The Silver Scourge

CHAPTER XIX AT THE DEATH HOUSE

IT lacked twenty-five minutes of twelve o’clock when an automobile came to a sharp stop before the iron portals of the State penitentiary near New Avalon. An excited driver blew his horn. A man came out from a guardhouse and threw the rays of a flashlight toward the car. The beam revealed the visage of Tim Mecke.

“I want to see Warden Barringer,” asserted Tim. “Right away — important.”

He extended a card — one which had been obtained by Foulkrod Kendall. It bore the warden’s signature, allowing the holder admission to the prison. The guard went back to his house. The gates swung open. Tim Mecke drove through.

It had been a grueling drive from the State capital. The sedan in which Tim was seated was dripping with rain from a fierce storm through which the man had ridden. It was drizzling here in the courtyard of the penitentiary; roads had been slippery all along the way. Yet Tim had made it with nearly half an hour to spare.

The gangster grinned as he showed his permit to an inner guard. He was ushered along a corridor to the warden’s office. At that spot, progress ended.

An anteroom was jammed with men — newspaper reporters, guards, and others who were to witness Silk Elverton’s execution. Tim spoke to one of the uniformed men. He stated that he must see the warden at once. The guard thrust himself between Tim and a glass-paneled door. Tim could see the words upon the barrier:

“You can’t go in there,” growled the guard. “Not a chance, young fellow. Warden Barringer is busy.”

“But I must see him—”

“You’ll have your chance. He’ll be out pretty soon.”

“Before the execution.”

“Of course. That’s why these hounds are around here. They’re going downstairs with the warden.”

Tim Mecke nodded. He knew that he would have the opportunity he wanted. In reply to his question, the guard assured him that this was the only door to the warden’s office. Tim planted himself at a convenient spot, and listened to the talk between two newspaper men who were standing close by.

“Less than twenty minutes now, Jake,” one was saying.

“Yeah,” replied the other. “Do you feel nervous, Bob?”

“No. Why?”

“Well — I guess you’re hard-boiled. It gives me the willies, though, to think of a fellow being snuffed out while we’re looking on.”

“There’s nothing to it, Jake. He gets the juice, does a wiggle — that’s all.”

“How long does it take to knock him, Bob?”

“That depends. He gets the hot shock. The physician makes an examination. If it looks like there’s a chance of the guy being alive, they give him another shot.”

“How often?”

“You can’t tell. Generally, they’re shooting the juice through a body that’s already dead. It’s just a humane idea, I guess — so there won’t be any chance of life remaining. The autopsy comes after the execution has been completed, anyway.”

Tim Mecke was listening mechanically. This conversation was of little interest to him. He was watching the warden’s door.

“The juice burns them, doesn’t it?” Jake was asking. “One jolt ought to do the trick.”

“Electric current is funny,” returned the other reporter. “There’s such a thing as getting too much of it in one shock. They use alternating current in most pens, on that account. It burns bad, they say. There’s talk of installing it here, instead of the direct current which is used in this place.”

THE conversation continued. Bob had a hazy idea of just how the death current acted, but he managed to convey to Jake that there was a difference in the effects of direct and alternating currents. While the two reporters were still discussing the matter, the door of the warden’s office opened, and a squatty, gray-haired man appeared, with two uniformed guards behind him.

“The warden!” Tim heard some one say.

“Get ready, boys,” announced the gray-haired man, amid the hush which had fallen. “We’re going downstairs in about three minutes. They are ready there. Doctor Guyon is present in the electrocution room.”

Tim Mecke stepped forward as Warden Barringer was talking to the guards beside him. In his hand, Tim held the envelope which Foulkrod Kendall had given him at the governor’s mansion.

“Just a minute, warden,” interrupted Tim, in a low voice. “I’ve got something important to tell you.”

Warden Barringer studied Mecke narrowly. He wondered what this man wanted. He saw the envelope in Tim’s hand, and noted that it was addressed to himself.

“Does this pertain to the execution?” questioned the warden.

Tim nodded.

“What is it?” continued Barringer.

“You’ll have to open it, warden,” whispered Tim. “In the office — I can’t talk to you out here. I’ve just come from the capital—”

The warden motioned toward the door. He spoke to the guards, and told them to allow no one to enter. He conducted Tim Mecke into the office, and took the envelope as he walked to his desk.

“What’s in here?” quizzed the warden, as he tore open the envelope.

“A pardon,” said Tim, “for Ronald Elverton. A pardon, signed by Governor Landow.”

The warden, seated at the desk, looked up in astonishment. This was unbelievable. He was unfolding the paper as he stared at Tim Mecke. He doubted the man’s veracity.

The paper was open in Barringer’s hands. The governor’s signature was barely showing, but the warden did not notice it while he was surveying the man who had brought the envelope. Then, on the paper that rested between Barringer’s fingers, a strange phenomenon occurred.

As cleanly as if an invisible hand had acted, the signature of Hiram Landow obliterated itself from the pardon! The rapid, disappearing ink performed its function with surprising suddenness. This was the magic in that bottle of ink which The Shadow had substituted in the governor’s room. The special fluid lost its color upon contact with the air.

Warden Barringer stared at the paper. As he glanced down the typewritten lines, he fancied that he caught the glimmer of blue ink below. When his eyes jumped to that point, the warden saw that he was mistaken.

THIS document bore the wording of a pardon — but its most important part was blank. The paper bore no signature! Warden Barringer raised his head in anger.

“What is this?” he demanded. “A hoax? Some trick to delay the execution?”

“It is a pardon from the governor!” retorted Tim. “Read it. Look at the signature—”

In answer, the warden arose and flashed the paper before Tim’s eyes. The camouflaged gangster stood in amazement. He, too, saw that the paper lacked the governor’s name.

