The Creeping Death

CHAPTER IV AT WESTBROOK FALLS

ON the following afternoon, an eastbound limited came to a stop at the little station of Westbrook Falls. Several persons alighted from the train, among them a bulky, full-jowled, middle-aged man who was carrying a suitcase.

There were three or four men lounging about the platform. One of them, a stocky, firm-jawed individual, eyed the various people who had left the train. This observer, standing in an obscure portion of the platform, was none other than Vic Marquette.

The secret-service man watched the newly arrived passengers go to the dilapidated automobiles that served as cabs between the station and Westbrook inn, half a mile away. Satisfied that all — among them the bulky man — were going to the hotel, Marquette strolled away.

Had he been closer to the vehicle in which the bulky man placed himself, Vic Marquette might have learned something of interest. For when the driver asked his passenger if he were going to Westbrook Inn, the reply was in the negative.

A short, low conversation transpired between the newcomer and the cabman. The driver nodded his head, and the car pulled away.

But although Vic Marquette had failed to catch this conversation, the words between driver and passenger had been overheard by another bystander.

A thin, dark-faced man garbed in khaki trousers and flannel shirt, was standing quite close to the car, and his teeth glistened in a broad smile as he watched the vehicle depart. Shortly afterward, he, too, walked away from the station.

The cab in which the bulky gentleman was riding started up the road toward the inn; but turned off after it had gone less than a quarter mile. It rolled along a side road, crossed a bridge over a deep ravine, and swung through the woods.

After a trip of some four miles, the car emerged from the woods and skirted the fringe of a deep gorge — a continuance of the stream that ran through the woods.

This chasm was below the falls, which were back in the neighborhood of the hotel. The roar of rapids, far below, was audible to the man riding in the car, and he peered from the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the river beneath.

Then the car swung away from the gorge and traveled beside a high picket fence, running at right angles to the river. The fence turned, running parallel with the stream, and the road also went in that direction. The automobile stopped in front of an iron gate in the center of the fence.

“Here we are, sir,” informed the driver. “This is Mr. Partridge’s place. Guess you’ll find him at home. He’s always here.”

THE bulky man alighted, paid the driver, and told him to stand by. He rang a bell on the gate. A dark, evil-faced man appeared on the walk beyond the gate, and the stranger addressed him through the bars.

“Is Mr. Partridge at home?”

“Who wants to see him?”

The dark man’s reply had a surly foreign tone — the voice of an Italian poorly acquainted with English.

“I am Clifford Forster,” said the visitor.

A gleam of understanding flashed in the dark man’s face. He grinned, showing yellow, fanglike teeth. He unbarred the gate.

Clifford Forster waved the driver of the cab away, and entered the confines of this strange domain.

The dark-complexioned man led the way to a house among the trees. They reached the building — an old frame structure of considerable size — and the man who was conducting Forster motioned to the visitor to enter.

Up the steps, across a decaying porch, into a hallway — there Forster stood face to face with a stoop-shouldered old man.

“Ah! Mr. Forster!”

The greeting came in a querulous voice. Forster, a foot taller than his host, bowed in acknowledgment.

“Come this way — come this way — into my library.”

Forster, following, noted the precision of the old man’s stride. He realized that the man was a very dynamo of energy; that despite his apparent age, he possessed an extraordinary degree of youthful vigor.

They entered a gloomy room, and the old man turned on a light. Closing the door, he faced Forster, who was looking about the room, noting the shelves of curious old volumes that adorned the walls. The sound of the old man’s voice brought him out of his reverie.

“So here we are,” chuckled the old man. “Clifford Forster and Lucien Partridge. Again we meet — this time in my home instead of yours. Be seated, Mr. Forster. Tell me why I am honored by this unexpected visit.”

Forster seated himself in a comfortable chair. He drew two fat cigars from his pocket, and offered one to Partridge. The old man declined. Forster lighted his own perfecto, and stared calmly at the old man.

“Partridge,” he said, “I want to talk with you. I thought it advisable that we should get together. I have left you very much to your own resources. It has occurred to me that the time has come for closer contact.”

The old man, sitting with folded hands, nodded in a vague manner, as though he did not fully understand.

They made an odd pair, these two. Forster, heavy and bulky, was a puffy-faced, dominating type of man. Partridge, with parchment skin and white hair, looked like an old professor, while his manner was almost wheedling toward his visitor.

“You agree with me, Partridge?” asked Forster.

“I am glad to have you visit me,” responded Partridge. “But I do not understand. Has not all been going well? Are you not satisfied?”

“Yes,” returned Forster slowly, “matters are progressing. Nevertheless — one can never be too sure of others working in his full interest.”

