The Man From Shanghai Page 8

  In considering masses of possible enemies, The Shadow did not forget one other foeman. He was sure that there was a single lurker close at hand – the one who had somehow sprung this trap. The Shadow was thinking of Ku-Nuan.

  One wall of this trap had an opening. The little window just above the heavy shutters that marked the ground floor of the old pawnshop. That window was Ku-Nuan’s station. Though darkness made sight impossible, The Shadow knew that Ku-Nuan was at his post, ready to hurl a dirk once the courtyard was illuminated.

  Ku-Nuan had certainly heard the gratings drop. He had also heard The Shadow’s shaking of the bars. It was by imagining Ku-Nuan’s exact reactions that The Shadow gained a sudden scheme.

  The Shadow had considered flashing a light toward Ku-Nuan’s window; then delivering a quick shot with a.45, to drop the murderous Mongol. The Shadow had given up that idea, because he realized that a single gun shot would bring the outside crooks to the passages. If Spark Ganza’s listeners heard no sound other than the dropping of the fourth grating, they would close in slowly. That would give The Shadow time for some intermediate action.

  Darkness was The Shadow’s shroud. It explained why Ku-Nuan had not already hurled his knife. The Mongol could see nothing in the courtyard. All that he could hear was the fall of the heavy gates and The Shadow’s rattling of the bars. Ku-Nuan had heard three identical occurrences. He would expect a fourth. Knowing that, The Shadow decided upon a strategic move.

  THE SHADOW edged toward the fourth passage. He reached it; came to the invisible beam. Instantly, the last gate fell with a clangor that sent echoes quivering through the courtyard. The Shadow did not enter the passage. Instead, he swung back, edged quickly along the wall of the old pawnshop. Stretching long arms upward, The Shadow gripped the protruding shutters that barred the ground floor of the building.

  Silently, The Shadow lifted his body. He gained a foothold upon two stone sills. Digging fingers into the crevices of the crumbling brick wall, The Shadow made a further silent climb. His feet lifted; his toes found the tops of the shutters. Moving his left hand slowly upward, The Shadow stretched for the corner of the second-story window sill.

  Simultaneously, he looked upward, straight for the dimly glowing sky. Only a few feet above him he saw the outlines of a head and shoulders. The Shadow recognized the contorted form of Ku-Nuan.

  The Mongol was craning from the window. He was listening for a sound that he expected to follow the dropping of the gate. Ku-Nuan thought that The Shadow had entered the fourth passage, as he had done with the other three, to clang against impenetrable bars. So intent was Ku-Nuan upon a more distant sound, that he failed to hear the slight swish that had marked The Shadow’s upward progress against the wall.

  The Shadow could see Ku-Nuan, for the Mongol was above him; and the sky formed a dully luminous background. Ku-Nuan could not see The Shadow, for the depths of the courtyard were a solid black. The Shadow’s right hand crept upward. Like the left, it gripped a corner of the sill. The Shadow raised one foot, then the other; he gained a last toe-hold. Doubled, extending from the wall, he was within reach of Ku-Nuan.

  A brick gave under pressure. The Shadow dug his slipping toe more firmly; he gained a better hold. The reason was simply that a chunk of brick loosened; carrying mortar with it, the fragment dropped down into the courtyard. It clattered an echo from the stone paying beneath. The sound brought a quick snarl from Ku-Nuan.

  Instantly, Ku-Nuan recognized The Shadow’s presence. Leaning outward, the Mongol shot his left hand downward. His clawish clutch found The Shadow’s right shoulder. With a triumphant snarl, Ku-Nuan drove his right hard downward, seeking to bury a long blade into The Shadow’s body.

  THE SHADOW saw the driving arm against the sky. He sped his left hand from the corner of the sill, plucked Ku-Nuan’s arm in the middle of its swing. He darted his right hand for Ku-Nuan’s neck. The Shadow needed no further hold upon the sill. Ku-Nuan’s arm and neck served instead.

  Ku-Nuan did what The Shadow expected. Clutched, the Mongol writhed inward from the window. The Shadow kept his toe-hold; snapped his body forward. As Ku-Nuan tried to wrestle away, The Shadow came with him. One knee found the sill; then the other. Ku-Nuan felt The Shadow surging in upon him. The Mongol changed his tactics.

