The Man From Shanghai
Maxwell Grant
The man from Shanghai was caught in a murderous web involving millions of dollars that only The Shadow could untangle.
Maxwell Grant
The Man From Shanghai
As originally published in “The Shadow Magazine,” April 15, 1936.
The man from Shanghai was caught in a murderous web involving millions of dollars that only The Shadow could untangle.
CHAPTER I – A MURDERER’S MOVES
THE man by the fireplace was busy at a task. Before him, turned at an angle to escape the fire’s heat, was a low table, stacked with correspondence. The letters were at the man’s left; to his right were pen and inkwell.
The man was reading the typewritten letters in methodical fashion. As he completed each perusal, he placed the letter in front of him, dipped pen into inkwell and applied his signature with a peculiar flourish.
The name that the man signed was Kenneth Malfort.
The crackling fire raised grotesque flares to reveal Malfort’s face. Somehow, flames seemed the proper light to show that countenance. Malfort’s countenance was one that at intervals betrayed a demonish glare. At those moments, an imaginative observer might have classed him as a satan who had chosen to masquerade in human cruise.
Except for those intervals, Malfort’s face was steady, almost dignified. His features were craggy, from his high forehead, past his well-formed nose, to his straight lips and large chin. His profile was an excellent one, always constant. It was only the full-face view that showed those evil flashes.
Then came a narrowing of forehead muscles that brought straight vertical lines above the bridge of Malfort ’s nose. The man’s eyes shone with evil glint. His lips compressed, to purse themselves into a smileless leer. Though smooth-shaven, Malfort could have passed for Mephistopheles whenever he allowed malice to rule his countenance.
Malfort was signing the last letter when he caught a sound that only the keenest ear could have detected. A tall, moon-faced man had stepped into the sumptuous room. With pussyfoot tread, the arrival had advanced four steps; then waited. Despite the man’s silent approach, Malfort had instantly detected the entry. Without a turn of his head, Malfort purred a question: “What is it, Wardlock?”
“Spark Ganza is here, sir,” replied the moon-faced man, in a solemn monotone. “He arrived by the rear entrance.”
“Tell him to come up.”
“Very well, Mr. Malfort.”
“Then bring the newspapers, Wardlock. After that, see to the prompt posting of these letters.”
Wardlock bowed. In his sneaky stride, he went from the room.
MALFORT arose, placed the table and its letters to one side; then resumed his easy-chair. Side to the fire, he was facing an empty chair several feet away.
There was a click as the door opened. Malfort’s face was expressionless as he turned his gaze toward the door. A brawny, thick-set ruffian stepped into view; this was “Spark” Ganza. Hard-faced, sharp-eyed, the fellow had the pudgy nose of a second-rate pugilist and the underslung jaw of a bulldog.
“Hello, Mr. Malfort,” gruffed Spark, showing an ugly grin as he approached. “I got your message and hot-footed it over here -”
“Sit down, Spark.” Malfort waved to the chair. Then, still eyeing his visitor, he added in louder tone: “Let me have those newspapers, Wardlock. Take the letters with you.”
Spark gaped as he looked toward the door. He had not heard Wardlock reenter; he thought that the moon-faced secretary had stayed downstairs. Yet there, sure enough, was Wardlock, with a stack of newspapers in his hands. The secretary approached and laid the journals on the table at Malfort’s side. Gathering up the letters, Wardlock pussyfooted from the room.
Malfort and Spark were alone.
“Yesterday,” announced Malfort, choosing a newspaper from the stack, “you did a good job, Spark. I was pleased with the murder of Jerome Blessingdale.”
“It was a cinch,” returned Spark. “We hopped aboard the Southeastern Limited when it pulled into Baltimore. Blessingdale was asleep in his compartment. I tapped him on the konk and took the swag. Nobody saw us drop off the rattler at Philly.”
“Quite true,” nodded Malfort. “I have read the Philadelphia newspapers, Spark. They say very little; the general opinion is that the crime investigation belongs to the New York police, since Blessingdale’s death was not uncovered until after the train arrived here.”
