The Creeping Death

CHAPTER XXIII THE SHADOW TRIUMPHANT

A BLOTCH of blackness lay upon the edge of the cliff. Unmoving, it had escaped the notice of Vic Marquette. It had appeared to be nothing more than a shade cast by the angled light of early day.

But now that patch of black was moving. Long, thin, and straight, it developed as an arm! Fingers moved; fingers that were digging into the roughened granite that lined the verge of the precipice.

With a cry of restored hope, Vic tried to wriggle forward. But that moving hand needed no aid. With incredible skill, it was working its way upward. Now a black object showed over the edge. Vic saw the head of The Shadow!

The body followed. Soon the form in black was back to safety. The head was bowed as the tall figure arose and swayed forward.

Vic Marquette blinked as though witnessing a vision. The tall form moved slowly away. Vic tried to follow it as it approached the lawn; then, before he could turn, he realized that The Shadow was gone.

Impelled by strange curiosity, Vic urged himself closer to the edge of the cliff. There, the explanation of the marvel came to him.

The entire edge of the precipice formed an overhanging curve, beginning with a rapidly sloping angle that formed itself into a dizzy, vertical drop:

When Lucien Partridge had thrust The Shadow downward, the black-clad fighter had taken the only advantage that he still possessed. He had yielded momentarily, to lie, terribly close to danger, against the last possible surface that afforded safety.

The Shadow’s collapse had been by shrewd design. It had turned Partridge’s fierce impetus into a force that had proven to be the old man’s undoing.

Thrusting The Shadow downward with all his vigor, Partridge had given no thought to his own safety. By releasing pressure suddenly; by shifting his body precariously to one side, The Shadow had opened the way for the old man’s death plunge.

Had The Shadow been unwounded, the task of regaining the security of the flattened brink would have been a matter of comparative ease. But with only his left arm serving him, The Shadow had chosen to rest, unmoving, with his body just on the verge of temporary safety.

Thus had The Shadow returned to life. In the triumph of justice, he had won all. The work of The Shadow would continue. There would be other fiends for him to conquer, now that Lucien Partridge was no more.

INCREASING dawn, the knowledge that The Shadow was alive — these factors seemed to bring a new strength to Vic Marquette. He managed to rise to his knees, and with foolhardy boldness he approached the edge of the cliff as closely as he dared.

Far below, spread-eagled upon the rocks of the bank beside the foaming stream, Vic saw the vague form of what had once been a human being, even though it had possessed the heart of a vile fiend.

That was all that remained of Lucien Partridge, the shrewd, evil old man who had visioned himself the dictator of all the world. Now his dreams of wealth were ended forever.

Partridge’s false gold would be made no more. The vast wealth that he had accumulated would be restored to the world from which it had been taken — a gift of The Shadow’s genius.

Vic Marquette rested wearily. He thought of Fitzroy — of the poisoned gloves — of these enemies who had attacked Lucien Partridge to-night. All these details would be reconstructed. He, Vic Marquette, could solve them now, with the aid that had been afforded by The Shadow.

Vic knew from past experience that after The Shadow had triumphed, hidden matters always came to light. His mind was in a presaging mood — and his surmises were correct.

Although Vic did not know it, the documents that The Shadow had taken from Clifford Forster’s desk were already on their way to Marquette’s headquarters. The Shadow had anticipated the events that had transpired here.

Thoughtfully, the secret-service man stared in the direction which The Shadow had taken. He saw no sign of the black-clad form.

He knew that The Shadow’s wounds could not be sufficiently serious to prevent his safe departure. Yet Vic still sought to pierce the shadowy portions of the terrain that surrounded the edge of the battle-scarred lawn.

Bodies of dead men were scattered everywhere. These men had died because they had deserved death. Creatures of evil who had served against justice, their futile conflict had been designed by The Shadow’s desire for retribution.

Vic thought of Lucien Partridge lying far below. To the most terrible of all these evil men had come the most horrible death that any of the crew had suffered.

APPROACHING sounds came vaguely to Vic’s ears. He heard the siren of a distant automobile. For a moment he did not understand. Then his mind cleared.

The terrific explosion had been heard throughout the countryside. Rescuers were on their way, hurrying to see what tragedy had occurred at Lucien Partridge’s.

The State police were coming. They would take charge. Vic would receive help, even though that aid might be belated.

Looking across the lawn, Vic saw the ruins of the smoldering mansion. The lawn was clear now, and a white object caught the secret-service man’s attention. Partridge’s laboratory smock, with the gloves beside it!

He must warn the rescuers not to touch them. They must be kept as evidence — the gloves to be analyzed for the poison that they contained.

The creeping death! No more would the insidious malady run rampant, striking down helpless, unsuspecting victims at the desire of an archfiend.

Deaths had been avenged here, upon this body-strewn lawn. But Vic realized that those deaths were but few compared to the ones that had been averted by The Shadow’s might!

How many more would Lucien Partridge have slain? Vic Marquette could not surmise. He knew only that he had been saved thrice by The Shadow: once, by the quarry across the river; a second time, when the alarm had sounded; last, when The Shadow had boldly risked death that Vic might reach safety.

The siren was shrill now. The police were nearly here. The task was ended. Vic Marquette listened gladly to the welcome sound. Then, as the noise lulled momentarily, he heard another sound.

A weird, uncanny echo seemed to come from somewhere not far away — somewhere off beyond the lawn. Vic Marquette recognized that sound. It brought proof that The Shadow had still remained nearby until he was sure that help had come for Vic Marquette.

For that sound, with its tones of eerie mirth, could have come from no lips other than those of the strange phantom in black.

It was the triumph laugh of The Shadow!