The Silent Death

CHAPTER XV. THE HAND OF DEATH

THOMAS JOCELYN was lying in bed, half asleep. The financier’s face was drawn. His closed eyelids were dark and heavy. His expression showed weakness and worry.

The illness that had brought Jocelyn to this state had been the result of a troubled mind. Thomas Jocelyn had reached the zenith of his fiendishness when he had seen Alfred Sartain about to die. The sight of The Shadow had shattered the financier’s confidence.

Given respite by Professor Urlich, told to let his plans rest for a while, Thomas Jocelyn had experienced a slight recovery after that strange night in the office across from Sartain’s penthouse.

Gradually, the old financier’s fears had increased. Newspaper reports concerning J. Wesley Barnsworth and Gardner Joyce had made Jocelyn sure that Professor Urlich was proceeding. The terrible burden upon Jocelyn’s mind was irresistible.

Living alone, with Grewson as his sole attendant, Thomas Jocelyn had succumbed to nervousness and had failed to respond to a physician’s care. At times, the old financier mumbled incoherent utterances which only Grewson heard. The servant had been Jocelyn’s constant companion during this period of distress.

In his fevered mind, Thomas Jocelyn was battling with the desire to confess his part in attempted crime.

He was afraid to speak; he was afraid to preserve silence. The grim face of Professor Folcroft Urlich haunted him fiendishly in his dreams; and always, behind that face, loomed the spectral figure of a being in black — The Shadow.

It was only indecision that had prevented Thomas Jocelyn from calling the police. Had either Barnsworth or Joyce been murdered, Jocelyn would probably have broken down. The arrest of Harbeck had been a final blow that had shattered all resistance. Jocelyn’s condition was rapidly approaching a critical stage.

The old financier managed to open his eyelids as he heard a sound at the door of the room. He saw the portal open. Grewson, a hard-faced man, entered and stared toward the bed. The servant smiled in disarming fashion when he saw that his employer was awake.

“Time for your medicine, sir,” announced Grewson.

“Which medicine?” asked Jocelyn querously.

“A new prescription from your doctor,” responded Grewson. “You were half asleep when he spoke about it, sir.”

THE old financier watched the attendant take two bottles from the corner. One contained a greenish liquid; the other a red solution. Using a large glass, Grewson mixed the contents. Jocelyn blinked as he saw that the result was colorless.

“Here you are, sir,” announced Grewson, approaching with the glass. “The doctor said to take the entire dose.”

Thomas Jocelyn began to gulp the liquid. Its taste was not unpleasant. Grewson reached out with a strong arm and propped the financier up in bed. Jocelyn finished the draft and sank wearily back upon his pillow. His eyes then showed a sudden sparkle.

“It is like an elixir, Grewson!” he exclaimed. “What a strange sensation! I can feel my heartbeats quicken!”

Grewson stood beside the bed, smiling. Of his own accord, Thomas Jocelyn sat up. He clenched his fists; the seemed ready to spring from bed. Suddenly, a convulsive shudder shook his frame.

“Grewson!” Jocelyn’s voice came in a whispered gasp. “Grewson! What — what — is — happening—”

Tremors followed. Jocelyn retained his new-gained strength, but terrific spasms continued. Grewson backed slowly away. He saw Jocelyn drop back upon the pillow, his breath coming in long, hoarse gasps.

Grewson reached the door. His face bore an evil expression that marked him for what he was — the tool of fiends who plotted death. Grewson knew that he had done his part. Thomas Jocelyn would die at the order of Larry Ricordo.

The false servant reached to close the door behind him. In a few seconds he would be gone, leaving no trail behind him. He had stayed his action for the appointed time; now his work was through. The door began to close; then stopped.

A noise beside the bed had attracted Grewson’s quick attention. Turning, the servant saw Jocelyn clutching at a table that stood beside the bed. Before Grewson could spring back to stop him, the financier had grasped the telephone and had lifted the receiver.

Pouncing in tigerish fashion, Grewson sought to wrest the instrument from Jocelyn’s clutch. The financier toppled forward. He flung the telephone from him and his clawing hands knocked over the table. The empty glass which had contained the terrible potion shattered on the floor.