A troubled gleam came into the old man’s eyes. Forster detected it, and hastened to amend his statement.

“Do not misunderstand me, Partridge,” he said. “I am not speaking of you. It is Guthrie to whom I refer.”

“Ah! Guthrie. He is a fine man, Mr. Forster. He has been very patient with me. He has been ready always to listen to what I have to tell him—”

“That’s just it!” interposed Forster. “Guthrie is a good listener. He is also a good promiser. It simply occurred to me that, after all, Guthrie is nothing but a go-between. It is you and I who are working together. Guthrie might prove to be a disadvantage.”

“Ah! But he brought us together Mr. Forster—”

“Certainly. He has served that purpose. I want to be sure that he is still useful.”

AGAIN, Lucien Partridge nodded. He was an eccentric sort of a man and his eyes held a far-away look. They also showed an expression of worry. Seeing this, Forster became blunt in his comments.

“I am a business man, Partridge,” he declared. “A man who deals in big business. You are an inventor — a chemist — a scientist — a man of remarkable genius. Your work is proving valuable to me. I want it to prove more so.”

“Certainly, Mr. Forster—”

“Therefore, I thought that it would be best for me to check up on Guthrie’s activities. I let him conduct all negotiations with you until matters began to move. I did not want to worry you, or to disturb you. But now that you are producing, I feel that the time is ripe for our direct contact.”

Forster paused and watched the old man nod. Then he continued in the same vein.

“I have made an investment in you, Partridge,” he said. “An investment of more than two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. When Lawrence Guthrie first told me of you and your synthetic gold, I laughed at him. But when I saw you at work, I was willing to invest in your genius.

“This place — house, laboratory, and all — are part of my investment. They belong to you, and here you are producing the gold that I desire — a fair return for the money that I have invested. But I am desirous of accomplishing the maximum in results. The maximum! You understand?”

“Certainly, Mr. Forster.”

“Guthrie,” continued Forster, “painted me a wonderful picture. I invested a quarter of a million. I was willing to invest more. I wanted to see results, and I told Guthrie so.

“At last, a few months ago, your process began to work. Since then, I have been receiving gold regularly — approximately twenty thousand dollars’ worth each month.

“It seemed to me that now that the process was completed, the output would increase. Guthrie promised me that it would. But it has not. Guthrie has not explained why. So I have come to you to find out.”

“My gold,” said Partridge thoughtfully, “is something that I do not value in terms of money, Mr. Forster. I love to make it — to see that shining yellow gold and to know that it is my own creation.

“For a long time” — the old man’s tone became reminiscent — “I sought the infallible secret. The weight of lead; the luster of copper; the polish of silver — these I sought to combine to make my gold. Ah! The processes I used” — Partridge began to close his clawlike fingers as though molding an invisible object — “the discoveries I made — the metals I formed that looked like gold — until at last I found it!”

He paused and stared at Forster with wild, glaring eyes, his lips spread in a triumphant grin.

“I found it!” Partridge’s voice was a crackly, gasping scream. “I found it! I found it! Gold!”

AS though exhausted by his fervor, the old man slumped back in his chair. Forster surveyed him thoughtfully. He knew that he was dealing with a fanatic. He resolved to humor him.

“Make your gold,” he said approvingly. “Make much of it. The more the better. But remember — I am the one who requires it; not Guthrie. He is nothing more than my agent.”

Partridge nodded.

“You could make millions of dollars’ worth,” urged Forster. “Millions, instead of thousands. So Guthrie has said; but he has not acted. Make more and more—”

Forster paused as he saw the gleam in the old man’s eyes. He knew that he was arousing Partridge’s interest. He waited to give the old man a chance to advance a promise.

“You want millions?” questioned Partridge. “I shall give you millions! But you must remember — this secret is my own. For you only I make this gold. No one must know where it comes from.”

“No one knows,” declared Forster. “No one — except you, myself, and Guthrie.”

“Those at your mines?”

“They know nothing.”

“You are always there?”

“I have been, since the first shipment was made. I have come East — after wiring Guthrie to stop shipments — to speed up production. That is why I wired you that I would make this visit.”

“I understand,” nodded Partridge. “You wished to see for yourself — to learn if all that Guthrie has said is true. You would like to have me show you.”

Eagerness showed on Forster’s face. The man’s cupidity, apparent in his every action, was stressed to the utmost.

As Lucien Partridge motioned for him to rise, Clifford Forster sprang to his feet and walked forward as the old man started toward the hall.

Outside the door, they encountered the dark-faced man who had met Forster at the gate. Noting Forster’s questioning gaze, Partridge made an impromptu introduction.

