The Man From Shanghai

by Maxwell Grant

  Danger would arrive tonight. When it came, it would be through the casement window. A smile showed itself upon The Shadow’s disguised lips as he prepared to retire for the night. Clad in pajamas, The Shadow extinguished the lights; then deliberately swung the catchless window outward.

  Climbing into bed, The Shadow closed his eyes and waited. He knew that watchers, somewhere, had kept close view on the lights in the tenth-story apartment. They believed that George Furbish was at his new residence; that he had turned in early.

  The Shadow had hoaxed men of crime. Their thrust would come soon. The earlier it arrived, the better it would suit The Shadow.

  CHAPTER IV – THE YELLOW FACE

  HOURS drifted in the silent room where The Shadow had begun his interval. Nothing disturbed the lull; not even the arrival of the real George Furbish. Apparently the owner of the apartment had not planned to return to New York tonight.

  The long interval caused The Shadow to speculate. Had crooks detected his imposture? Had they learned, from some source, that Furbish did not intend to come to his apartment? Had they decided to ignore the present occupant?

  These were riddles that The Shadow himself could not answer, with the few facts at his disposal. He was following a blind lead, in this trip to the Royal Arms. There was a chance that he had missed a full interpretation of those scrawled words that he had gained at Durlew’s.

  It was certain that men of crime had changed their tactics. Blessingdale had been murdered in thuggish fashion. Hessup had been framed for death as soon as he had reached the Merrimac Club. Crooks had moved in both those cases, as soon as they had found opportunity. This secluded apartment offered every inducement for a mob attack; yet none showed signs of development.

  Beneath his pillow, The Shadow had a ready automatic. Another gun was handy in a suitcase by the bed. Not once, amid a stretch of hours, did The Shadow find cause to reach for the nearer gun.

  The only sound that reached the darkened room was the muffled roar of city traffic, that swelled and faded like the beat of distant traffic.

  That rhythmic sound was lulling; it gave a sense of false security. Often had The Shadow noted how men had believed themselves safe simply because they were near the heart of Manhattan. This night, he appreciated the fact more fully.

  Half dozing, The Shadow awoke himself with a start. He was conscious first of the city’s dull roar. He realized that it had diminished; it did not rise as he listened. The Shadow heard a sound that had not previously stood out above the others. It was the grinding screech of an elevated train, half a dozen blocks distant.

  The noise brought a fact home to The Shadow.

  He had relaxed during the lulling hours. His doze had been longer than he had supposed. The reason for the loud sound of the elevated train was explained. Other traffic had quieted. For a full hour, perhaps, longer, The Shadow had slumbered. During that period he had lain helpless.

  The Shadow doubted that the distant grind of the “el” train had awakened him. He listened for a closer sound. He heard it, in this very room, not more than five feet from his bedside.

  Some one was creeping in the darkness; an intruder whose footsteps were padded, whose breath came with a whistled hiss so low-toned that only the keenest ears could have detected it. The unseen intruder was inching toward the bed, with a stealth that was uncanny.

  THERE was a space between the bed and the wall. The Shadow let one foot ease to the floor. Without permitting a creak, he edged his body to the wall. He, too, had benefit of darkness; but he made no move to reach for his automatic under the pillow. A surprise attack was too close.

  Crouching, The Shadow moved toward the foot of the bed. Close to the floor, he could hear his creeping enemy. As he moved forward, The Shadow paused at intervals to listen. He noted that the creeping sounds were spasmodic.

  Reaching the foot of the bed, The Shadow rounded it noiselessly. He waited for a sound from the head. There was none. The creeping man had paused, apparently unready to attack. The Shadow knew the location of the bag that contained his second gun. On hands and knees, he prepared to crawl toward it. He changed that plan immediately.

  His head almost to the floor, The Shadow heard the creeping sound again; far more guarded than before. His enemy had discovered that the bed was empty; had guessed the route that The Shadow had taken. With utmost stealth, the foeman was coming toward the foot of the bed.

  This could be no ordinary foe. Combat in the dark offered bad odds. New moves to gain the automatic might bring too early a contest. The Shadow wanted to learn the sort of enemy who threatened; he needed an inkling to the mode of attack. There was a way to gain those facts.

  The Shadow performed a strategic retreat, toward a corner of the room below the foot of the bed. He could sense that his enemy was following. When The Shadow gained the corner, he was sure that his antagonist had passed the foot of the bed.

