The Death Giver

CHAPTER XIII. CHANCE INTERVENES

WHEN The Shadow, playing the part of Irwin Langhorne, had conferred with Jarvis, he had struck close to the millionaire’s actual type of action. For Langhorne was one who placed considerable reliance in those who had his confidence.

From the moment that his mysterious double left the Bastion Hotel, Irwin Langhorne began to ponder upon the situation which surrounded him; and in pondering, he decided that he must seek dependable advice.

Going over a mental list of persons whom he knew, Langhorne struck upon one name that impressed him. That was Paul Roderick. The two were friends; and during the past few months they had often discussed business matters when they had met at the Merrimac Club.

It did not occur to Langhorne that Roderick might be the man behind the menace which now threatened him. Not for one instant would the millionaire importer have associated Roderick with The Death Giver.

One reason was the millionaire’s constant reliance upon his friends; the other was the cleverness which Roderick had displayed in his meetings with Langhorne.

In compiling his list of prospective victims for the toils of Thade, The Death Giver, Paul Roderick had used considerable discretion. He knew that there were many millionaires whose wealth consisted chiefly of frozen assets. Therefore, in picking such names as Henry Bellew and Irwin Langhorne — the two who topped the list— Roderick had first assured himself that each would be capable of raising a million dollars in a hurry.

Roderick had named Bellew chiefly through hearsay and reports; he had chosen Langhorne because he had heard the man talk freely about his affairs. Importing, in which Langhorne dealt, was at its zenith; and Roderick had shrewdly made friends with the man whose life Thade was to threaten.

Actually, Langhorne had many friends who were closer than Roderick; but as he sat alone in the room at the Bastion Hotel, the millionaire recalled Roderick as a young man of unusually sound judgment. It was this recollection that made Langhorne forget his promise to The Shadow.

He felt a sense of unreality. He wanted some one with whom he could talk. Why should he mistrust every one on the say-so of an individual whose identity he did not know? Certainly it would be all right to call upon Roderick.

With this thought, Irwin Langhorne went to the telephone, and when the sleepy clerk responded, the millionaire gave the number of the Merrimac Club. The clerk dialed it to the central operator.

Langhorne learned that Roderick was at the club. A few minutes later, he was engaged in earnest conversation with his friend.

Langhorne’s first words were the exacting of a promise that Roderick would not tell any one he had heard from the speaker. Roderick acquiesced. Langhorne then added that he was in hiding at the Bastion Hotel, and gave the room number. Roderick promised to come there right away.

LESS than a quarter hour later, there was a soft rap at Langhorne’s door. The millionaire opened the portal and smiled in wan relief as he saw the face of Paul Roderick. He invited the clubman into the room.

“What’s the trouble?” was Roderick’s first question.

Briefly, and with another caution for secrecy, Irwin Langhorne related the events that had occurred. He described the letters that he had received from The Death Giver; he told of his strange meeting with the amazing being garbed in black, who had revealed himself as the image of Irwin Langhorne.

“This may sound fantastic, Roderick,” asserted Langhorne, “but I assure you that it is all true — unless I have lost my mind—”

“It sounds incredible,” returned Roderick. “The part about the letters is understandable; but this phantom that you say brought you here — are you sure you were not under some sort of delusion?”

“I am positive that I told the cab driver to take me to the Albion,” persisted Langhorne. “I have never heard of this place — The Bastion — before. Some one else gave the order. Some one who later proved to be the image of myself!”

“And you say his purpose was to return to your home?”

“Yes. To thwart the mission of The Death Giver.”

“Who is there now?”

“Several servants. Jarvis, my secretary, is in charge.”

“Ah! You have confidence in Jarvis?”

“Yes.”

“Well, suppose,” suggested Roderick suavely, “that you call your home and talk to Jarvis. Be cautious about it; let him know that an impostor is at your house. This looks to me like a fiendish scheme directed against you.”

“You are right, Roderick!” exclaimed Langhorne. “You are right! I shall do so at once!”