“This is Vignetti,” he said. “I call him my faithful Corsican. I have traveled many places — to many lands” — he smiled wanly — “and in Corsica, many years ago, I offered shelter to a young lad whose parents had been slain in one of those fearful feuds they call a vendetta. Vignetti has served me ever since.”

During this explanation, the Corsican stood silent and immobile. Partridge saw that Forster was noticing this, and the old man supplied the reason.

“Vignetti speaks very little English,” he declared. “Enough to inquire the business of strangers — to meet people at the gate as he met you. He is like a watchdog; and for that reason he is the very man I required here.”

With a few words of Italian, the old man ordered Vignetti to follow as he led Clifford Forster through the premises.

THEY entered a large room off the hall. This formed a chemical laboratory. They descended a stairs to the basement. Here were vats and crucibles.

In one corner lay a stack of yellowish bars. Forster’s glance was avid. Partridge smiled.

“Unsuccessful experiments,” he said. “That metal is not gold. It represents wasted effort.”

The old man unlocked a door, and they ascended stone steps to a long expanse of lawn around the house. Partridge motioned Forster forward. They passed a small tool house fifty yards from the big building; then Partridge held up his hand warningly as they came to the edge of a cliff.

Forster moved forward cautiously and peered down into the chasm. The river foamed a hundred feet beneath. On each side, as far as Forster could see, were sheer, stonewalled precipices as smooth as though they had been cloven by a mighty ax.

“These premises are immune from intruders,” smiled Lucien Partridge. “No living being could scale that mass of rock.”

“But the fence—”

“See there?” Partridge pointed first in one direction; then the other. “Observe how the ends of the fence project over the edge of the cliff. Now note this wire” — he indicated a cord that ran along the edge of the cliff from fence to fence — “which serves as the connecting link. This forms a network within the fence. It is insulated, only here it borders the cliff. At night, the current which passes through the wire would spell death to any who might touch it.”

“The gate?”

“That, too, is wired at night. No one can enter these grounds. You see. Mr. Forster, how well I am protecting my operations.”

They walked back to the house, Forster nodding his approval more and more as he noticed burly-looking men working about the premises. With Vignetti and these others, Lucien Partridge had the necessary protection from intruders.

Greedy though he was for profits, Forster recognized these factors as necessary expenditures. But when they had reached the house, and were again standing in the library, Forster returned to his original theme.

“I must leave shortly,” he said, glancing at his watch. “But before I go, I would like to talk more regarding the output—”

“Certainly,” interposed the old scientist. “Wait a moment. I shall have Vignetti summon a cab to take you to the station.” He spoke to the Corsican, then turned again to Forster.

“From now on,” resumed Forster, “I shall keep in contact with you, Partridge. I am tired of Guthrie’s promises. The output now should be one hundred thousand dollars’ worth of gold a month. Perhaps more.”

Partridge smiled gleefully as he raised his hand.

“Millions, Mr. Forster,” he crackled, in a whisper. “You shall have millions. All that you want. So long as my secret is preserved—”

“It is known to none but myself and Guthrie.”

Vignetti was returning. He spoke in Italian, and Partridge responded in the same language. The Corsican departed.

“The cab is on its way,” remarked Partridge. “You are going to New York. I am returning to my laboratory. Returning to plan a greater flood of pure gold.”

CLIFFORD FORSTER was elated. He listened in rapture as the old man babbled on. Vignetti reappeared, carrying a smock upon which rested a pair of long gloves.

Lucien Partridge paused to don the gloves, taking each at the wrist, and slipping his hands into the depths. Then Vignetti helped him with the smock; and the old man walked to the hall, with Forster at his elbow.

The front door was open. As they waited there, Partridge still listening eagerly, the expected cab appeared beyond the iron gate. Vignetti walked ahead to unbar the way. Partridge and Forster followed.

Halfway to the gate, the old man paused to bid his guest farewell. There was a quiet warning in the old man’s voice as he said adieu.

“Your hopes will be realized,” he declaimed. “Have confidence in my ability. I am working in your interest.”

“Say nothing to Guthrie,” advised Forster, in return. “Do not tell him that I was here. This matter concerns us only. This has been a secret visit.”

The old man nodded. He extended his gloved right hand. Forster gripped it warmly in a parting shake. Then the bulky man lumbered hurriedly to the waiting automobile.

At the railroad station, passing away ten minutes before the arrival of his train, Clifford Forster again came under the observation of two watching men — Vic Marquette and the slender individual who looked like a Spaniard.

Clifford Forster did not know that he was being watched. He was thinking of the visit he had just paid to Lucien Partridge. His mind was filled with dreams of wealth. Forster was confident that the near future held much in store for him.

Could he have seen the true future, his dreams would have turned to dread!