“Everybody knows, though, that Blessingdale was rubbed out.”
“Of course. However, Blessingdale, as a mining promoter, had made enemies. It was quite all right to let his death pass as murder.”
Malfort laid the back-date newspaper aside. He picked up a later newspaper. His face took on its devilish glare. Spark, hard though he was, became uneasy.
“Today’s job was not so good. Spark.”
Spark had no reply to Malfort’s criticism.
“I was not pleased with the way you eliminated William Hessup,” admonished Malfort. “His death at the Merrimac Club was to have been considered a suicide. Hessup had no enemies; but, as president of a bank in Buffalo, he had some worries. Unfortunately, the police believe that he was murdered.”
“They don’t know who did it, though,” protested Spark. “We grabbed the swag all right, Mr. Malfort -”
“Nevertheless, you bungled!”
Spark shifted in his chair. Malfort’s glare was straight upon him. The firelight gave a demoniac reflection to the master mind’s fierce eyes. Spark avoided Malfort’s gaze.
“I’m making no excuse,” growled Spark. “I should have watched those lugs more close, that’s all. The idea was all right; but there was a slip -”
“Start with the beginning of the matter.”
“All right.”
SPARK leaned back in his chair and faced Malfort. The latter’s features had relaxed. Spark felt more at ease. “First I went to see Durlew,” he stated. “He’s the druggist I told you about. He gave me two bottles: the little one, empty, with the Northern Drug Company label on it; and the big one, with the poison in it.”
Spark paused. Malfort had no comment.
“It was a cinch to get into the Merrimac Club,” resumed Spark. “We knowed Hessup was coming there. We had the number of the room he was going to take. So one guy goes in and plants the empty bottle.
“As soon as Hessup shows up, I send the other lug, so as nobody would be suspicious if they saw one guy twice. He takes a pitcher of ice water with a glass and carries it up to Hessup’s room, without Hessup ringing for it. That’s where the lug pulls his boner, thinking he was smart.
“He was to put a dose of poison in the glass, like you said; then, polite-like, he was to let Hessup see him drop some ice into the glass. For a come-on, like you told me.”
Malfort nodded.
“Quite right,” he agreed. “Hessup would have been inclined to pour himself a drink of water. He would have considered the poison liquid as water, melted from the ice.”
“That’s what I told the lug,” expressed Spark, sourly. “But I didn’t tell him how important it was, to work it just that way. So he gets a smart idea and stages his boner.”
“Which was -”
“He pours the whole bottle of poison into the pitcher of ice water. He lets Hessup see an empty glass; then fills it for him from the pitcher. Hessup takes the invite, all right, and he gets enough of the bum stuff to croak him. But the bottle with the poison in it was bigger than the empty bottle that we’d planted in Hessup’s room!”
Malfort thwacked the newspaper that he held.
“So that was it!” he exclaimed. Then, reverting to his easy purr: “Naturally, the police found evidence
of more poison than the little bottle could have held. No wonder they classed Hessup’s death as murder!”
“Yeah,” agreed Spark. He nudged a thumb toward the newspaper: “But the bulls didn’t let the bladders in on why they thought it was murder. They didn’t want nobody to wise up that there was too much of the croak-juice in the pitcher. All they said was that the bottle they found didn’t prove that Hessup bumped himself.”
“I have read the newspapers,” announced Malfort, coldly. “All that I wanted was your version of the matter. This occurrence alters our future plans.”
“About knocking off this next guy, George Furbish?”
“Yes. I shall relieve you of that task, Spark. Simply keep your men on duty. Inform me when Furbish arrives at his new apartment.”
“Then who’ll croak Furbish?”
“I shall delegate that work to Ku-Nuan.”
Spark grinned when he heard Malfort’s utterance. Evidently the name of Ku-Nuan was one that specified crime of a most insidious sort.
