The Frenchman was paying a visit to Lucien Partridge, in accordance to the plan that he and Morales had agreed upon. When the car had passed the turn in the road, it was no longer in view, but Morales knew well that Armagnac would not turn back from his mission.
The Frenchman alighted in front of the heavily barred gate, and dismissed the chauffeur in the vehicle that had brought him. His keen eyes studied the arrangements of the high iron fence. It did not take Armagnac long to appreciate the formidable barrier that this made. He knew that it was in all probability protected by electric wires.
Armagnac was wondering about Morales when he rang the bell. Last night he had gained a high respect for the Argentinian's ability, but he felt doubtful that Morales possessed a sure scheme of entering the grounds.
It might be possible to counteract the electric barrier, but Partridge must certainly have signals that would signify the resultant short circuit.
Through the bars of the gate, Armagnac spied the evil face of Vignetti, and decided that the man must be a Corsican. So when Vignetti arrived at the gate, Armagnac spoke to him in French, and inquired for Lucien Partridge.
Vignetti growled a reply in poor English, and broke into a gusto of Italian dialect. Armagnac grinned.
Base Italian was still the language of many Corsicans, and Vignetti appeared to be one of those who resented French domination of his native isle. So Armagnac repeated his inquiry in English, and gave Vignetti his name.
Despite the fact that Morales had assured him visitors were usually well received by Lucien Partridge, Armagnac waited rather doubtfully until Vignetti retured. The Corsican opened the gate, and the Frenchman entered. A few minutes later, he was in Partridge's library, awaiting the arrival of the old man.
Lucien Partridge came in from the laboratory. He wore a rather puzzled expression as he faced Pierre Armagnac. It was difficult to tell whether the old man was pleased or displeased to see this visitor. He motioned to Armagnac to be seated, and quietly awaited to hear what the Frenchman had to say.
ARMAGNAC did not delay long with his story. He sized the situation quickly, and knew that his best procedure was to gain Partridge's confidence at the start.
"You must be surprised to see me here," he remarked.
"I am surprised," returned Partridge. "I thought that you were in France."
"I was in France until eight days ago," declared Armagnac. "Then I decided to come here—leaving Mercier in charge of operations at Marseilles."
"Do you think this visit is wise?" quizzed Partridge. "I did not request it. You sent me no notification."
"You will soon be glad that I am here," returned Armagnac. "Perhaps you think that I am bringing bad news. On the contrary, I am bringing the opposite. My news is good. It all depends upon one factor, however -"
"Which is -"
"Your ability to supply me with a tremendous quantity of the yellow metal."
An avaricious gleam came into Partridge's eyes. Armagnac saw it and resisted the temptation to smile.
He leaned forward and spoke in a low tone.
"I have a scheme to make millions. Millions—beyond all dreams."
"In France? I thought that you were working to the limit there, Armagnac."
"Not in France."
"You cannot operate elsewhere, Armagnac," declared the old man coldly. "That is our arrangement. Each man with his own country."
"You misunderstand me," smiled Armagnac. "I intend to operate within my limits. But I intend to do exactly what the French government is doing to-day."
"Which is -"
"To assist in the expansion of the French colonial possessions," returned Armagnac, still smiling.
"The French colonies?" questioned Partridge sharply. "That would be too much effort for the gain, would it not?"
"You do not know the French colonies of to-day," returned Armagnac. "That is where the new wealth lies. Africa—ah—it is a rising empire! No one can realize it until they have been there.
"The French colonies are being backed by gold. Millions upon millions of gold. I can tap that tremendous source while I still work in France. Mercier is doing well at Marseilles. I intend to travel."
The enthusiasm in Armagnac's voice was contagious. Already, Partridge, with his love for gold, was visualizing new opportunity. He recalled that French colonial expansion was becoming a modern epoch.
Armagnac was crafty and informed. Armagnac must be right.