  Reaching in the darkness, The Shadow found the post of a large floor lamp. He moved his hand and plucked the cord. Though weaponless, The Shadow had found a way to surprise his enemy. He waited, calculating every second, while the elusive footsteps crept closer.

  Shadow tugged the light cord. With the move, he performed a side shift; coming to a high crouch, ready for a spring. The Shadow’s eyes were straight toward the bed. The Shadow saw his enemy.

  Focused in the lamplight’s glare was a yellow face, as evil a visage as any that The Shadow had ever seen. The intruder was a dwarfish Chinaman, his shoulders brawnier than his body; his arms long and spidery; his head overlarge.

  Above the Mongol’s yellow, sweat-stained face was a mass of straight, black hair that formed a downturned mop half across the bulgy eyes beneath it. The man’s nose was flat; his lips formed a grinning oval that displayed protruding, tusklike teeth. The Mongol looked like a human jaguar, more suited to the forest than to the abodes of men.

  This foeman was Ku-Nuan, the assassin whom Kenneth Malfort had delegated to murder George Furbish.

  THE unexpected glare of the light brought a bestial snarl from the dwarfish Mongol. The killer’s pause was only momentary. Seeing The Shadow as a mere human foe, Ku-Nuan lashed forward. His right arm whipped with the speed of a striking snake; his long-nailed fingers drove a knife straight for The Shadow’s heart.

  With all his speed, Ku-Nuan was no swifter than The Shadow. Moreover, he had lost a split-second in the attack. As Ku-Nuan struck, The Shadow drove forward. A quick left hand plucked Ku-Nuan’s right wrist and twisted it upward. The knife skidded from The Shadow’s shoulder. Its point had missed the mark. Ku-Nuan lost his grip upon the handle; the blade rattled harmlessly as it struck the wall.

  Ku-Nuan’s loss of the weapon produced a reverse effect. Instead of easing The Shadow’s battle, it hardened it.

  Had Ku-Nuan kept the knife, he would have writhed harmlessly in The Shadow’s clutch; for The Shadow had made Ku-Nuan’s right hand the chief object of attack. Deprived of his knife, Ku-Nuan countered. Twisting, he clawed for The Shadow’s throat; his finger nails slipped, then gained the shoulder of The Shadow’s pajamas. Cloth ripped; long nails dug into The Shadow’s flesh.

  Ku-Nuan had gained sufficient hold to wriggle away from a firm jujutsu grip. The dwarfish Mongol became a raging battler. Furiously he tore at The Shadow’s throat, writhed free from every hold, grappled and sent The Shadow rolling across the floor. Never had The Shadow found a more slippery adversary than this yellow-faced assassin.

  It was sudden strategy that enabled The Shadow to gain a real advantage. Ku-Nuan had a trick of tightening against a tough hold; then relaxing, sliding away in slimy fashion, to come back with a fiendish grip of his own. The Shadow had gained a hold that he had used before; he saw Ku-Nuan’s game about to be repeated.

  Bending Ku-Nuan backward, The Shadow stared past the yellow face. He saw the foot of the metal bedstead just behind Ku-Nuan’s neck. The Mongol did not know his position; he held tight, his forehead veins swelling as he resisted his superfoe.
Ku-Nuan, nevertheless, was prepared to writhe the moment that The Shadow sought to throw him.

  The Shadow shifted his left arm, bringing it across in front of Ku-Nuan’s face. He leaned back his elbow just below the Mongol’s chin. The Shadow eased his grip a trifle; Ku-Nuan relaxed in copy of the move. The Shadow jabbed a hard blow with his elbow. Ku-Nuan bobbed his head back to break the force of the blow.

  The Mongol’s head cracked the hard edge of the bedstead. The jolt forced a vicious snarl from the yellow lips. Ku-Nuan slumped; before he could either snatch or writhe, The Shadow caught the killer under the hip and hurled him clear over the foot of the bed. Ku-Nuan somersaulted in the air, hit the floor and bounced almost to the window.

  THE SHADOW leaped for the bag beside the bed. From it he whipped his.45, prepared to cover Ku-Nuan before the Mongol, could regain his senses.

  Once again, Ku-Nuan staged a surprise. Though jarred by the fall, Ku-Nuan had come to his feet. Seeing the gun in The Shadow’s hand, the Mongol made a dive for the window.