“Meanwhile,” added Malfort, “you can visit your druggist friend. Talk to Durlew, Spark; be tactful when you sound out his opinions. If his views are reasonable, see to his welfare. If they are not -”
Malfort paused, to study the eagerness that showed upon Spark’s ugly face. In significant purr, he added:
“If Durlew is unreasonable, follow your own impulse.”
Spark nodded. Malfort delivered a wide, sweeping gesture that ended with his hand pointing toward the door. The interview was concluded. Spark arose and went from the sumptuous living room.
SILENCE followed the thuggish lieutenant’s departure. Malfort, the master of murder, sat studying the fire. Dying embers brought a ruddy glow to satanic features. Malfort spoke, in low-toned pur:
“A fresh log, Wardlock.”
Again, the soft-footed secretary had entered; and Malfort had sensed his silent arrival. Wardlock approached and drew back the screen to place a log upon the fire. In indulgent fashion, Malfort spoke confidentially to the moon-faced man.
“All goes well, Wardlock,” purred the master murderer. “I expected Spark Ganza to have more trouble with Hessup than with Blessingdale. It would be unwise, however, to continue with Spark when we deal with Furbish.”
An expectant look appeared upon Wardlock’s moonish face.
“Therefore,” concluded Malfort, “I have chosen another instrument. You will summon Ku-Nuan.”
Wardlock’s lips spread in a pleased leer. Like Spark Ganza, the secretary seemed to hold a high opinion of Ku-Nuan. So, for that matter, did Malfort. The master of crime was already gloating as he foresaw new evil triumph.
“Spark will cover his trail,” stated Malfort. “The next move will rest with Ku-Nuan. The last stroke, like the first, will be my own. I began crime, Wardlock; I shall end it. I have left to others the episodes that lay between.
“My methods are unique. As a man of reputed wealth and standing, I am above suspicion. No one can suspect my part in crime. No one can find a trail that leads to me. No one can cope against my efforts -”
Malfort paused abruptly, as he saw a flicker of worry upon Wardlock’s face. With a grating laugh, Malfort added final words of emphasis:
“No one. Not even The Shadow!”
THE tone restored confidence to Wardlock. In his moonish manner, the secretary matched his master’s satanic facial twist. As long as Malfort recognized the existence of The Shadow; as long as he considered that master foe of crime as a possible adversary, there could be no danger from the hidden source. So Wardlock reasoned; for Malfort, himself, had once voiced that opinion.
Rising firelight sent long streaks across the floor. They were ominous, those shadows; but Kenneth Malfort thought them meaningless. He purred, in convinced tone:
“Blessingdale – Hessup – Furbish – two are dead; the third will soon be the same. No dead man can provide The Shadow with a trail.”
Sound statements, those; but ones that Malfort might find to be untrue. This murderer had been swift in moves of crime. That, more than he thought, could account for the security that he still enjoyed.
Moreover, in his mention of names, Malfort had forgotten one. He had not included Durlew, the druggist. Small wonder, for, to Malfort, Durlew was not even a pawn. Durlew was a side issue; one whom Spark Ganza could handle. He could be forgotten.
Forgotten people, like forgotten facts, were often the ones whom The Shadow found. Those flickers from the firelight, with their streaks of shadowy darkness on the hearth, were to prove more ominous than Malfort supposed.
Chance though they were, those wavering patches of black presaged The Shadow’s entry into the affairs of Kenneth Malfort.
CHAPTER II – A DEAD-MAN’S TALE
THOUGH Kenneth Malfort had forgotten Durlew, Spark Ganza had not. There was good reason why Spark should remember the obscure druggist. Spark had been delegated to the task of using tact with Durlew. He was, therefore, on his way to talk to the man who had provided the poison.
From Malfort’s, Spark had traveled by taxicab to an elevated station. There, he had boarded an East Side train. Riding southward, Spark wore a contemptuous grin as he looked about the lighted car and surveyed the few passengers.
All were buried deep in the final editions of the evening newspapers. They were gobbling news of murder – the law’s version concerning the death of William Hessup, prominent Buffalo banker, member of New York ’s swanky Merrimac Club, where he had been found poisoned.
