Fingers of Death
- Автор: Грант Максвелл
- Серия: The Shadow #25
- Год: 1933
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Shadow Magazine
- Жанр: Крутые детективы
Электронная книга - «Fingers of Death». Краткое содержание книги:
An intense pallor crept over the physician’s face. He was bordering upon a state of complete mental collapse. He seemed to lack the power to resist the dominating methods of the man before him.
“Your confession, Doctor Shores,” said the chuckling voice, “would be acceptable, if complete. Your plan was evidently to deliver it or have it finished when called for. However, it is better in its present state. Its completion must be delayed; and your departure also.”
THE second hand crept across the table. Doctor Shores stared aghast as he saw it pick up the hypodermic syringe that bore the label. Fingers of death brought the needle point close to the physician’s wrist. Wildly, Shores tried to draw away.
“This will suffice,” came the chuckled tones. “The injection that you gave to Josiah Bartram, reserved for yourself. Let us relish the thought of give and take. Why draw away, doctor? Did Josiah Bartram suffer greatly when he died?”
“No! No! Not that!”
Shores was rising now, ready to put up a struggle, but his indecision proved costly. Before he could pull his wrist from the fingers that clutched it; before he could bring his other arm into play, the fingers that held the hypodermic thrust the needle deep into the physician’s wrist.
On his feet, Felton Shores staggered across the room. His visitor was there before him, blocking the door.
Shores cried out for aid; but the closing door prevented his voice from carrying far. The physician tottered. His strength was leaving him. He sank to his knees, and began to clutch at his throat. In maddened desperation, he cried out the only words that came to his mind — those words that he had heard Josiah Bartram utter:
“Fingers of death! Fingers of death!”
The cry became a gargle. Other words that Shores sought to utter died in his throat. The physician’s body rolled upon the floor and lay motionless.
The fingers of death became active. They carefully polished the syringe, and placed it, still labeled, beside Shores. They did not touch the incomplete confession. A gas jet extended from the wall. The fingers turned the handle, and an odor manifested itself in the room.
Turning his back upon the still body of Doctor Felton Shores, the man who had done these deeds opened the door of the office and stepped forth. He closed the door behind him. His footsteps shuffled out of the apartment.
The single lamp upon the office table showed the inert form of Doctor Felton Shores. It gleamed upon the paper that the man had written. The hissing of the gas jet continued.
Those who might enter upon this ghastly scene would gain an obvious conclusion. Doctor Felton Shores, despondently writing a confession of crime, had seized that fact to take his own life. He had turned on the gas to assure his suicide; then, to make death positive, he had injected into his own body the same solution that he had used upon Josiah Bartram.
There lay the scene — sure evidence of suicide. The man who had weakened was silenced forever.
Fingers of death had worked cunningly tonight!
Doctor Felton Shores had paid the penalty of remorse.
CHAPTER XX. THE SIGN OF CRIME
IT was nearly midnight when Hurley Adams came up the street to his home. The old lawyer hurried into the house and was met by Unger in the hallway. Adams was in a state of repressed excitement.
“Were there any messages for me, Unger?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir,” responded the attendant. “An important telephone call. Two calls, both from the same party.
Doctor Shores.”
“Felton Shores? What did he want?”
“He wanted you to come to see him — at once, sir. I did not know where to reach you.”
“Felton Shores!” Adams pronounced the name in a low tone. “So Felton Shores called me, eh? I can’t see him tonight. No, I can’t go there.”
“He said it was very urgent, sir.”
Hurley Adams became more calm. He was not anxious to betray his excitement to Unger. He considered the matter quietly and remarked:
“I had forgotten. Doctor Shores advised Miss Bartram to go away for a rest, and I advised the same.
Her fiance, Mr. Saybrook, is away. Call Doctor Shores and let me speak to him.”
Unger went to the telephone and called the number. He waited patiently for a few minutes; then announced that there was no response. Adams expressed indifference.
“Probably a matter of no consequence,” he said.
The lawyer and his servant had been standing in the front hall. Both had been engrossed in conversation.
Hence they had failed to notice that other eyes were watching them.
From the moment that Hurley Adams had come within close range of his home, he had been followed by a person who moved with inaudible stealth. The Shadow had been waiting his arrival. At this moment, the black-garbed watcher was peering through the curtains of the nearest room. The Shadow had entered the window, unheard and unseen.
“There was another message, sir,” remarked Unger. “A message from Mr. Thewkson, of the Holmsford City Bank—”
“Yes? Yes?” Adams queried quickly.
“Yes, sir,” responded Unger. “He said that the president had told him that you had inquired for copies of the records in the cornerstone of the old building.”
“I did,” said Adams, calming his eagerness. “That’s right. I had almost forgotten it. I asked him for them so that I might find if there were legal matters mentioned in them.”
“Mr. Thewkson stopped here, sir,” continued Unger. “He said that the president was away; but Mr. Thewkson has the records in his possession. The cornerstone was opened this afternoon. They must not be made public until the president’s return, Mr. Thewkson said; but he sent you these copies—”
As Unger produced an envelope, Hurley Adams could scarcely resist snatching it from the man’s hands.
The old lawyer barely managed to again cover his excitement. With the envelope in his grasp, he walked into the living room.
“It’s a trifle chilly, Unger,” he stated. “Light the fire in the fireplace.”
The fire was already built, and while Unger followed orders, Hurley Adams fumbled with the envelope.
The fire was crackling as a sheaf of carbon-copied papers came into the lawyer’s hands. Going through them rapidly, Adams stopped at one that bore the heading:
HISTORICAL FACTS CONCERNING HOLMSFORD.
HURLEY ADAMS could scarcely wait until after Unger had walked out of the room. The old lawyer seated himself, oblivious to all but the papers now in his hand. He had no suspicion that eyes were watching him from across the hall. He did not know that The Shadow had witnessed the delivery of that envelope; that The Shadow was waiting here to see his reaction!
There were three paragraphs on the first page. Adams nearly ripped the sheet in his haste to find the beginning of the fourth paragraph. With the fire crackling at his side, the lawyer found the words he sought. The account read:
One of the finest tributes ever erected by a community was the Spanish War Monument built in 1905. It stands well back from the entrance of the City Cemetery. Its location is secluded, but its setting is appropriate, as it lauds the soldiers who died in their country’s service. The monument is a magnificent monolith. Most important is the copper plate upon its base, for this plate bears the inscription to those in whose memory the monument was erected.
The words stared forth as Hurley Adams read them more slowly. A gleam of triumph appeared upon the lawyer’s face. Here, after more than twenty years, was the secret of the hiding place in which Malcolm Warthrop and Stokes Bartlett had concealed the millions stolen during the transfer of funds at the City Bank.