  The Shadow aimed at the yellow face beyond the sill. Ku-Nuan bobbed his head from view. His clawish nails left the edge of the window. With a long, outward leap, Ku-Nuan cleared the rail of the little balcony. Springing to pursuit, The Shadow saw the dwarfish body hurtling to the roof of the next building, two stories below.

  Ku-Nuan landed like a cat. From the balcony rail, The Shadow saw the yellow face turn upward. Late lights from Manhattan ’s sky line were sufficient to show the venomous glare that the Mongol gave his conqueror. Ku-Nuan bounded across the roof, seeking the edge.

  Deliberately, The Shadow aimed. He pressed the trigger of his.45. A bullet dug through the tin sheeting of the adjoining roof, two feet behind Ku-Nuan’s speeding heels. The Shadow fired again; this bullet whistled over Ku-Nuan’s shoulder. The Mongol reached the roof edge; he spun about and gripped the cornice with his hands. He dropped over the edge. The Shadow’s only target was the leering yellow face.

  The Shadow fired a third shot. The bullet chipped a stone four feet from Ku-Nuan’s hands. Again, The Shadow fired; this bullet was two feet wide, on the other side. Further shots were useless. Ku-Nuan had dropped from sight. He was crawling down the sheer wall of the next-door building, away from The Shadow’s view.

  The Shadow found Ku-Nuan’s knife by the wall; he inspected it, tossed it into the bag beside the bed. He turned out the lights and listened, expecting the wail of a radio patrol car. It came. The police had heard the shots; they were starting an investigation.

  More sirens whined. Fifteen minutes passed while The Shadow heard sounds of motors in neighboring streets. The noises ended. The police had failed to learn the source of the gunshots; they had also missed Ku-Nuan in their search.

  There was a telephone in Furbish’s living room. The Shadow went in and turned on a floor lamp; he dialed a number and waited while he listened to a persistent ringing. At last, a voice spoke in English. The Shadow answered in Chinese. For several minutes, he babbled in that language; then ended the call.

  Turning out the light, The Shadow returned to the darkened bedroom. He rolled into bed and settled into comfortable repose. There was no need for further vigil. There would be no new attack after Ku-Nuan’s failure. Thugs would be wary about venturing into a place that the yellow-faced assassin had fled.

  Moreover, the law had served The Shadow. Crooks would surely have scattered when the patrol cars arrived. In his role of George Furbish, The Shadow was secure at last. Sleep was his present mission.

  For tomorrow, The Shadow would resume his trail. His telephone call had made it unnecessary for him to seek Ku-Nuan until later.

  CHAPTER V – TRAILS CROSS

  IT was late the next afternoon when The Shadow strolled from the Royal Arms. He still wore his roundish-featured disguise; he nodded affably when the doorman addressed him as Mr. Furbish. Standing by the curb, The Shadow waited while the attendant hailed a taxi that was parked at the nearest hack stand.

  This was The Shadow’s own cab, driven by one of his agents – Moe Shrevnitz. Other aids of The Shadow were in the vicinity; he had summoned them to keep watch during his absence, in case the real Furbish should arrive. The Shadow noted that his men were keeping well under cover.

  A quarter block from the Royal Arms, The Shadow’s cab passed an old house with shuttered windows, that stood on the other side of the street. As they swung the corner, The Shadow observed a decadent antique shop that extended back to the old house. The Shadow spoke to the driver; the cab wheeled at the next corner. Riding through a narrow street, The Shadow saw a deserted store directly in back of the old house.

  He was sure that the old house formed a lookout post for crooks; one that could serve them well, for it had three exits. Under other circumstances, The Shadow might have investigated those premises. Today, however, he avoided that task. If thugs were keeping tabs on the Royal Arms, The Shadow’s agents could offset them in a pinch. At present, The Shadow preferred to keep criminals lulled.

  From the very beginning of crime’s swift sequence, The Shadow had recognized that he was dealing with a superman of evil. Though he had no clue to the identity of Kenneth Malfort, he could detect the hand of such a crimemaster.

  Jerome Blessingdale had been the victim of bold murder; nevertheless, there had been no trail to the thugs who had slain the mining promoter aboard the Southeastern Limited. William Hessup had received prompt death at the Merrimac Club; another instance of evil work by underlings who had immediately scurried to cover.