Theories were absent from the newspapers. The police had progressed only to the point where they rejected suicide as the explanation, but had no other.
Spark’s evil recollections went back to yesterday. Then, the newspapers had screamed the name of Jerome Blessingdale, prominent mining promoter, who had come North from Florida. Blessingdale’s death had been murder, out and out; but it had provided no clues.
The “el” train rumbled to a stop. This was Spark’s station. As he stepped off to the platform, Spark was chuckling over thoughts of the future. Tomorrow, the newspapers would have something new to shout about. Another murder, this time a prominent Wall Street financier. One whose name Spark could predict: George Furbish.
Spark Ganza, in his own crude way, was quite as confident as Kenneth Malfort. The lieutenant shared Wardlock’s belief in the master murderer’s prowess. Moreover, Spark had not forgotten the mention of the mysterious Ku-Nuan.
Spark’s reveries ended as he reached the bottom of the elevated steps. Darkness was thick along the gloomy avenue where the elevated loomed. Only at the cross street was there any sign of bright lights. There, a newsboy was hawking his last few copies of the final editions.
“Uxtry! Uxtry! Read about de new moider!”
Spark paused to listen to the gamin’s shout. He saw the newsboy sell a newspaper; then raise the cry:
“Anudder big moider! Police link de killers!”
Spark spat an oath, as he turned and strode along the avenue. He had expected this sort of thing from the newspapers. Blessingdale and Hessup were both from out of town. It was only logical that the police should see a tie-up between the two cases of sudden death. Malfort’s reason for wanting Hessup to appear a suicide struck itself home to Spark.
Nevertheless, the thuggish lieutenant displayed no worry as he paced past the dingy store windows that lined the avenue. Let the law think what it wanted. Trails were covered. Another death would strike while the police stood baffled.
MUSING thus, Spark came to the building that he was seeking. He slowed his pace, craned his neck forward and studied a grimy store window that bore scratchy gold letters upon its lighted pane:
H. DURLEW
Apothecary
Peering through a glass-paneled doorway, Spark saw a stoop-shouldered man huddled over the counter of the tiny shop. Large-rimmed spectacles gave the fellow an owlish look. Spark could spy twitchy lips; he guessed the reason for the man’s nervousness. The owlish individual was Durlew. The drug
gist was reading a final edition of an evening newspaper.
Spark shouldered his way into the store. Durlew looked up, saw his visitor and gulped. His twitching lips began to phrase incoherent words. Spark cut Durlew short with a growl.
“Close up this joint of yours,” he told the druggist. “Slide into the back room, where we can talk.”
Durlew nodded, and moved toward the door. Spark picked up the newspaper and added:
“I’ll take this sheet in there with us. I want to see what sort of baloney the bladders have been handing out.”
Durlew closed his tawdry shop and extinguished the lights. He and Spark walked around an ancient show case that reached the ceiling, and entered a dim, dingy passage at the back of the store.
They came to a small room; Durlew turned on the lights and closed the door. They were in the apothecary’s office.
This room was as old-fashioned as the store at the front. The rolltop desk and swivel chair; the revolving bookcase – all were furniture of the past century, as antiquated as the title of “apothecary,” which Durlew preferred to druggist.
“Getting jittery, Durlew?”
Spark snapped the question as the druggist seated himself in the swivel chair. Durlew nodded; licking his twitchy lips, he replied:
“You faked what you said about the bottle and the poison, Spark. If I’d known you were after an important man like William Hessup, I wouldn’t have gone through with it.”
“Just what I figured,” retorted Spark. “That’s why I bluffed you, Durlew. What difference does it make, though? Your moniker wasn’t on that bottle label. It said Northern Drug Company.”
“The police will make inquiries at the Northern Drug Company.”
“What if they do? The bulls will spend a week quizzing mugs who know nothing. That’s all the further they’ll get.”
“Unless they find out that the printer who does work for the Northern Company ran off some labels for me,” Durlew said. “Maybe he’ll remember that he shipped a small batch of Northern Drug labels to the wrong customer.”
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