The Creeping Death The s-22 Read online

  The Creeping Death The

  ( Shadow - 22 )

  Maxwell Grant

  "Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow Knows!"

  The lure of gold -- that lust which has made men kill throughout the ages -- had gripped the enemies of justice. The swindle of the century threatened to put the world at the mercy of either a power-hungry, underhanded financier and his cohorts, or an eccentric creator of synthetic gold. But the common purpose which brought Forster, Morales, and Armagnac to inventor Lucien Partridge did not stop them from cunningly plotting behind each others' backs.

  Only The Shadow could halt the creation of a Gold Empire. Garbled in black, silently stalking the streets, he alone could triumph over evil. The insidieous princes of the underworld would be crushed by this Master Crime-Fighter -- The Shadow!

  THE CREEPING DEATH

  Maxwell Grant

  CHAPTER I. DYING WORDS

  A DOUBLE row of taxicabs and automobiles came to a stop on the street in front of the Metrolite Hotel.

  Motors roared and horns honked as impatient drivers waited for the Broadway traffic to clear. They were in the midst of one of the heavy jams that nightly congest the streets of Manhattan.

  In one cab, a man leaned forward into the front seat and spoke to the driver. He was terse in his tone as he held out a dollar bill and gave an order.

  "This is close enough," he said. "Let me out here. I'll walk over to the hotel."

  The driver accepted the money; the passenger left the cab and threaded his way among the halted vehicles until he reached the sidewalk near the Metrolite Hotel. With quick strides he completed the last yards of his short trip, and entered the revolving door.

  The Metrolite Hotel was one of Manhattan's newest and most popular hostelries that specialized in moderate rates. Its lobby, although not large, was elegantly furnished, and constantly frequented by the guests. The arrival of one individual was nothing to excite particular interest.

  Hence the man who had left the taxicab scarcely looked to either side as he approached the desk and made an inquiry of the clerk in charge.

  "You have kept my room for me?" he asked. "Room 1414 as I requested when I left yesterday?"

  The clerk hesitated a moment as he surveyed the man before him. Then he recognized the sober, quiet face, with its keen eyes and short-clipped mustache.

  "Ah, yes," he said. "Of course we have kept your room, Mr. Fitzroy. Here is the key."

  "No messages?"

  "I don't think so"—the clerk turned to a stack of envelopes— "Fitzroy— Fitzroy -"

  "Jerry Fitzroy."

  "No messages."

  The man with the mustache turned toward the elevator. He walked with briskness and precision. Jerry Fitzroy was square-shouldered, but slight in build. He carried himself with a challenging air across the lobby.

  THE brief conversation between Fitzroy and the clerk had carried very little information. It had revealed the simple facts that Jerry Fitzroy had returned to the Metrolite Hotel after a short absence, and would be quartered in his regular room—No. 1414. Yet that meager information was of great interest to one man stationed in the lobby.

  Hardly had Jerry Fitzroy disappeared; scarcely had the clerk turned to talk to another guest; before a young man arose from a chair close to the desk and walked to the telephone booths in another part of the lobby.

  Entering a booth, this man called a number and waited thoughtfully until he heard a low, quiet voice on the other end of the line. This voice announced itself with two words:

  "Burbank speaking."

  "This is Vincent," declared the man in the booth. "He is back. Same room."

  "Report received. No further instructions."

  The distant receiver clicked. The young man left the phone booth and strolled through the lobby out into the street.

  No one could possibly have suspected that this brief episode had taken place. Yet in that brief conversation, Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow, had relayed to Burbank, another trusted agent, the fact that Jerry Fitzroy had returned to the Metrolite Hotel.

  UP in Room 1414, Jerry Fitzroy was removing his coat and vest. He placed these articles of apparel on a chair, and sat down at a writing desk in the corner. He stared speculatively through the open French window, past a little balcony outside. Then he arose and went to his coat.

  For a moment his hand rested upon the side pocket of the garment; then, with a slight laugh, Fitzroy returned to the writing desk and again pondered.

