The Man From Shanghai

by Maxwell Grant

  “What’s your floor?”

  Harry was watching the lights that indicated the elevator’s progress. They had just passed the seventeenth floor. With a light laugh, as though aroused from an absent-minded mood, Harry remarked:

  “Sorry. I wanted the sixteenth. Go on up, operator. I’ll ride down with you.”

  The operator grumbled; then decided to follow the order, particularly as Furbish stated suddenly that he was in a hurry. The elevator rode up to the penthouse. Furbish stepped off, while Harry remained on board. The car descended to the sixteenth, where The Shadow’s agent left it.

  Four minutes later, Harry rang for an elevator and descended to the lobby. From the moment he arrived, he was under scrutiny of various watchers. It was obvious that the elevator operator was one of Malfort’s men; that the fellow had flashed the word for others to keep an eye on Harry.

  A LONG-LIMBED man who looked like a house detective was standing by the cigar counter, playing a bagatelle game. He watched Harry buy a newspaper and stroll to a chair to read. There was tension in the lobby; the camouflaged crooks who worked for Malfort were at a hair-trigger pitch. Though they had been told to let Furbish pass, any slight incident might prove sufficient to make them show their true characters.

  Foreseeing that, The Shadow had left nothing to chance. He had ordered Harry Vincent to convoy George Furbish to the penthouse; and Harry had put the job across. It was likely, however, that any new move on Harry’s part would bring trouble in the hotel.

  A clock above the lobby desk was clicking off the minutes, its large hand jolting forward at every sixty seconds. Although certain watchers gave glances toward the clock, Barthow did not. The clerk was Malfort’s key-man here. He was covering his part to perfection. Barthow had a watch beneath his counter. He was noting the time while he attended to regular duties.

  A dozen minutes had gone since Furbish’s arrival. Soon Spark Ganza and his full crew would be closing in about the Maribar.

  A buzz sounded from an opened elevator. The operator stopped a chat with the bell captain in order to answer the call. The indicator board in the elevator showed that the ring had come from the penthouse floor.

  Another man other than the operator had noticed the light on the indicator. That observer was Cliff Marsland. He had chosen a chair from which he could watch the indicators in all the elevators. Cliff had come into the lobby alone, no watchers had taken him to be a friend of Harry’s. The call from the penthouse centered all attention upon Harry; no one noticed Cliff as he sauntered toward the elevator.

  The operator – a different man than the one with whom Harry had ridden – was the first of Malfort’s tools to recognize that Cliff was in the game. The operator learned the fact too late. The elevator was already riding upward when Cliff spoke.

  “Hurry this trip up,” he told the operator, in an impatient tone. “Get up to the top and down again. I left a package in the lobby. I want to get it.”

  The operator evidently had instructions to stall Furbish’s departure. He eyed Cliff and made a suggestion.

  “Get off at your floor, sir,” said the operator. “I can have one of the bell boys bring the package up to your room.”

  “I’m getting the package myself,” returned Cliff. “You heard what I said. Show some speed.”

  Cliff’s hand had gone to his coat pocket. It was slowly emerging. The operator took the hint. He increased the car’s speed to the penthouse and banged the doors open. Furbish stepped aboard the car, carrying the same satchel. His satisfied smile told Cliff that the transaction had been completed. Furbish had delivered a quarter of a million dollars in currency of high denomination. He was carrying out the equivalent in jewels.

  THE operator closed the doors and darted a sidelong glance toward Cliff. That one look convinced him that The Shadow’s agent would stand for no delay. The operator let the car ride downward, ignoring signals that called for stops at different floors. The elevator reached the lobby in record time.

  When Furbish strode from the elevator, Cliff followed, his hand still ready for a quick draw of a gun. At the same moment, Harry Vincent popped from his chair and took up the trail. He, too, was prepared. Closing in behind Furbish, both agents of The Shadow were ready to wheel about and open fight with any of Malfort’s men.

  If Barthow had been ready to risk commotion in the lobby, he would have desisted when he saw this threat. Barthow, however, was nonchalant. The time limit was almost ended. He preferred to leave Furbish to men outside. Barthow, however, had underestimated the quick trip that the elevator had made with Cliff aboard. He had also failed to realize how quick a departure Furbish would make when he reached the street.

  The Shadow’s taxi was actually in motion when Furbish stepped aboard. Its driver was the swiftest hackie in Manhattan, The cab whined forward in high-speed second gear. It was clearing traffic, roaring eastward with its passenger when Harry and Cliff reached the street.

  One block away, the cab wheeled right beneath an elevated structure. As it did, a rakish touring car came roaring down the avenue, to take up the taxi’s trail. The first of Spark Ganza’s crew had arrived; they had seen the taxi’s speed and were suspicious of it. One of several cars, this crook-manned machine had happened upon a lucky chase.

  As the touring car neared the corner, a coupe drifted from the side street, following in the taxi’s wake. For the last few minutes, this coupe had been parked near the Maribar Hotel. It had moved from the curb just as the taxi passed.

