The Creeping Death

CHAPTER V DEATH CREEPS

LONG shadows lurked in the misty night as Clifford Forster ascended the brownstone steps of the old house which was his New York residence. His key clicked in the lock, but before he could open the door, some one responded from the inside.

“Ah! You are in to-night, Graver,” said Forster approvingly. “I did not know whether or not you had received my wire.”

“I am always here, Mr. Forster,” responded the tall, solemn-faced man who had answered the door.

“You are a good caretaker, Graver,” rejoined Forster. “I shall not need you to-night, however. I am going in the library, and when the doorbell rings, I shall answer it myself. I am expecting a visitor.”

“Very well, sir.”

Forster watched Graver go upstairs. Then he went into the library, a room at the side of the house. This room was damp and musty. The windows were closed, and the curtains drawn.

Outside, the street was dark. The temporary glow of light that had revealed Forster entering the door no longer showed. But in that darkness, a man was emerging from an alleyway opposite the house.

This individual, clad in a dark suit, walked briskly along the street, away from the house. He entered a small store, and went into a telephone booth. It was Harry Vincent, calling Burbank to notify him that Clifford Forster had arrived in New York.

While Harry Vincent was thus engaged, footsteps again resounded on the sidewalk in front of Forster’s home. A man ascended the steps and rang the bell. The door opened, and Clifford Forster invited the stranger in. The two went into the library.

“Well, Guthrie,” inquired Forster, “what have you to report?”

The man who had joined Clifford Forster made a striking contrast to the bulky mine owner.

Lawrence Guthrie was a cadaverous individual, who looked much older than he actually was. His face was long and shrewd, his hair was thin; his eyes stared sharply and cunningly.

Now, he was looking at Forster with the evident intent of learning why the mine owner had made this surprise trip to New York.

“I got your wire,” said Guthrie, in a quick, nervous voice. “I have come here as you told me; but I do not understand why you needed to see me. Matters have been going well enough.”

“Well enough to suit you, perhaps,” growled Forster, “but not well enough to suit me!”

“Why not?”

“Look here, Guthrie,” declared Forster, in a direct tone, “we might as well have a show-down right now! I’m going to start right from the beginning.”

He reached in his pocket, withdrew a parcel of folded papers, and spread them on the table.

“Here’s everything,” he said. “Your agreement, Partridge’s agreement, a list of expenditures, everything that pertains to our transactions. So if there’s any argument, we’ve got it in black and white. You understand?”

Guthrie looked puzzled.

“I–I don’t understand—”

Clifford Forster interrupted the weak protest.

“You will understand!” he affirmed. “I’m looking into matters, coolly and impartially. You do the listening while I do the talking. Then I’ll hear from you.”

GUTHRIE was silent as Forster examined the documents before him. A worried expression came over the cadaverous man’s brow. Nevertheless, he kept his silence and waited.

“We’ll start with the beginning,” declared Forster. “You are a promoter, Guthrie, and a good one. Somehow, you uncovered Lucien Partridge, who wanted to be financed in the making of synthetic gold. You aroused my interest. I met Partridge. I took a chance. I put up the money.”

“That’s right,” agreed Guthrie.

Another pause followed. Forster was looking at the papers. Guthrie was staring at Forster. Neither man noticed an almost imperceptible motion of a window shade at the side of the room.

A long, flat shadow began to project itself across the floor, almost to the table across which Guthrie was facing Forster.

“I saw a way to make millions,” continued Forster, “and I promised you your share. The terms were satisfactory to both of us. I waited while the old man got things working.

“I felt good when the first lot of gold landed at the New Era Mine a few months ago. That was the beginning. I looked to you and Partridge to keep it up.”

“Which we have,” said Guthrie.

“Yes,” retorted Forster coldly. “You have — in dribbles! With those dribbles, you have given promises. Double the output — double that again — but you haven’t done it. Why not?”

Guthrie chewed his lips.

“It’s Partridge’s fault,” he said. “He’s the one that’s making the gold. I don’t know anything about it—”

“Passing the buck to Partridge, eh?” questioned Forster. “That stuff doesn’t go, Guthrie. What about your promises?”

“I was telling you what Partridge promised me.”

“Yes? Well, why hasn’t Partridge produced?”

“I thought he was producing. I’ve stayed away from Westbrook Falls, like I told you I would. The shipments go out from there. It would be bad business for me to be hanging around the place—”

“Some one is stalling,” interrupted Forster. “It’s either you or Partridge. I’ve talked with” — he hesitated quickly — “I’ve good reason to believe that you’re the one to blame.”

Guthrie made no answer to the implication. Slumped in his chair, he was the figure of dejection. His attitude might have been that of a guilty party; on the contrary it might have indicated an innocent man faced by unjust accusations.

“I’ve dealt squarely with you, Guthrie,” said Forster. “Maybe I’ve been too much on the level. I told you from the start that this synthetic gold business would have to be handled quietly. If we told the public we were manufacturing gold, the gold market would take a drop. That’s why I’m planting the yellow stuff in the New Era Mine.

“Now that I’m in the racket, I’m going the whole way. The New Era can’t last indefinitely. It would excite suspicion. That’s why I’m going to sell out — and start planting gold in the Procyon Mine instead of the New Era.

“After that” — Forster shrugged his shoulders — “well, why go on further? You know the game, because I let you in on it. Now it looks like you’re trying to start a racket of your own.”

“No! I’m playing square!” protested Guthrie. “I want to see your plans work. The more gold you get from Partridge, the bigger the cut I get—”

“Yes?” Forster’s interruption was cold. “But suppose you are double-crossing me? Suppose you are holding out some of the gold Partridge is producing?”