The old man leaned back in his chair. Armagnac saw that he was interested. The Frenchman began to weave a picture of fabulous wealth. His stories of equatorial Africa took on the semblance of a new
"Arabian Nights."
Time rolled by; still Armagnac kept on. At last his smooth voice died away. Armagnac hid a smile within his beard as he witnessed the effect upon Lucien Partridge.
"So you see," he added, "it required no code letter with a partridge feather to bring me here posthaste. I am ready; but my work must begin at once. A well-planned base in Africa must be heavily supplied with the metal I desire."
"You shall be supplied," remarked Partridge.
Armagnac appeared dubious. Partridge eyed him closely. The old man was slightly annoyed at Armagnac's demeanor.
"You doubt me?" he questioned sharply.
"Not your intention," returned Armagnac, in a suave tone. "I merely am afraid that you do not realize what a huge order this will be. Much greater than your former output."
"How much greater?"
"Double your total production. Double the amount you are sending to me in France."
There was a tone of conceit in Armagnac's voice. It aroused Partridge's reply.
"Double your supply?" quizzed the old man ironically. "Do you believe that you alone are using my output? Is France all the world? Bah! Come with me!"
He erase and beckoned to Armagnac to follow. The Frenchman was elated. Partridge was playing into the trap. As his name indicated, he was a wise old bird; but Armagnac fancied himself craftier than any bird.
PARTRIDGE led the way through the laboratory. They descended into the rooms below. Here men were at work about a crucible. Partridge passed beyond them. He unlocked a door of a storage room. A mass of yellow bars greeted Armagnac's eyes.
"There is some yellow metal," crackled Partridge. "Come. I shall show you more."
Partridge led Armagnac from one storeroom to another. When they had completed the rounds, they went up to the laboratory. There Partridge smiled at the astonishment which Armagnac now evidenced.
"Yellow metal," quavered the old man. "Tons of it! Metal that looks like gold. Metal that passes for gold—as you—and others—have learned."
"You have a vast store," remarked Armagnac, affecting a wise look. "I did not realize before the extent of your operations. But, of course, much of that is real gold that you have received from myself and others."
"Real gold?" questioned Partridge. "Real gold, in those rooms below? Do you think that I would leave the true gold in such proximity to the false? No, no, Armagnac. I am too wise for that. My real gold" - his voice became cagey— "what I have of it—is kept elsewhere."
"On this property, of course."
The old man's eyelids flickered. He paused a moment; then smiled.
"Of course I keep it here," he said. "This place is a stronghold. But I do not keep the real gold with the false. I keep it out there."
He pointed from a window of the laboratory, across the lawn, to the little building a hundred yards away, by the edge of the cliff. Armagnac observed the steel-sheathed door.
"Deep in the cliff," remarked Partridge. "Down beneath the basement of that workhouse. There I keep my real wealth. You speak of millions. Come—I shall show you."
The two men strolled across the lawn. Armagnac, his eyes moving like little beads, was scanning every spot about him. The bearded Frenchman possessed a photographic mind. Already he was on the trail of the most essential detail that he had sought.
They arrived at
the workhouse. Lucien Partridge unlocked the strong door. The two entered a one-room building that was equipped with shuttered windows. The door remained open, and the dull light that entered showed nothing but a barren floor with workbenches and tools.
Pierre Armagnac gazed about him in evident disappointment. Lucien Partridge chuckled. He moved a bench aside, and opened a trapdoor that was artfully concealed in the floor. He motioned Armagnac to descend a ladder. The old man followed with surprising agility.
They were in a stone-floored room. Partridge illuminated it with a hanging lamp. In one corner he raised a rough stone with his clawlike fingers. The stone was merely a flat slab. The light came down on an extension wire. Partridge held it above the hole.
"Look there, Armagnac," he said.
The Frenchman gazed below. It was staring into a veritable shaft that ran at an angle into the ground. It had roughhewn steps that served as shelves; and on those ledges Armagnac saw bars and masses of golden metal.
