquette had expressed no interest regarding it to Cardona — might also be important. What it meant was something Vic Marquette intended to learn.

One matter perplexed the secret-service man. To-night, as he had told Cardona, he had received a call, telling him to come to the Metrolite Hotel, to meet Jerry Fitzroy. Marquette had answered that call immediately.

The message had been sent after Fitzroy was dead — not before! The person who had communicated by telephone — a man who spoke in a quiet voice — had given no statement of identity. This was puzzling. It indicated the presence of an unknown person in the maze that surrounded the death of Jerry Fitzroy.

Nevertheless, Vic Marquette was not worrying about the identity of the unknown informant when he boarded a sleeper for Westbrook Falls, some time after midnight. The secret-service man was content with the thought that he possessed the only clews to Jerry Fitzroy’s actions — and that of those clews, the most important was his alone.

He had the railway coupon that told where Jerry Fitzroy had been. He, only, had connected the mystery with the town of Westbrook Falls, wither he was now traveling!

With all his confidence, Vic Marquette was mistaken: A hand from the dark had performed a deed to-night. That hand had plucked the evidence, had carried it to unseen eyes, and had returned it, unbeknown!

A gold coin — a railway coupon — a feather! The secret of strange doings rested upon three clews. Vic Marquette had kept that information from Joe Cardona; but he had not kept it from the hidden figure who had been shrouded in the darkness of the balcony.

The Shadow, too, knew of those mysterious clews!

His hand had come from the dark to gain them!