“Maybe Partridge is holding out on you. I’m not.”

“Partridge?” Forster’s question was disdainful. “The value of gold means nothing to him. He’s contented, now that he is established. I know your past, Guthrie; that’s what makes me leery; and it puts me in a position where I can dictate.

“You’ve always been out for all you can get. A slick promoter, looking for easy money. Well” — Forster’s pudgy lips hardened — “for once you’re trying to bleed the wrong man!”

LAWRENCE GUTHRIE leaped angrily to his feet. He shook his fist at Clifford Forster, and shouted his reply to the other man’s accusation.

“I’m no double-crosser!” he cried. “I’m in the middle — between you and Partridge. He’s eccentric; I’ve got to handle him sensibly. Instead of giving me a chance, you — you—”

Leaning forward across the table, Guthrie hurled a series of loud expletives at Forster. The mine owner, his own face aglow with fury, leaped up to meet the challenge. In his haste he overturned the chair in which he had been seated.

As Guthrie still mouthed curses, Forster shot across the table and swung a futile blow. For a moment, he and Guthrie were locked in ferocious struggle; then Guthrie shoved Forster away. The bulky man caught himself at the edge of the table and stood glowering fiercely.

Guthrie, rapidly calming, was chewing his lips as though regretting what he had said. He knew that Forster held a whip hand over him; that he had made a mistake in losing his temper. He saw Forster half leaning against the edge of the table, panting heavily.

“There’s no use fighting about this,” declared Guthrie, in an apologetic tone. “I guess we’re both wrong. Why not be reasonable about matters—”

Forster, slowly recovering from his exertion, began to move along the edge of the table. He made no threatening gesture toward Guthrie — in fact, Forster seemed almost incapable of such action. But he showed intense antagonism in the glowering look that he directed at the visitor.

“You — you” — Forster’s voice was filled with growling rage — “you’re trying to crawl out of it now, eh? We’ll see about that — we’ll see—”

Forster began to pick up the papers that lay on the desk. His hands fumbled. The documents eluded his grasp. Still staring at Guthrie, Forster kept on in his vain attempt.

Suddenly his hands seemed to become rigid; his arms lost their strength. He sank upon his elbows, and stared with bulging eyes toward his hands.

“What — what is happening?” he exclaimed, in a frightened voice. “My hands — my arms—”

He stared at Guthrie, and his voice rose to a wild scream as he saw the other man’s pale face.

“You’ve crippled me!” screamed Forster. “I’m paralyzed! My hands — my arms — my shoulders! This is your work, Guthrie! Your work, you hound!”

Guthrie’s eyes were wild as he heard these words. He backed across the room toward the door. Forster screamed new imprecations as he saw Guthrie departing.

“This is your work, Guthrie — your work—”

Guthrie opened the door and stepped quickly into the hall. He was panic-stricken now. He hastened across the hall toward the street door. As he hurried, he passed a man who was coming down the stairs. It was Graver, alarmed by the cries that he had heard.

The caretaker did not follow Guthrie. In fact, he scarcely noted the departing man, so anxious was he to reach the library, where new shouts were coming from Clifford Forster. The bulky mine owner was slumped across the table; his glassy eyes saw Graver the moment the caretaker arrived.

“Stop him!” Forster was shouting hoarsely. “Stop Guth — stop Guth” — his voice choked as he tried to pronounce the name — “stop that man—”

The rest of Forster’s words were inarticulate; but Graver understood. Turning, the caretaker hastened in pursuit of Lawrence Guthrie.

The front door slammed as he ran through it to the street. A moment later there was a dull thud in the library as Clifford Forster tumbled to the floor.

The dying man was staring straight upward, his eyes glazed, his lips moving helplessly. The terrible paralysis had reached his throat; his limbs were numbed. The creeping death was claiming another victim!

THEN those staring eyes saw a strange sight, which to Forster’s feverish vision appeared to be a vista of the world beyond.

Into the range of Forster’s gaze came a tall figure garbed completely in black — a being wrapped in the folds of a long cloak, with features obscured by the broad brim of a slouch hat.

The spectral form came closer. It stood above Clifford Forster; it leaned over him. The eyes of The Shadow burned like points of light as they met the stare of the dying man.

Instinctively, the numbing brain of Clifford Forster realized that here was some one who might prove a friend. The sight of those eyes cleared his fading mind. The thought of Lawrence Guthrie vanished from his clouded brain. A wild gleam of new suspicion came over him.

With a last effort, Forster tried to speak. His lips moved; his voice came in a creaky groan as he sought to pronounce the words that he desired.

The effort was too great. The trembling lips ceased their motions. Clifford Forster’s bulging eyes saw no more. The creeping death had gained its victory!

Somber and motionless, The Shadow stood looking at the dead man before him. Then to those keen, hidden ears, came a sound from the street outside. The Shadow turned, and, with one gloved hand gathered up the papers that lay on the desk.

Voices sounded as the front door was thrown open. With a quick, swift stride, The Shadow moved across the room, his long cloak showing its crimson lining as it swished through the air.

When Graver and a policeman burst into the room a moment later, they saw only the dead form of Clifford Forster. The silent witness of the encounter between Forster and Guthrie — the one man who had observed Clifford Forster in his final death throes — was no longer there. Only a long shadow lay across the floor, projecting from the window. Neither Graver nor the officer observed it.

That shadowy shape silently slid away. The window curtain rustled so slightly that its sound could not be heard. The two men were alone in the room where the creeping death had struck.

The Shadow had departed. Death had done its work here. This part of crime was over. But elsewhere, The Shadow knew, more crime was breeding; the source of the evil was somewhere else!