  Stabbing wildly, uselessly with the hand that held the knife, Ku-Nuan tried to lurch The Shadow outward. He half succeeded; but with it, he swung his own body partly across the sill.

  Fiercely, The Shadow grappled with Ku-Nuan. Together, the fighters formed a writhing pair that leaned body and shoulders outward over the court. For a moment, it seemed that both would launch themselves into the blackened depths beneath.

  The Shadow twisted. He loosened his grip upon Ku-Nuan’s arm. The Mongol slashed a long stroke inward. The Shadow twisted again; the blade found nothing but the shoulder of his cloak, to slit it half from The Shadow’s body.

  Again, The Shadow shifted. His head back against the sill, Ku-Nuan saw blackness coming down upon him, plain against the sky’s slight glow. Ku-Nuan swung a terrific up-arm stroke. Again, his knife cleaved cloth. Shedding the carved cloak. The Shadow had swished it like a blanket down upon Ku-Nuan’s head and shoulders.

  His arm beneath the cloth, The Shadow found Ku-Nuan’s wrist. With quick grip, he twisted the killer’s hand. The knife slipped from Ku-Nuan’s grasp. Weaponless, the killer snarled from the muffling cloak. Lunging, he shot hands free to catch The Shadow’s throat. For a moment, The Shadow sagged; then gained a body grip upon Ku-Nuan. Choking, he used all his strength to offset the Mongol’s fiendish power.

  The grapplers locked above the window ledge. Straining, they formed a motionless picture beneath the dulled sky. The tableau persisted amid silent moments. Endurance had become the test. The one who could outlast the other would be the winner.

  During those first few moments, no judge could have told who held the advantage: The Shadow or Ku-Nuan.

  CHAPTER XII – CRIME’S PRISONER

  Ku-Nuan was not the only listener who had heard the fall of the fourth barrier. While The Shadow was spending time in strategic attack upon the lookout, word of the closed trap had gone elsewhere.

  In an alleyway a half block distant from the trap, Spark Ganza had received the reports of three pickets who had been stationed outside different passages. The trio had waited with their leader, counting upon word from a fourth. It had come at last. A hoarse-voiced rowdy, scudding into the alley, announced the final news:

  “It clicked, Spark! The gate alongside of the hock shop! I was listenin’ for it -”

  Spark gave a harsh command. Each of the four men with him was to assemble a crew from henchmen in the neighborhood, who were awaiting orders. Spark added final words:

  “I’ll be coming in from the hockshop side! Have the typewriters set up; but don’t start gunning until I’m there to give the word! What’s more no glims, unless he starts trouble!”

  Four thugs hurried away. Spark chuckled loudly; then listened for sounds of gathering henchmen. His band was already divided into four parts. Each crew would move like clockwork. Spark had assembled two dozen in all; each crew of six had its machine gun, in addition to the revolvers that the gorillas habitually carried.

  Spark could hear his underlings moving to position. With the stride of a triumphant general, Spark headed for the pawnshop. He reached the passage and walked by the metal-sheathed door that was near its opening. Arriving at the short tunnel near the inner end, Spark found the crouching crew that was at this gate.

  “Ready with the glims,” rasped Spark. “When they see ours, the other guys will shoot on their lights. All set -”

  Spark stopped. He heard a clatter from the courtyard, that came with uncanny echo through the tunnel. Spark recognized the sound: the fall of a sprawling body. Then came a long, hissed snarl of triumph from a place somewhere above.

  Spark knew the tone. It was Ku-Nuan’s, delivered from the little window on the pawnshop’s second floor.
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  That vicious utterance from the lookout post told Spark an entire story. He knew at once that The Shadow must have tried to scale the pawnshop wall, only to meet with fierce resistance from Ku-Nuan.

  “Give the glims!” ordered Spark. “Hold the typewriter, though!”

  LIGHTS flashed at the gate. The courtyard was illuminated. Other lights responded from the other passages. Every portion of the trap was in plain view. Spark heard yells of triumph from the crooks at other stations. Pressing close to the gate, he saw the reason.

  Sprawled in the courtyard was a cloaked figure that showed the results of combat. Instead of The Shadow in challenging pose, crooks were greeted with the sight of a vanquished, crippled fighter. Pitched from the second-story window, the defeated battler had taken a heavy jolt.