  A long arm thrust itself from beside the coupe’s steering wheel. A steady hand aimed an automatic for the touring car. A big.45 spoke its opening shot. A bullet shattered the windshield of the thug-manned automobile. The driver veered the car, to swing inside an elevated pillar.

  A pair of men shouted vicious challenge as they turned a machine gun toward the coupe. They were answered by a fierce, strident laugh, accompanied by three staccato reports from the automatic that had fired the first shot. Bullets found the machine gunners. One man sagged; the other half dived from the car. As the crook at the wheel swung wildly toward the side street, the leaning machine gunner was precipitated to the paving stones.

  THE SHADOW had intercepted the first of Spark Ganza’s death cars. A wild-eyed hoodlum had resorted to flight. Bouncing over a curb, the touring car sped eastward, away from the direction of the Maribar Hotel; off to a course far different from the one that the taxicab had taken.

  Those gunshots, however, were a token that would draw men of crime. The Shadow knew it as he wheeled his coupe to the curb. Swinging from the car, he formed a long, tall figure by the running board. Though hatless, cloakless, his dark clothing served him. Between his car and the gloom beneath the elevated he was in a position where no glare revealed his waiting form.

  Two cars were thundering toward the focal point. One, a sedan, was coming down the avenue. The other, a touring car, had taken the street in front of the Maribar Hotel and was riding east to join the attack. The double odds failed before the two cars reached The Shadow.

  Shots echoed from a doorway on the side street. The Shadow’s agents had taken cover; they were ready with a barrage as the touring car passed. Their shots winged the driver. The touring car hurtled toward the corner, mounted the curb and smashed through a plate-glass window that marked an empty store front. Crooks sprawled to the sidewalk, their machine gun still in the car. They rolled for cover, dazed.

  At that moment, the sedan neared The Shadow. It was coming on guesswork only. The thugs at the windows knew that The Shadow was somewhere about. They were not expecting him when he appeared. Mounting the running board of his coupe, The Shadow opened a two-gun bombardment as the sedan hit the crossing.

  Crooks ducked as a withering fire hailed through the windows of the sedan. The man at the wheel crouched low; jabbing the accelerator, he weaved between the “el” pillars, making full speed down the avenue. The Shadow let him take his course, for the machine gunners were opening wild shots. Directe
d high by crouching men, the rattling gun sprayed the second-story fronts of buildings.

  The sedan had passed, its menace temporarily gone. The Shadow, however, was determined to halt it, whether its driver sought flight or not. Aiming quickly, he boomed both guns for the rear of the car. One bullet punctured the gasoline tank. Another burst a rear tire. The sedan skidded, jolted, cracked an elevated pillar. Doors opened; scattering thugs dived everywhere for cover.

  No other cars came. There was good reason why they did not appear. Sirens were wailing from every direction. Police cars were surging upon the scene. The Shadow was back in his coupe. His agents had found a passage beside their doorway. Patrol cars, bucking traffic, were riding up to chase the fleeing thugs. The fight had become the law’s, by The Shadow’s design. He had found time, en route to the Maribar Hotel, to telephone a tip-off to headquarters.

  THE SHADOW had named the exact spot where battle would commence; namely, the corner beneath the elevated. Police had converged upon the spot, to find their work ready for them. Already, the police were pursuing the first car with which The Shadow had done battle. Two more machines were wrecked. Officers were piling down upon the thugs who had sprawled from those crippled cars.

  Desperately, crooks gave battle; but the odds were all against them. Thugs fell as they fired; others surrendered to the law. In the lull that followed, distant sirens wailed, accompanied by faint shots that receded beyond hearing distance.

  Another car – the last – with Spark Ganza at its wheel, had come up against the police. Giving battle as they fled, the last crooks were speeding away from the vicinity that they had come to cover.

  All chance of trailing Furbish’s taxi was ended. Those crooks would be lucky if they managed to escape.

  As traffic nosed timidly along the avenue, The Shadow started his coupe. He rode one block southward, passing the wreck of the sedan; then wheeled to the right, found the next avenue and circled around in front of the Maribar Hotel.

  All was quiet there. The inside men were glad that they had not mixed in the outside fray.

  Nearing the corner, overhung by the elevated, The Shadow saw the smashed, abandoned touring car that stood as mute evidence of the efficient work his agents had performed. Harry and Cliff had made a comfortable departure.

  Passing beneath the elevated, The Shadow delivered a whispered laugh – sardonic mirth that was confined to the interior of his coupe. He had shown his enemies how useless odds could be to them. He had escaped their trap. He had arranged the visit between Furbish and Rowden. He had covered Furbish’s departure after a completed transaction.

  All this, despite Malfort’s cunning schemes. Bad word would reach the supercrook tonight; word that his trap had failed, that his hordes were scattered. Malfort’s methods had proven futile against The Shadow’s plans.

