The Man From Shanghai Read online

  “Have I your confidence?” he queried, quietly. “Your absolute assurance that what I tell you will not be repeated?”

  Both Rowden and Malfort nodded.”My funds will soon be here,” stated The Shadow. “My chauffeur will be outside to see that they are delivered. The cash is coming in an armored truck.”

  Noting the stares of the listeners, The Shadow explained further.

  “Unfortunately,” he remarked. “I was absent from the country at the time when the government called in all gold. I had the sum of a few hundred thousand dollars carefully put away. It was entirely in gold coin. Naturally, I was embarrassed after my return. I feared that I would be regarded as a hoarder, should I turn in so large a sum.

  “I have looked for a comfortable way to dispose of that gold. I have found the method, major. I shall use the gold to buy your jewels. You can easily take it with you to China. I fancy that it will be greatly welcomed there.”

  MAJOR ROWDEN had expected something startling from Cranston’s visit. He realized that the surprise had come. He immediately played the proper part, even though he did not suspect that the supposed Helmedge was Kenneth Malfort.

  “Excellent. Mr. Cranston,” commended Rowden. Then, shrewdly: “You will value the gold according to the face value of the coin?”

  “Certainly,” replied The Shadow. “After all, I shall gain its former worth. You can have it melted in China, major. As gold bullion, it will naturally be worth much more, under the new gold standard.”

  Rowden seemed pleased. So did Malfort, although he restricted his satisfied expression to a slight gleam of his eyes. Idly puffing his cigarette, The Shadow saw that the scheme was working. He was playing upon Malfort’s insatiable desire for every bit of wealth that could be captured. The master crook was secretly gloating at the thought of gaining gold.

  All the while, The Shadow was looking for a snare. He was sure that matters would rest safely until the armored truck arrived. Malfort would want to see the gold; then his trap would spring. Malfort must have henchmen ready.

  Where were they located?

  The Shadow’s mental question remained unanswered while Major Rowden was opening the corner cabinet that contained the jewels. He brought out the flat box with its supply of gems. Malfort, like The Shadow, saw Rowden’s stacks of silver dollars. On top of the coins were stacks of currency: the money that Furbish had left in place of jewels.

  Rowden displayed the gems on a taboret. Pretending to examine them, The Shadow still kept searching for the trap. He saw the hallway curtains, leading to the interior of the apartment. They would not do. Peju went through that hallway frequently. The Siamese would discover any lurkers.

  Attack from the elevators could not be timed. Nor would Malfort rely upon outside men to smash the windows and fire through the bars. Knowing the cunning of the master crook, The Shadow was positive that the danger lay actually within the penthouse.

  The telephone rang. Major Rowden answered it. His tone was careful; he knew that spies would be on the wire.

  “A coffer?” queried Rowden. “From an armored truck… Yes, we expect it… What is that?… I see…Yes, I shall have Mr. Cranston send down a written order…”

  Hanging up, Rowden turned to The Shadow, who nodded quietly and produced a slip of paper from his pocket. He produced a fountain pen and tried to write with it. No ink appeared.

  “You have a pen?”

  Rowden nodded. He called Peju, who brought pen and ink.

  The Shadow wrote a few lines; signed the name of Lamont Cranston. He let Malfort see what he had written. It was a simple order for delivery of the chest. The master crook never guessed that The Shadow had written other words.

  The Shadow’s own pen contained a colorless fluid, that had dried almost instantly. The simple passage of a match would bring out the first scratches that he had made with his supposedly empty pen. Coded words would show instructions to The Shadow’s agents. Harry Vincent had by this time contacted the men who had brought the armored car.

  THE SHADOW’S notations were a swift call for action. He was ready for emergency; for he had guessed the only lurking spot where Malfort’s men could be. That was behind the big tapestry that covered the far wall.

  Previously, The Shadow had sounded that wall, to find it solid. Nevertheless, he knew that Malfort had prepared this penthouse as a trap. That solid wall must be mechanical; there could be no other answer. Without Major Rowden’s knowledge, the wall had been lowered to the floor below, in elevator fashion. The remnants of Spark Ganza’s thuggish crew were behind the tapestry ready with leveled guns.

  All this was theory; yet The Shadow regarded it as a certainty. He watched for proof as Peju walked from the living room, to ring for an elevator and send down the order that carried the signature of Lamont Cranston. As the Siamese passed the tapestry, the great cloth wavered when his shoulder brushed it. Peju did not notice the occurrence. The Shadow did.

  The motion of the tapestry told him that he had divined the truth. He understood Malfort’s confidence that crime would succeed. One rasped command – guns would bark, to down The Shadow and Major Rowden. Peju would simply be another victim.