  He was crawling toward the center of the courtyard, slumping as he came into Spark’s view. Spark saw the slashed cloak draped over head and shoulders. Near by lay the slouch hat; it had scaled through the air from the second-story window.

  Thugs uttered gleeful curses. Tuned with their epithets came the clank of the machine gun muzzle against the bars at Spark’s elbow. Spark snapped a halting order.

  “Hold it!” he commanded. His tone carried through the courtyard, to the other crews. “Keep him covered; then wait!”

  Spark was watching the cloaked prisoner as he spoke. He saw the shoulders sag. The crawl had ended. Spark decided that The Shadow’s plight was real. There was something pitiful in the huddled position of that cloak-enshrouded form.

  “Wait till he makes a move,” snapped Spark to the men beside him. “Maybe he’s gotten his already. Stick here; I’ll be back.”

  Striding out through the passage, Spark reached the metal door that led upstairs. He heard a scraping sound beyond it. As Spark waited, the door edged outward. Spark delivered commending words:

  “Good work, Ku-Nuan! Say – did you knife him?”

  There was a snarl from the opening door. It betokened malicious pleasure. Spark heard Ku-Nuan’s voice hiss in singsong fashion. He grimaced as he stepped aside to let the crouching victor pass. In Ku-Nuan’s lingo, Spark recognized a tone of elation.

  “Hop back to Malfort’s,” suggested Spark. “Give him the news, Ku-Nuan. Tell him we got The Shadow! I’ll see how bad you knifed him. If he’s croaked we won’t have to bust loose with the typewriters. No use bringing the cops, if it ain’t needed.”

  SPARK heard the creeper reach the street; he caught the last tones of a triumphant babble. Returning to the gate, he took another look at the flattened prisoner in the courtyard. Deciding against the “typewriters” and their loud clatter, Spark placed his fist upon the muzzle of the machine gun and shoved it back from the gate. Drawing a revolver, he barked an order:

  “Hoist the gate, you guys! I’m going through to take a squint at the mug! He’s had his already!”

  Warning mutters changed to admiration of Spark’s boldness. Some of the thugs thought that The Shadow was faking his condition. Not one would have chanced what Spark was about to do.

  The thugs, however, knew nothing of Ku-Nuan. The Chinese assassin worked alone, entirely at Malfort’s bidding. Spark, knowing of Ku-Nuan’s presence and the Mongol’s skill with the knife, alone was positive that he was taking no chance. He saw an opportunity to impress his followers by boldly approaching the victim in the courtyard.

  “Up with the gate!”

  As Spark repeated the command, four powerful henchmen thrust their shoulders beneath the lowest cross-bar. They heaved; with all their combined strength, they were just able to raise the barrier. A fifth thug added his pressure: The gate went up and Spark stooped through.

  Immediately, the mobster released the gate. They were ready with the machine gun, in case The Shadow showed life when Spark reached him. Those at the other barriers were as tense as the men whom Spark had left. They knew of others who had dealt unwarily with The Shadow. Not one of the two dozen henchmen would have cared to have taken Spark’s place.

  In contemptuous fashion, Spark arrived beside the huddled form. Stooping, he used his left hand to pull aside The Shadow’s cloak, while he gripped his revolver in his right. One fact made Spark hesitate: There was no protruding knife handle beneath the cloak. Spark had supposed that Ku-Nuan had stabbed The Shadow in the back.

  The cloak half away, Spark gripped the shoulder beneath; with a powerful wrench, he hauled the slumped form over on its back and whisked the cloak away. This time, Spark expected to see the dirk projecting from The Shadow’s chest. Observing no weapon, he looked quickly to the face above.

  The oath that came from Spark’s lips was spontaneous, yet incoherent.

  The cloak, fully away, revealed a deformed body that could not be The Shadow’s. The lights that glowed from barred gates showed a face that was certainly not that of the master sleuth. It was a countenance that Spark Ganza recognized: one that he could never mistake.

  The sprawled man on the paving was Ku-Nuan!

  VAGUELY, Spark grasped what had happened. He looked up toward the window on the second floor. The Shadow had scaled that wall; grappled with Ku-Nuan. Enveloping the Mongol in the folds of a knife-slashed cloak, The Shadow had finally hurled his adversary to the courtyard.