THE millionaire went to the telephone and called his home. He appeared puzzled when he heard the voice over the wire. He asked for Jarvis; when he heard the reply, his questions came in short, quick utterances.

Paul Roderick, puzzled, was watching Langhorne narrowly. The millionaire hung up the receiver and turned to his friend.

“Jarvis is dead!” he exclaimed. “Dead! The police are there! Death has struck!”

“What did they tell you?” queried Roderick.

“The chandelier in my office,” blurted Langhorne. “It fell and crushed Jarvis — at my desk—”

“When?”

“Fifteen minutes ago. This is terrible, Roderick! Terrible! What does it mean?”

“It means,” replied Roderick quietly, “that the man who went to your home is a murderer. His return is imminent. You must escape him, Langhorne. Come. My car is outside.”

Irwin Langhorne arose. He saw Paul Roderick moving toward the door. He was about to follow when a new thought occurred to him. It came as a strange inspiration to his bewildered brain.

“One minute!” exclaimed Langhorne. “You are wrong, Roderick! What was Jarvis doing at my desk? That chandelier hangs directly above. Why was Jarvis prowling there?”

“The other man must have forced him,” retorted Roderick. “The impostor — the man you must escape.”

“The chandelier fell,” declared Langhorne. “It fell on the very spot where I am usually placed. That was not meant for Jarvis! That death was designed for me!”

“It was the impostor, I tell you!” asserted Roderick, in an effort to bend Langhorne’s will. “He is the one who killed Jarvis! He will kill you—”

“Kill me?” questioned Langhorne hoarsely. “He could have killed me here! He left me alone. I am not a prisoner. He is the man who saved me, Roderick!”

“Come!” ordered Roderick.

Langhorne refused to budge. He was staring at his companion. Looking straight into Roderick’s eyes, the millionaire detected an evil gleam.

“Danger at my home,” announced Langhorne, in a slow tone. “Danger from a secret enemy. Death if I should speak. Who would deal that death? Some one whom I trusted. Jarvis — he was to be my murderer. He was the man appointed by The Death Giver.

“My one friend was the man who brought me here. He told me to inform no one. Why? Because he knew that I was surrounded by enemies. He eliminated one when he met Jarvis. The traitor fell into the trap prepared for me. But what have I done?

“I have summoned you, Roderick. You have advised me to ignore the advice of my one friend. You are trying to make me leave this place. I will not go! I will remain here! Jarvis is dead, and the other enemies will die! I shall tell all I know—”

The gleam in Roderick’s eyes was wicked. Langhorne saw it in a new light. With a hoarse cry, the millionaire expressed the final thought that had flashed into his mind.

“You are a traitor also!” screamed Langhorne. “I see it now! Those I trusted most — the first to whom I would turn. You are with The Death Giver!”

RODERICK’S hand was in his coat pocket. Irwin Langhorne understood the action. With a wild shout, he leaped upon the clubman in an effort to beat down Roderick’s arm. The hand of the younger man flashed into view, a revolver in its grasp.

Fiercely, Langhorne struggled against his adversary. For a few moments, the impetus of his attack served him well. Then Roderick broke away and leveled the revolver.

He fired once as Langhorne plunged upon him. The bullet found its mark. Langhorne, wounded, still fought with fury.

Roderick wrested himself clear and staggered toward the door. He turned and fired another shot into Langhorne’s sinking form. He would have delivered a third, but in the brief pause that followed the report, he detected footsteps in the hall.

Langhorne had crumpled on the floor. Believing him dead, Paul Roderick headed toward the stairs as two men came along the hall.

On the steps, Roderick pitched headlong into a man who was coming up. It was Harry Vincent. He had been sitting in the lobby, stationed there to watch should Irwin Langhorne attempt an unexpected departure. Paul Roderick fell upon The Shadow’s agent. Harry Vincent went down as he warded off the swing of Roderick’s descending revolver.