  One false move – those guns would burst without command. If The Shadow chose to draw an automatic, he would lose the fray. He could not spray four marksmen with pot shots at the tapestry, in time to prevent their fire. The cloth was thin enough for them to see every one within the room. Yet the silver dragons and their darker background hid the men beyond.

  Calmly, The Shadow finished his cigarette. Tight though the mesh was drawn, he was still secure. Like Rowden and Peju, he was protected by Malfort’s avarice. The money-mad schemer wanted gold. He would wait until it reached the penthouse, where it could be captured at a single stroke, along with Rowden’s gems and the currency left by Furbish. The stacks of silver dollars were small change to Malfort.

  More than that, the master crook was confident. The appearance of Lamont Cranston had given him new surety. He thought that he held Henry Arnaud prisoner; even Malfort’s scheming brain could not grasp the idea that Arnaud and Cranston were one. All that Malfort did guess correctly was that either Arnaud or Cranston must be The Shadow. Thinking that both were helpless, Malfort did not care which of the two happened to be his master foe.

  AN elevator door had closed while Peju waited in the little anteroom. The written order had gone downstairs. Again, a door clattered; the men in the living room heard Peju directing arrivals to carry a burden from the elevator.

  The Shadow arose, to meet four men who were lugging a small, heavy chest. Two of the carriers were uniformed men from the armored truck; the others were employees of the hotel.

  The Shadow pointed to a low, wide Oriental bench that stood directly in front of the silver dragon tapestry. The men placed the chest upon the bench; then went back to the elevator. The door clanged shut.

  The Shadow glanced indifferently toward Malfort; he saw a gleam of evil eyes. Those optics were the only part of his visage that the master crook could not disguise. The satanic flash told that the plotter foresaw triumph.

  Malfort’s moment of final crime would come when he gave the word.

  CHAPTER XXI – THE LAST STROKE

  “I SHALL show you the gold.”

  Speaking calmly, The Shadow stepped toward the chest. Major Rowden approached, with Peju beside him. So did Malfort. The disguised crook darted a quick look toward the tapestry. Malfort was pleased because The Shadow had placed the chest so close to the silver dragon cloth. Marksmen could riddle their victims at short range.

  The Shadow unclamped the lid of the chest and raised it on its hinges. Black cloth was spread beneath the cover; The Shadow pulled it carelessly aside to reveal a smaller, inside coffer that almost filled the chest. The cloth had prevented the inner box from jarring.

  The inner coffer was made of solid steel. Centered upon its lid were five dials, that formed a graduated series of circles. These were marked with the letter
s of the alphabet; an arrow pointed from the center, to indicate one row.

  “An unbreakable lock,” remarked The Shadow, in the deliberate tone of Cranston. “The combination, of course, depends upon a special word of five letters. It took me a long while to decide upon a suitable word that could be easily remembered.

  “I finally chose a word that seemed appropriate, because it was one that a thief would naturally ignore. The word that opens this coffer is -”

  The Shadow paused with a smile.

  “Perhaps,” he added, “I should let you see the word for yourselves.”

  The cloth spread over his left arm, The Shadow used his right hand to finger the dials. Shifting, he pressed Major Rowden to one side; Malfort, unhindered, bent closer. The Shadow turned the dials until they formed the word:

  BQJND

  “Not quite the word,” he remarked. “Just a tiny change to each dial and then -”

  With deft fingers, The Shadow touched the dials in regular order. He moved each a single letter: the first two dials to the right; the third and fourth to the left; the last to the right. The combination spelled the key-word:

  CRIME

  THE SHADOW’S hand was on the knob, to lift it. Malfort’s gleaming eyes showed sudden rage. Wheeling away, the master crook ripped off his wig with one hand; his other fist went to his pocket to pull a revolver. His lips were opening to deliver the command for death.

  The cry did not come. The Shadow had moved as swiftly as Malfort.

  Flinging the black cloth over his head, The Shadow pulled the knob upward. With the same move, he twisted sidewise; bowled Rowden and Peju backward as he sprang away from the chest. Simultaneously, a sighing puff broke from the coffer. A cloud of greenish vapor spread with a blast that befogged the entire end of the room.

  Cloudy, sea-green moisture splashed the silver dragon tapestry, penetrating its thin cloth. Writhing mist enshrouded The Shadow and Kenneth Malfort. Rowden and Peju were caught in the bombing spray. They staggered away, gasping, coughing. The Shadow’s coffer had delivered an explosion of tear gas – harmless unless received directly, but certain in its purpose. That vapor incapacitated every one who inhaled it. Similarly, the gas watered all eyes that it contacted.

  Choking cries came from the wall. Maddened thugs ripped the tapestry away. Caught in a confined spot, they had taken the full effects of the gas, for they had been looking straight toward the chest. The thin cloth of the tapestry had not saved them. They staggered into the room; they rolled about, forgetting their revolvers as they clamped their hands to their stricken faces.