  Although this quiet-faced man appeared neither worried nor hasty, his keen concentration showed that he was deep in thought, reviewing certain events with the utmost care.

  He seemed oblivious to his surroundings, entirely ignorant of the fact that his presence in New York had awakened the interest of so strange a being as The Shadow.

  For the very name of The Shadow was synonymous with mystery. He and those who served him were the sworn enemies of crime and evil. Where danger and death lurked, there did the hand of The Shadow appear to thwart and reveal the schemes of insidious monsters!

  Again, Jerry Fitzroy returned to his coat. He brought out a pipe and a tobacco pouch, filled the pipe, and lighted it. He stared from the window, puffing; then, his plans apparently completed, he laid the pipe upon the desk and drew open the drawer.

  Fitzroy picked up a sheet of hotel stationery. As he started to draw the paper from the drawer, it slipped from his fingers. He gripped the sheet again, and laid it on the table. He reached for the pen. It dropped from his grasp as he placed it with the paper.

  The man's forehead furrowed in a puzzled manner as he looked at his left hand and slowly moved the fingers. Fitzroy laughed, in a hollow manner. He raised the pen in his right hand, and dipped it in an inkwell. He stared at his right hand. It, too, seemed numb.

  Shrugging his shoulders, Fitzroy attempted to write.

  Now his puzzlement became concern. The letters that he scrawled upon the paper were illegible. He dropped the pen and looked at both hands. He tried to move his fingers. He failed.

  Shaking his wrists, Fitzroy attempted to restore normal action to his hands. The shaking became mechanical. The wrists, too, were rigid!

  The man's forearms pumped up and down like pistons. They slowly lost their motion. With hands helpless upon his knees, Fitzroy gasped and moved his shoulders up and down, a look of horror clouding his features. The motion of the shoulders ended.

  With a hoarse cry, Fitzroy attempted to rise from his chair. His body strained under the effort. He gained his feet and tottered; then, as his legs succumbed, Fitzroy fell headlong upon the desk!

  Directly before his terror-stricken eyes lay the telephone. With panic overcoming him. Fitzroy swung his head and knocked the instrument on its side. The receiver fell loose from the hook.

  "Help me"—Fitzroy's words were blurted—"quickly—a doctor! Room 1414 —I may be dying!"

  With that, the man lost his balance and rolled away from the desk, falling heavily upon the floor. He lay there, gasping, his head moving from side to side, his eyes bulging with horror.

  MINUTES were moving by. The form on the floor had gained the rigidity of a corpse—all but the head, which moved from side to side with the monotonous motion of a pendulum.

  Help! When would it arrive?

  The head turned upward as the ears, still hearing, detected a sound at the window. The eyes, wildly staring, focused themselves upon a living being. Stepping through from the balcony was a form in black.

  For a long, weird moment, Fitzroy viewed the personage who had entered. This strange visitor was garbed in a long, flowing cloak. His face was obscured by a slouch hat. All that Fitzroy could see were two pie
rcing eyes that glowed from mysterious depths as they viewed the plight of the man on the floor.

  With the grip of death upon him, Fitzroy fancied that he was entering another world. The very sight of this phantom brought confusing thoughts to his terror-racked mind. The figure was stooping toward him!

  Then came an interruption. A noise outside the door—a rattle of the lock —the door of the room was opening. Vaguely, Fitzroy saw the black form turn swiftly and merge with the outside darkness of the balcony.

  Fitzroy tried to change the direction of his gaze, to look toward the door of the room. He failed. The muscles of his neck were paralyzed!

  Men were in the room now—men who knew nothing of that strange visitor who had disappeared—men who saw only the pitiful shape of Jerry Fitzroy, prone upon the floor. They were stooping over this victim of an outlandish malady. A house detective and the hotel physician—both were looking into those glassy eyes.

  Jerry Fitzroy's gaze was rigid. The muscles of his eyeballs were no longer functioning. His ears were scarcely hearing. The questions of those who had come to aid him were like distant voices, faint and obscure.