  There had been a lead in Hessup’s case: namely, Durlew. The druggist had been murdered before the law had a chance to even guess that he was in the game.

  These facts produced The Shadow’s conclusion. He saw the existence of a master crook, who worked through a competent lieutenant. The chances were that lesser thugs had no knowledge of their real chief’s identity. To mix with small-fry would be a mistake. Such a course would give the master crook a key to The Shadow’s move.

  The Shadow had pictured a lieutenant such as Spark Ganza. He believed that such a rogue had murdered Durlew, for the druggist’s death had been a one-man job. The Shadow had also concluded that there was another killer who had direct contact with the mastermind. That man was the yellow-faced assassin who had visited Furbish’s last night. A lone worker, that Mongol must have gained his orders from the top; not through any intermediary.

  Traces of the yellow-faced assailant would be better than any other trail. They could produce a direct route to the master crook without other interference. That was why The Shadow had made his telephone call after Ku-Nuan’s departure. The Shadow was on his way to learn what effect his call had produced.

  UNFOLLOWED, the taxi took a twisting course, tricky enough to shake off any pursuit. Dusk had settled when the cab halted on the outskirts of New York ’s Chinatown. The Shadow alighted; he was shrouded in his cloak of black.

  Picking a gloomy stretch of sidewalk, The Shadow reached a narrow, darkened street. He proceeded along a twisty course until a turn showed a glare ahead. The Shadow was close to the lighted area of the Chinese district. Veering into an alleyway, he reached the front of a dimly lighted Chinese shop. Entering the store, The Shadow found it deserted. He pressed a panel at the rear wall. A secret door clicked open.

  The Shadow entered a labyrinth of stone-walled passages. Steps led him down and up, from building to building, beneath streets that intervened. His course ended in front of a huge brass door. A knobbed stick was hanging by the barrier. The Shadow raised the stick and clanged a circle of brass in the center of the door.

  The barrier slid upward. The Shadow entered a square room, where mellow light revealed paneled walls. In the center of the room stood a solemn-faced Chinaman, whose drooped mustache and long, thin beard gave dignity to his important bearing. The Celestial was clad in robes of deep maroon, adorned with dull-gold dragons. His eyes, firm and cold, were coal-black. They met The Shadow’s gaze.

  The Chinaman was Yat Soo
n, known as the arbiter of Chinatown. Yat Soon was the judge who decided disputes between warring tongs. His word was law among the Chinese.

  Yat Soon had expected The Shadow. The Chinaman delivered a profound bow, that brought a glitter from a crownlike headpiece that he wore. Motioning his visitor to a teakwood taboret, Yat Soon took a similar seat for himself.

  The Shadow spoke words in Chinese. Solemnly, Yat Soon shook his head.

  “There is no word,” said the Chinaman, in English. “We have found no sign of the evil man whom you seek.”

  The Shadow questioned in Chinese. This time, Yat Soon bowed a nod.

  “I have learned the man’s identity,” he declared. “His name is Ku-Nuan. With brains as twisted as his body, Ku-Nuan has ever dealt in murder. Months ago, Ku-Nuan was in Shanghai. Later, he appeared in San Francisco. One week past, he was seen among my people, here in New York.”

  Yat Soon paused; then added:

  “Ku-Nuan may have brought word from Shanghai. Word to some one who had schemes of evil. One, however, who is not of my people.”

  The Shadow spoke in singsong fashion. Yat Soon corroborated the words.

  “You are right, Ying Ko,” acknowledged the arbiter, using the Chinese words that meant “The Shadow.” “Ku-Nuan must live close to the evil master whom he serves. You did wisely, Ying Ko, to let Ku-Nuan escape, that he might show the way to his master. From the moment that you called me last night, my faithful men have been searching for Ku-Nuan. They have not found him.

  “If Ku-Nuan served a master who dwells here in Chinatown, he would have returned. If Ku-Nuan served a man of China who dwells elsewhere, I would know of such a master. My search will continue, Ying Ko, but it will bring naught unless Ku-Nuan returns to Chinatown.”

  THE SHADOW questioned Yat Soon. He was asking the arbiter about Ku-Nuan’s past. Slow headshakes were Yat Soon’s replies, until The Shadow changed the query. He asked if Yat Soon had recent news from Shanghai, apart from Ku-Nuan.