  The vapor settled, leaving choking men in its wake. Rowden and Peju had taken it like the thugs; but their plight was less, for The Shadow had shoved them from the danger spot. The Shadow, himself, had avoided the tear gas by twisting the black cloth about his face. Eyes shut, breath held, he counted the seconds while the vapory cloud waned.

  His hands unfolded the cloth about his shoulders; it settled, to form a cloak. From it, came a slouch hat that The Shadow clamped upon his head. Opening his eyes, The Shadow delivered a sinister laugh that gasping men could hear with new terror.

  Garbed in black, The Shadow pulled automatics from beneath his cloak. He was master of the scene, ready for all comers. Coughing, weeping enemies, would find their only course to be surrender, as soon as they could draw their hands from their faces in order to raise their arms.

  THEN came an unexpected challenge, from twenty paces distant. A cough changed to a vicious cry. The Shadow looked to the anteroom. There was Malfort, head raised. Half choking, he was aiming a revolver.

  Malfort had dived away from the outpouring gas. Head buried in the wig that he had snatched away, he had made the hall, only partly overpowered by the tear gas. He had recovered sufficiently to attempt battle; nevertheless, The Shadow saw him falter as he aimed.

  The Shadow swung an automatic to cover. As he did, a new sound struck his ear. It was a ploppy thump from the other direction – behind the curtains of the inner hall. As Malfort choked, The Shadow ignored him. Swinging about, the cloaked fighter faced the curtains.

  Draperies had spread to show a fiendish yellow face; a knife glimmering from a clawish hand above it. It was Ku-Nuan; the killer had scaled the roof of the hotel, to open the trapdoor of the penthouse and drop through. His hand was driving downward; his blade was already on its way, although his fingers still touched the handle.

  Had The Shadow stood his ground, the dirk would have found him. Instead, The Shadow faded toward the floor. Only his right hand remained motionless, like a fixed pivot on which his body turned. The knife blade slithered past The Shadow’s left shoulder, cutting the cloak, dirking the flesh beneath it. Steady, The Shadow’s right forefinger pressed a trigger.

  Ku-Nuan had stopped at the end of his throw. He was in that position when the bullet reached him. The murderous Mongol shrilled a hideous scream as he jolted backward. He wavered, his evil face contorted, then withered to the foot of the spread curtains. Dark draperies settled above Ku-Nuan’s corpse.

  Shots from the anteroom told that Malfort was active. The master crook was pumping bullets toward The Shadow – his first shots wide, for he, too, had been deceived by The Shadow’s fade. The Shadow swung about, raising his left arm. It faltered; for Ku-Nuan’s dirk had cut deep.

  Malfort cleared his eyes with a quick blink. He took positive aim as The Shadow’s right hand swung upward. Fingers were on triggers; this was the moment of a final duel. One finger pressed an instant sooner. That finger was The Shadow’s.

  Malfort wavered; yet his gun held its aim. The Shadow was ready with a second bullet; but he found no occasion to deliver it. An elevator door clanged open. Two guns barked shots at Malfort’s unsteadied form. The master crook slumped forward, dead. The Shadow’s agents had arrived.

  FROM the open elevator shaft, there was sound of gunfire in the lobby below. The Shadow reached the anteroom; he heard Harry Vincent report that the police were riding up in a second elevator. The inside crooks had been beaten in sharp fray, begun by The Shadow’s agents. An arriving officer had dropped Barthow behind his desk, just as the clerk was aiming for the elevator that The Shadow’s agents had taken.

  The Shadow looked toward Major Rowden. He saw that the emissary from China had shaken off the effects of the tear gas. Major Rowden had drawn a revolver, to cover the thugs who were still choking on the floor. Peju, too, was fit for action. The Siamese, though blinking, was probing the floor to gather up the guns that the crooks had dropped.

  The Shadow boarded the elevator with his agents. As Harry clanged the door, they heard another elevator door open. The police had reached the penthouse. Cliff pulled the lever, to drop the elevator groundward. The Shadow ordered a stop at the second floor. He knew an outlet from there, that would avoid the lobby.

  Outside the Maribar Hotel, police were forming their cordon. The Shadow’s work was done; the rest belonged to the law. Major Rowden could explain the cause for crime; the reason for the mystery chest that was weighted heavily with lead, to carry gas instead of gold.

  Harry and Cliff gained the taxicab, waiting behind the hotel. The Shadow stood alone upon the street, watching the approach of a patrol car. He sidled to a passage beside an old garage; there he stood, while the passing lights failed to display his motionless form.

  A laugh from darkness made the patrol car stop. The officers blinked, wondering from where the taunt had come. There was something uncanny in that note of victory that seemed to issue from a space beyond.

  The mockery told The Shadow’s departure – his triumph over the insidious schemes of Kenneth Malfort.

  ***

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