  It was The Shadow – not Ku-Nuan – who had come down through the metal-sheathed door. Croaking words in Chinese, The Shadow had bluffed Spark. The Shadow was gone, with minutes between himself and Spark’s band of henchmen. In his place, he had left Ku-Nuan – alive, but too groggy to do more than crawl a dozen feet and fall motionless.

  The Shadow had timed his departure to perfection. He had left a substitute prisoner, sufficiently cloaked to deceive Spark and the thugs. Had Spark chosen to pepper the prisoner with a hail of machine-gun slugs, he would have done The Shadow an added service by eliminating Kenneth Malfort’s most capable assassin.

  The Shadow, himself, had not had time to finish Ku-Nuan. He had pitched the Mongol to the courtyard in the midst of the fray, in order to finally end the clutch of Ku-Nuan’s choking fingers.

  To add a final touch, The Shadow had tossed his slouch hat to the courtyard. Lying beside the cloak-covered shape of Ku-Nuan, the headgear had convinced all observers that the prisoner was The Shadow.

  Rising from beside Ku-Nuan, Spark Ganza growled savagely and waved his hands sidewise. His henchmen understood that something had gone wrong. Spark’s headshakes finally told them that their prisoner was not The Shadow. Ugly mutters passed among the members of the thwarted crew. Crooks swung about in their passages, each group fearing that it might suddenly become the object of an outside attack.

  Then came a shout from one passage. Crooks flashed lights; halted their finger triggers just in time to recognize a member of their own band, an extra thug whom Spark had posted elsewhere. Cries came to Spark, with the announcement:

  “It’s Mokler, Spark. He’s got somethin’ to spill!”

  Mokler’s face appeared excitedly at a barred gate. In breathless words, the messenger gave the news.

  “Barthow just called up, Spark!” he informed.”Slipped me the dope that Furbish has come into the Maribar Hotel! Goin’ up to the penthouse to see Rowden!”

  Spark howled for thugs to raise a gate. They obliged; Spark leaped into the passage and shouted for all his henchmen to take to their cars. One thing alone had puzzled Spark: that was why The Shadow had departed without delivering a sudden fire upon at least one unsuspecting crew.

  At last, Spark knew why. The Shadow had contact with George Furbish. From some place close by, he had telephoned the man, to tell him that the way was clear to Rowden’s penthouse. With cover-up men absent, Furbish could leave the Maribar as safely as he had come there.

  That, at least, was The Shadow’s belief – but it would be correct for only the next fifteen minutes. Spark Ganza was ready to drive for the Maribar Hotel with more than a score of henchmen, there to challenge the new move that The Shadow had so suddenly introduced.

  CHAPTER XIII
– SHATTERED HORDES

  SPARK GANZA had guessed right. It was The Shadow who had ordered George Furbish’s prompt visit to the Maribar Hotel. Furbish had arrived there in the taxicab. Carrying a heavy satchel, he had stopped at the desk to inquire for Major Rowden.

  Seated in the lobby were two men who had strolled there separately, a short time before. They were Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland, redoubtable agents of The Shadow. They had recognized the cab when it arrived. They knew that the passenger was George Furbish.

  Though they were watching the desk, The Shadow’s agents did not identify Barthow as one of Malfort’s inside men. Barthow had acted smoothly in the pinch. There was another clerk on duty with him. Ordinarily, Barthow would have stepped into the picture when he heard some one inquire for Major Rowden. But Barthow had also heard Furbish give his name; and he had wisely let the other clerk call the penthouse.

  That bit of quick thinking had given Barthow the chance to step into the office unnoticed and put in the call that had so promptly reached Spark Ganza.

  In the lobby, Furbish waited at an elevator, curbing his nervousness. When a door opened, Furbish stepped aboard a car that was manned by a tough-faced operator. Another passenger strolled into the elevator just before the doors closed. This passenger was Harry Vincent. Hands in his pockets, The Shadow’s agent was gripping a ready revolver.

  Two guests of the hotel were also on board. They called their floors; the elevator stopped at the ninth and the fifteenth. Furbish gave his destination. As he said “Penthouse,” the elevator operator turned around and gave a sharp look. He saw Harry and growled: