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 piercing 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