  With an effort, the dying man attempted to respond. His lips moved, but no sound came from them. He seemed to sense the lack. He forced out words despite the invisible grip that seemed to clutch his throat.

  Yet even those words were articulate only in part.

  "Tell—mark—secret -"

  "Secret mark -"

  The terse response came from the doctor.

  Jerry Fitzroy's lips moved; then ceased. Only the eyes remained open; eyes that were seeing, for a light shone in them. Then, gradually, that light faded. The eyes still stared, but they did not see!

  The physician arose from beside the body and stood with folded arms. He turned to the house detective.

  "You heard what he said?" the doctor asked.

  "Yes," replied the detective. "'Tell mark secret.' Something about a secret mark."

  As the doctor nodded, the detective strode quickly to the window. He flashed a light along the balcony.

  The glare revealed nothing. The detective stepped back into the room.

  The doctor was examining the dead man. He seemed a trifle puzzled by the twisted rigidity of Jerry Fitzroy's body. He shook his head doubtfully.

  "A strange form of paralysis," he declared. "It must have ended muscular activity completely before it affected the brain. I shall call the police and have them send a medical examiner."

  He paused as he jiggled the hook of the telephone. He spoke thoughtfully to the detective.

  "Remember those words," he said. "Those words about a secret mark. They may be important. Only you and I were here to hear them."

  The detective acquiesced with a nod. He thought that the doctor was correct. Yet both the sleuth and the physician were but half right. The words that Jerry Fitzroy had uttered were important; but they had been heard by another than these two.

  From the darkness of the balcony, The Shadow had been listening. Somewhere —not far away—The Shadow, too, was pondering over the significance of those dying words!

  CHAPTER II. THE HAND FROM THE DARK

  A SECRET mark?

  The questioner was Detective Joe Cardona of the New York force. Standing beside the desk in Room 1414 of the Metrolite Hotel, he put the inquiry to the house detective and the hotel physician.

  "Tell mark secret," declared the doctor. "Those were the only words we heard him say."

  Cardona paced up and down the room. He looked toward the open window. He stared at the body on the floor, which the medical examiner had just inspected. Cardona walked to the writing desk and curiously surveyed the small collection of articles that had been taken from Jerry Fitzroy's pockets.

  Two objects commanded Cardona's attention. One was a French coin— a gold twenty-franc piece. The other was a mottled brown feather.

  "Outside of these"—Cardona indicated the two articles—"there's nothing of importance except those papers that show this fellow's name was Jerry Fitzroy. But a foreign coin and a bird feather—why was he carrying them?"

  No one answered the question. The medical examiner was approaching to make his report.

  "An unusual form of paralysis," he declared. "A natural death. I see nothing to indicate violence."

  The house physician nodded to show his agreement with his medical colleague.

  "All right," said Cardona gruffly. "I'll be here a while. You stay" - he nodded to the house detective—"and we can talk this over."

  As a matter of routine, Joe Cardona knew that all that remained was to order the removal of the body of Jerry Fitzroy. Yet before he sent that rigid form to the morgue, the detective was desirous of learning the answer to the questions that perplexed him.

  The Metrolite sleuth watched while Cardona walked across the room and stared out upon the balcony.

  Cardona had a high reputation in New York. He was a crime solver in a class by himself. But here was a case that had no evidence of crime.

  Cardona sat at the writing desk. He studied the unfinished scrawl that Jerry Fitzroy had begun. He grumbled in a dissatisfied tone. A man of intuition, Cardona sensed foul play, even though he could not trace it.

  At last Cardona shrugged his shoulders. He reached for the telephone, intending to call and give orders for the removal of Jerry Fitzroy. At that moment, the phone bell rang. Cardona, answering it, heard the voice of one of his men.

  "We just arrested a man in the lobby," was the information. "He came in here, asking for Jerry Fitzroy -"

  "What's his name?" demanded Cardona.