Fiercely, Grewson caught Jocelyn’s shoulders and threw the financier back in bed. The alarmed servant picked up the telephone and listened at the receiver. He could hear the voice of the operator inquiring the trouble; he could also hear Jocelyn’s long, coughing gasps.

“Hello?” The operator was speaking. “I am calling the police. Do you understand?”

“Hello,” growled Grewson. “Never mind. It’s all right.”

“Were you on the wire a moment ago?” challenged the operator.

“No… No…” Grewson tried to be convincing. “It was an accident. The telephone fell — that was all.”

Jocelyn’s harsh sighs came audibly. The girl must have heard these belying sounds. She expressed her doubts of Grewson’s statement.

“I am calling the police,” she asserted, “unless you put the other person on the wire.”

Angrily, Grewson hung up the receiver. He realized then that it was the worst thing he could have done.

He raised the receiver; jiggled the hook, finally hung up once more. He looked at Jocelyn.

The financier had lost all strength. His lips were moving feebly; his eyes, alone, seemed to have the power to rove. Apparently those spasms of terrific strength had ended in almost total paralysis.

An angry snarl came from Grewson. The false servant glared venomously. He knew that he had been successful so far, but he recalled the rest of Larry Ricordo’s plans. The gang lord had said that some one was coming here; that that person should find Thomas Jocelyn alone.

WHAT if the police arrived first? Grewson knew that such a happening would injure whatever scheme Ricordo had evolved.

For a moment the gangster-servant hesitated, then he realized that he could do nothing to prevent the outcome. He could trust to luck that the visitor would arrive considerably before the police reached the apartment.

That thought gave Grewson a new consideration: his own safety. He had overstayed the time that he had intended. He must depart at once.

He paused only to throw a last derisive glance at the gasping form of Thomas Jocelyn. Grewson held no regard for the man whom he had pretended to serve. He had accepted Ricordo’s order to slay with a malicious relish. Thomas Jocelyn was dying now, and Grewson had guided the hand of death.

“Cash in your checks,” jeered Grewson. “Good-by, you old mug. Let the bulls find you coughing out. Sorry I won’t be here to see it. Try to tell ‘em who did it!”

The false servant backed across the room. His gangster identity had come to the surface. Thomas Jocelyn understood and tried to reply to the villain’s challenge, but his lips, although they moved, could do little more than cough.

Backing to the door, Grewson grinned and made a burlesque of the bow which he had been accustomed to use when doing Jocelyn’s bidding. The gangster-servant intended it as his last action before he left that room where death was working. But as he inclined his head, Grewson saw something upon the floor that made him stiffen.

Stretching out in front of him, cast from a spot behind his body, lay a strange, blanketing shadow of blackness. Long, sinister and spectral, it seemed a living creature of ominous import. It represented the shape of a tall being garbed in flowing cloak and broad-brimmed hat.

Grewson’s tense form relaxed. Dazed and affrighted, the killer turned slowly toward the door. As he made that slow revolution, Grewson heard a terrifying sound — a weird noise far more incredible than the gasping breath of Thomas Jocelyn.

A low, mocking laugh rang in Grewson’s ears. Its gibing tones reechoed in hollow tones from the walls of the room. The laugh was audible proof of visible fears. Without completing his turn, Grewson cowered away from the door, staring wild-eyed past his own shoulder.

A scream came from his trembling lips. Before him, Grewson saw the enemy of all gangdom — the being of whom he had heard — The Shadow.

Tall, sinister and unyielding, The Shadow surveyed the shrinking gangster with burning, brilliant eyes.

Beads of sweat glowed on Grewson’s paling forehead. The man understood Larry Ricordo’s admonition now — the reason why a quick departure had been urged.

The Shadow was the one whom Ricordo had expected here tonight! He had known that this terrible being would come to the room of doom. Grewson realized the consequences of his delay, but all too late.

Surprised beside the dying form of the man whose death he had furthered, Grewson stood openly condemned as the tool in the plot against Thomas Jocelyn. He had guided the hand of death; now he had met the avenger of death.

Helpless before the tall black-garbed being that threatened him, Grewson crouched upon the floor — a murderer in the power of The Shadow.