ARMAGNAC arose and looked at Partridge. He saw the old man's face beaming with miserly joy of possession. Here, he knew, was the secret storage room of the vast wealth which Lucien Partridge had gained through his illicit enterprises.
In the brief inspection permitted him, Armagnac knew that Morales had spoken the truth when he had declared there was enough for two.
The bearded Frenchman tried to suppress the elation that he felt. He endeavored to show indifference after he and Partridge had left the workhouse. The old man pointed to the door after he had locked it.
"Protected with an electric signal," he said. "Let any one attempt to open it at night. The alarm would sound immediately. But no one will try"—the old man chuckled—"for no one can enter here, where I have my fence and my great cliff to the river."
They reached Partridge's laboratory. There, Armagnac expressed interest in Partridge's experiments.
They talked together until after dusk. Then Armagnac suddenly remembered that he must take the train to New York.
"I told the driver to return, unless I notified the station otherwise," he said. "I presume that he will be here shortly. Well, Mr. Partridge, we are men well suited. I want the yellow metal that looks like gold. In return I shall add to your storage room of real gold."
"You are leaving for France immediately?"
"As soon as possible."
"That is wise. You may count upon me for all the synthetic gold that you require."
Armagnac's eyes had a far-away look. He seemed to be visualizing the vast opportunities that lay within the colonies of France. His lips curved in a foreboding smile.
Vignetti entered to state that the automobile had arrived to take the visitor to the station. Pierre Armagnac was about to leave, when Lucien Partridge restrained him.
"Wait a few moments," insisted the old man. "You have ample time. I shall walk outside with you. But first, let me don my laboratory garb, now that Vignetti is here."
The Corsican arrived with gloves and smock. Lucien Partridge calmly donned the garments. He accompanied Pierre Armagnac to the gate. The Frenchman was talking in a low voice, weaving vast, vague schemes of his future work.
At the gate, Lucien Partridge extended his hand. Pierre Armagnac clasped it, glove and all. He listened while the old man spoke.
"What I have revealed must not be known," remarked Partridge, in a low tone.
"Certainly not," responded Armagnac.
"It is a closed book -"
"Never to be reopened."
The men parted. Armagnac looked back as he drove away in the dusk. The benign old man was standing at the gate, with Vignetti close beside him. An old fool and a dumb servant; so Armagnac considered them.
The automobile rolled on toward the station. Armagnac sat back in the cushions, thinking deeply. He noticed that his right hand was tingling slightly. He rubbed his hands together, and the sensation ceased.
Armagnac was more than pleased as he stared from the car window. He had discovered the old man's lair. To-night, plans would be made that would mean great wealth for Pierre Armagnac and his partner, Alfredo Morales.
CHAPTER XIV. THE MEETING
IT was after nine o'clock that night when Pierre Armagnac left the Westbrook Inn for a quiet stroll. As usual, the bearded Frenchman was wary in his actions. He laughed at his own precautions, however, for he was sure that there was no one at the hotel who might be interested in his activities.
As Armagnac made his way along the road toward the cottage in the woods, he failed to notice a peculiar phenomenon—a drifting shape that kept pace close behind him.
Had Armagnac noted that fleeting form of blackness, he would probably have ignored it. For it was scarcely more than a shadowy blotch moving along the path that he was taking.
When he reached the clearing in the woods, Armagnac gave a low whistle—a signal agreed upon between himself and Morales. He advanced; opened the cottage door, and entered. There he found Morales awaiting him. The Frenchman smiled in greeting. He sat down and began his tale.
"I have learned all you wish to know," he said. "Your surmise is correct. The gold is kept outside the house."
"Ah!" exclaimed Morales. "The real gold?"
"The real gold. The synthetic metal is in the large building."
"Excellent! How far is the real gold from the house?"
"One hundred yards—in a frame workhouse by the edge of the gorge."
"Better yet! Is it guarded?"