  "He won't tell us. Wants to talk with you -"

  "Bring him up."

  Cardona smiled grimly as he hung up the receiver. Here might be a clew. An unknown visitor, coming to visit Jerry Fitzroy after the man had died.

  The house detective waited with interest. He wanted to see Cardona in action, grilling this man whom the police had arrested.

  THERE was a knock at the door. The house detective opened it to admit two plain-clothes men who were bringing in a stocky, heavy man whose swarthy face was emotionless. Cardona studied the man who had been taken into custody.

  "See what he's got on him," he ordered.

  The plain-clothes men made a quick frisk. They brought forth a businesslike automatic, and handed it to Cardona. The detective stared at the captive.

  "Carrying a gun, eh?" he demanded. "What do you know about this?"

  The swarthy man was staring at the still form of Jerry Fitzroy. Cardona prompted him with another question.

  "What's your name?"

  "You are in charge here?" the prisoner asked quietly.

  "Yes," declared Cardona.

  "May I speak with you privately?"

  A look of perplexity came over Cardona's face. The request was an unusual one. Cardona suspected a ruse. At last he nodded to the plain-clothes men.

  "Go on outside," he ordered. "You, too"—he nodded to the house detective —"and wait by the door.

  There'll be no trouble here."

  As the men obeyed, Cardona drew a revolver from his pocket and motioned the prisoner to a chair in the corner of the room. A few moments later, Cardona and the swarthy man were alone. Cardona was glowering and suspicious; the suspect was calm and expressionless.

  "Spill it," ordered Cardona. "Your name -"

  "Victor Marquette," came the response, in a quiet voice. "I don't suppose that you have ever heard of me. I keep well under cover. I am a secret-service agent."

  "With the secret service -"

  While Cardona spoke Vic Marquette calmly drew back his coat and turned back the inside of his vest.

  Cardona saw the badge that gleamed there.

  "That is why I wanted a private discussion," announced Marquette. "There are certain reasons why I do not want my identity known to any but yourself."

  Cardona, knowing that the man was genuine, calmly pocketed his revolver. Marquette's words explained why
he had been carrying an automatic.

  The secret-service man's next statement brought a new revelation.

  "I am also anxious," added Marquette, "that Fitzroy's identity should not be known. He is—or was—a secret-service man also."

  "Ah!" Cardona's exclamation denoted understanding. "You and he were working together."

  "No," responded Marquette, shaking his head. "Fitzroy was working alone. I did not know he was here.

  But I received a call a short while ago, telling me to meet Fitzroy here at the Metrolite Hotel."

  "A call from whom?"

  "I do not know. Probably some one whom Fitzroy had instructed to call me. I came here, only to be arrested by your men. I was amazed to learn that Fitzroy was dead. How did he die?"

  "Paralysis. Natural death, apparently. But if you think -"

  "I suspect nothing"—Marquette was thoughtful—"but I should like to know any peculiar circumstances

  -"

  "Fitzroy spoke before he died," interposed Cardona. "He said something about a secret mark -"

  "A secret mark -"

  "Yes." Cardona drew a paper from his pocket. "This is what the hotel physician and the house detective said. Fitzroy, just before he died, was trying to speak. His words could not be understood, except these three: 'Tell mark secret.' Those words seemed to be part of a sentence -"

  "Wait a moment"—Marquette was smiling—"I think I understand. I know what Fitzroy was trying to say.

  'Tell mark secret'—with little gaps between -"

  "Yes—with gaps between."

  "In full, 'Tell Victor Marquette of the secret service'—or something to that effect."

  CARDONA was thoughtful for a moment. Then he slowly nodded. He saw the connection.

  "You've got it!" he declared. "He wanted to get in touch with you. That was the idea, eh?"

  "Of course. Fitzroy knew I was in New York. He would naturally have tried to communicate with me.

  Did you find any articles upon his person?"

  Cardona pointed to the writing desk. Marquette arose and went in that direction. Cardona indicated the gold coin; also the feather.