Other men were coming down the stairs. With long strides, Roderick crossed the lobby and gained the street. No one blocked his path. He gained his coupe before the pursuers had reached the door. He drove down the street away from the hotel.

The lobby was empty. Even the lethargic clerk had dashed to the street. No one saw the man with the derby hat who entered a few minutes later, at the side entrance.

The false Irwin Langhorne was returning. The sight of the empty lobby awoke a sudden brightness in his keen eyes.

Hurrying up the stairway, he overtook Harry Vincent weakly climbing to the top. Grasping Harry’s arm, the returning man drew him into Langhorne’s room. There, on the floor, lay the millionaire. He saw the face that bent above him. He recognized his own features.

“Rod” — the dying man’s breath came in a long, hesitating gasp— “Rod— Roderick—”

The lips were slowing. They moved no more. Irwin Langhorne was at the point of death. There was a chance to revive him; but that was too late. Intruders would be here at any moment; only the chase to the street had drawn them away.

Langhorne’s coat and hat tumbled to the chair. The man who had worn them stepped to the closet; when he emerged, a few seconds later, he was a man no longer. He was a phantom in black, a strange, weird being. He was The Shadow.

“Come.”

With whispered word, The Shadow thrust Harry Vincent from the room and swung him to the stairs.

Understanding, Harry dropped to the position where he had fallen when Roderick had struck. He was to play his part — that of a chance lounger in the lobby, who had been struck down by the murderer. Others had seen him fall.

But Harry had sufficient time to whisper an important message. He had heard two telephone calls go out during the period that he had watched in the lobby.

“The numbers — at the desk — the clerk marked them—”

The Shadow had not waited for further information. Well did The Shadow know that Irwin Langhorne must have summoned some one to his hiding place. With a swift swish down the steps, The Shadow gained the lobby. His tall form vaulted the desk and disappeared beneath the counterlike barrier.

MEN were coming into the lobby. Those who had rushed in vain pursuit of Paul Roderick; the clerk and two policemen. All of them hurried up the stairs.

The moment that they were gone, the form of The Shadow reappeared, a spectral shape in the gloom behind the desk. A gloved hand plucked a sheet of paper from a memoranda pad. The Shadow passed the end of the desk, crossed the lobby with swift stride, and disappeared through the side door.

Several minutes afterward, three men came down the steps. One was the clerk; the second was a policeman. The third was Harry Vincent, still groggy. He was telling his story to the officer. The clerk supported it. He had seen Harry dash up the stairs after the shots were fired.

“O.K.,” said the officer, as he aided Harry to a chair. “We’ll need you if we arrest a suspect. Maybe you could recognize the man if you saw him again.”

The clerk had gone behind the desk. He was scratching the back of his head.

“Guess I forgot to write those numbers down,” he declared. “I usually mark them. Sometimes I forget. There were two calls came from that room to-night.”

Harry Vincent suppressed a smile. He knew what had happened to those numbers. They were in the hands of The Shadow. Better that he should have them than the police!

SOME time afterward, a light clicked in The Shadow’s sanctum. A white hand laid a sheet of paper upon the table. It was the hotel clerk’s memorandum; the notation that bore the telephone numbers of the Merrimac Club and Irwin Langhorne’s home.

The hand inscribed a name upon another sheet of paper. A single name, it stood out in vivid letters. The name was Roderick. It was all The Shadow needed. A man named Roderick, a member of the Merrimac Club. He was the murderer whom The Shadow sought to-night.

The light clicked out. A low laugh resounded in the Stygian gloom. Chance had intervened again to aid the cause of Thade, The Death Giver. Irwin Langhorne had died, through his own foolish disobedience of The Shadow.

That death was to be regretted. It would mean the beginning of a new campaign of slaughter. Another victim would be named, with useless deaths preceding the attack upon him.

But The Shadow’s mesh had tightened. He had learned the identity of a man close to The Death Giver.

Before new crime could be fostered, The Shadow might find the chance to strike!

Master of darkness versus master of death. The Shadow against Thade!

The climax of the terrible drama was drawing near!