Tim was too stupefied to speak.

“Ready, warden?” came a voice from the door.

“Yes!” blazed Barringer. “We’ll go downstairs at once.”

Angrily, the warden tore the unsigned pardon in half. He flung the pieces to the floor. With a contemptuous glare at Tim Mecke, the official started for the door.

“Listen, warden!” Tim was pleading as he clutched Barringer’s arm. “There’s been a mistake. This pardon was on the level. Honest — I got it from the governor himself—”

“I have no time for you,” interposed Barringer coldly. “By rights, I should order your arrest, but the hoax is so apparent that it is too unimportant at this moment.”

Shaking off Tim’s grasp, the warden strode from the office. Tim followed wildly; the men who joined the rapidly walking warden cut Tim off from the man he sought to reach. The crowd was passing through an iron doorway. As Tim tried to break through to overtake Barringer, a guard stopped him roughly.

“Show your permit,” the man demanded.

Tim fumbled and produced the card that had gained him admission to the penitentiary.

“That won’t do!” exclaimed the guard. “I want the special permit that lets you down to the death room, or I can’t let you pass.”

“I haven’t got one,” blurted Tim. “Let me through — I want to see the warden—”

The guard thrust Tim Mecke to one side. The last of the crowd was passing through the doorway. The iron door clanged. Tim Mecke stood wild-eyed and bewildered.

“A telephone!” he cried. “I’ve got to call the governor! Where’s a telephone?”

The guard thought that Tim Mecke had gone berserk. Then, as he saw the man become calm and tense, he supplied the information that Tim wanted.

“Go back in the room outside the warden’s office,” said the guard. “You’ll find the telephone there.”

Tim hurried back. He called the operator. He was balked. The girl on the wire refused to put through a long-distance call for this unknown speaker. Desperately, Tim gave the number of Foulkrod Kendall’s home, near New Avalon. He was connected; he heard the voice of a servant.

“Quick!” pleaded Tim. “Call the Barnes Hotel at the State capital. Tell Mr. Kendall to communicate with the governor at once! Tell him that things have gone wrong — that Mecke called you—”

Seated by the telephone, Tim watched the clock. The long minute hand had almost reached twelve, when Tim’s call to Kendall’s home was ended. Two minutes to go! Tim knew that the cause was hopeless.

DOWNSTAIRS in the death room, guards were adjusting the clamps to Silk Elverton’s legs. Emotionless, the smooth crook was seated in the electric chair, staring stolidly at the throng of men who watched him. He could see the stern face of Warden Barringer. He observed the calm visage of Doctor Conrad Guyon.

The end was here. Silk knew that his pals had failed him. He said nothing. Deep silence pervaded the death room as the contacts were completed. Warden Barringer glanced at his watch and gave a signal.

Silk Elverton’s form quivered as it received the death current. Observers were too tense to even gasp. They saw the distorted countenance of the man in the electric chair. The dimming lights within the room made the scene a fearful one.

Upstairs, Tim Mecke gave a groan as the lights in the anteroom began to flicker. The gangster knew the meaning of the dull illumination. Current, taken from the dynamos, was serving another purpose than that of illumination. Silk Elverton was paying the penalty for crime.

Some one had played the double cross. It could have been Foulkrod Kendall; it could have been the governor. Whoever it was, the man would pay. Tim Mecke would see to that. He could still threaten Kendall; if the millionaire could prove that he had not perpetrated the hoax, Tim would square this affair with Hiram Landow himself!

IN the death room below, calm men were studying Silk Elverton’s twisted body. Doctor Conrad Guyon spoke the final words. He pronounced the murderer dead. The body was to be removed for the autopsy required by State law. White-faced reporters began to file from the room.

Tim Mecke heard the solemn throng as the men passed the door of the anteroom. He listened to awed voices, then heard the harsher statements of more hardened witnesses. The story was going to the newspapers for early edition publication.

Warden Barringer walked by, talking to men who were with him. He went into the inner office, without even noticing Tim Mecke’s presence in the outside room.

The telephone beside Tim began to ring. Mechanically, the gangster picked it up. He heard the voice of Foulkrod Kendall, excitedly inquiring the reason for Tim’s call.

“You’re too late,” said Tim, in a dull tone. “That pardon you gave me was a phony.”

Tim heard a startled exclamation across the line.

“You say the governor signed it?” quizzed Tim, in a low voice. “Well, he fooled you, then. You’d better get back to New Avalon tonight. I’ll be waiting to see you. I’m ready to blow the works if I think you played us dirt.”

A wild inquiry came to Tim’s ears.

“Yes,” growled the gangster, “Silk Elverton took the hot seat. He’s dead. I’m going to get some one for it. That’s all.”

The gangster hung up the receiver. He strode from the room and went outside. The drizzle had increased to a rain. Tim did not notice it. He was feverish with repressed rage. Silk Elverton was dead!

Vengeance rankled Tim Mecke’s brain. He would know the reason for this hoax that had cost the life of his pal. Foulkrod Kendall — Hiram Landow — one, perhaps both, would pay! Tim would get the man who had let Silk Elverton ride to doom.

Not for an instant did Tim Mecke suspect the presence of a hidden hand behind Silk Elverton’s visit to the death room. He had not been present to see Governor Landow sign Silk’s pardon. Had he been there at that time, his present anger would have been amazement.

Little did Tim realize that he had actually brought a signed pardon to Warden Willis Barringer; that the signature of Governor Hiram Landow had actually existed up until the moment when the warden had viewed the document!

Every effort had been made to stay the wheels of justice. A hidden power had intervened to render the deserved execution possible. The might of The Shadow had sent Silk Elverton to the death room, over the will of the State’s chief executive!