"By an electric alarm that evidently goes to the mansion."
"The mansion, too, is a frame structure?"
"Yes. The laboratory takes up much of the main floor. The furnaces are in the basement."
Morales drew Armagnac to a table and produced paper and pencil. The Frenchman began to draw an outlined plan of Lucien Partridge's domain. Armagnac's remembrance of detail was amazing. When he had completed his sketch, the territory across the river was an open book to Alfredo Morales.
"Wonderful!" exclaimed the Argentinian. "I could not have done so well had I covered the terrain by plane. That would have been a bad thing to do—and it would not have given me the details that I absolutely needed. For instance— the hiding place of the gold. I suspected that it might be outside the house.
"In the house or out, I would chance the scheme that I have in mind. But inside would not be so good as outside. Ah—you will understand, soon."
A line of darkness crept along the floor. To-night, as on the preceding evening, it extended inward from the window. The area of darkness became motionless, escaping the attention of the plotters.
Armagnac was telling Morales his estimate of the wealth concealed in Partridge's secret hiding place. The Frenchman was enthusiastic. Morales, now, was dreaming as he listened.
"GOLD—masses of it—shelves of it"—Armagnac was breathless— "and the old man has no need of worry. Guarded, hidden, weighing such a huge amount—how can it be spirited away?"
"Why do you think he showed it to you so readily?"
"I led up to it. He knew that I was planning to make millions of my own. He wanted to add to my confidence. He is gold-mad.
"You know, Partridge has sought to make real gold. He claims that he has succeeded, to a remarkable degree. This yellow metal is but inferior. But— according to his tale—he cannot produce the perfect metal cheaply enough to warrant its manufacture."
"He is a dreamer," declared Morales. "One cannot be too sure about his capabilities."
"But he has gold," said Armagnac. "I could see his ambition in his face. He wants to dominate the world by controlling the gold supply. A remarkable ambition, but too high. Better to seek what we have sought
- a vast quantity of gold that will enable us to forget our counterfeiting."
"It will be ours," returned Morales, with a sallow smile. "Ours— very soon!"
Armagnac expressed doubt in his eyes. Morales smiled more broadly. Armagnac's doubt increased. He spoke thoughtfully, with carefully chosen words.
"I ha
ve done my part, Morales," said the Frenchman. "Now is your turn. By our agreement, we were to exchange information and services. I have found out all that you needed. Now I want to know your plans."
Morales began to laugh. Armagnac wondered why. The Argentinian arose and lighted a cigarette. His mirth continued. When he paused, he faced the Frenchman and explained the reason for his laughter.
"Armagnac," he said, "you are wondering what I intend to do. You have brought me information that is worth millions; yet you yourself cannot understand its value. Unthinkingly, you have ended your own usefulness in this enterprise.
"I am here with men; with method; with purpose. You are alone. I need you no longer. You have begun to realize that fact. Nevertheless" - his eyes flashed shrewdly—"I place each of us upon an equal basis.
Why? Because one and one make two—and two are better than one.
"I am thinking of the future—of the vast possibilities that will open up to two clever men who can work in harmony. You understand? This will be the beginning.
"You ask me my plans? I shall show you. You, Pierre Armagnac, with all your experience, with all your genius, will admire the schemes of Alfredo Morales."
Approaching the door of the room, Morales uttered a low whistle. Jose entered from the outer door.
Morales questioned him.
"Manuel has not returned?"
"No."
"Remain here, Jose. Keep watch until we return."
Armagnac expected to see Morales indicate that they were to leave the cottage. Instead, Morales went to a door in the corner of the room. He paused there, and spoke, with dramatic effect.
"You were in the great war, Monsieur Armagnac?"
"Yes," replied the Frenchman, puzzled.
"There were many successful attacks then," declared Morales. "Many attacks that were directed against strongholds more formidable than the one in which Lucien Partridge now barricades himself."
The Creeping Death The s-22 Page 9