  More than ever before would Malfort know that to succeed in crime, he would first have to quell The Shadow.

  With a man of Malfort’s insidious moods, that could mean trouble.

  Even to The Shadow.

  CHAPTER XIV – MALFORT PLANS ACTION

  MORNING found Kenneth Malfort seated in his living room. The fire was crackling with fresh logs that Wardlock had added. There was added light from lamps about the room; but no daylight penetrated. Every window of the room was shuttered.

  Malfort was reading the morning newspaper, with their scare-head stories of last night’s battle. The police had completely routed a criminal horde. Half a dozen thugs had fallen in the fight; twice that number had been captured. One carload of thugs only, had made a get-away.

  Spark Ganza had been in that fugitive car. Spark was a wanted man. Though his henchmen had not talked, they had been identified as cronies of Spark Ganza. The law was on the lookout for Malfort’s lieutenant.

  The printed reports did not seem to perturb Malfort. As he read new details, the master crook merely smiled. His smirk, however, was an ugly one. Wardlock, when he noted Malfort’s face, was quick to display a grin of his own. The moon-faced secretary knew his master’s moods.

  Forced to duel with The Shadow, Malfort had accepted the challenge with confidence. He had been too confident, from Wardlock’s view. Double defeat had come to Malfort; the experience had changed his opinions of The Shadow as an adversary. That, as Wardlock saw it, was fortunate. From long service, the secretary knew that Malfort was always at his best on the rebound.

  After all, The Shadow had gained no lead to Malfort himself. The master crook was as secure as before. All that troubled Wardlock was the fact that Malfort could no longer summon a full crew of thugs. Spark Ganza, wanted by the law, would have to make out with his few remaining followers.

  Yet Malfort still could count on Spark; he could also depend on Ku-Nuan. The Mongol had come back to Malfort’s badly shaken, but more than ready to attempt new battle with The Shadow. In fact, both Spark and Ku-Nuan could prove more valuable than ever before. Under Malfort’s evil inspiration, they would want vengeance.

  Wardlock went from the living room while Malfort was still reading the newspaper. Soon, the secretary reappeared with the announcement that Spark Ganza had arrived. Malfort ordered him to bring the lieutenant upstairs.

  SPARK arrived with a sour face. Malfort waved him to a chair. As Spark began apologies, Malfort introduced a silencing pur.

  “Details are unnecessary,” voiced the master crook. “I have learned enough from Ku-Nuan and the newspapers. Barthow also reported.”

  Spark nodded; then questioned, “What about Ku-Nuan? Is he O.K.?”

  “Quite,” replied Malfort. “His mental attitude is the same as yours, Spark. He is anxious to get at The Shadow.”

  Spark’s growl told that his urge for vengeance was as genuine as Malfort had supposed.

  “I shoved my four gorillas back to the hide-out near the Maribar Hotel,” he told Malfort. “Figured that would be the best place for them. The cops won’t be looking for them around there. They’ll be all set when I show up; and the same if they get a call from Barthow.”

  “Good!” approved Malfort. “We shall let them wait for Barthow’s call. Since it is now daylight, Spark, it will be preferable for you to remain here.”

  Spark showed agreement. He had pictured trouble with police, if forced to travel to the hide-out. Nevertheless, there was one point that troubled him.

  “How’re you going to get back at The Shadow?” queried Spark. “You’ll need me and the outfit, chief. What’s more, The Shadow is wise that we’ve got guys inside the Maribar Hotel.”

  “He knew that long ago,” purred Malfort, smoothly. “Our plans, Spark, must be based on the situation as it now stands. We must analyze The Shadow’s viewpoint, as well as our own.”

  Malfort picked up a pad on which Wardlock had penciled shorthand notes.

  “Our motive,” declared Malfort, “was to intercept those men who came to visit Major Rowden; to eliminate them and acquire their wealth. You handled matters well with Blessingdale and Hessup. The trouble came with Furbish. That was where The Shadow entered.

  “The man at the Royal Arms was not George Furbish. He was either The Shadow or a subordinate fighter, posted to meet an attack like the one Ku-Nuan delivered. Barthow saw the real Furbish last night, at the Maribar Hotel.”

  “And Furbish made a get-away,” put in Spark, sourly. “You can bet The Shadow slid him somewhere that we’ll never guess.”

  “Let us forget Furbish,” advised Malfort. “We have another man to think about. I refer to Lamont Cranston, the substitute purchaser who intends to buy gems originally held for Calhoun Lamport, of Chicago.”

  Spark shot an eager query.

  “Is Cranston going to buy?” he asked. “Where did you get that dope, chief?”

  “From Barthow” answered Malfort. “Cranston called the major late last night. Barthow overheard him say that he would come to the penthouse tonight, with funds to make the purchase.”

  “Then we can bag Cranston -”

  “
Not only Cranston. We shall settle scores with Major Rowden, as well!”

  SPARK’S hard eyes showed their admiration for the scheme. Malfort purred the details.

  “Since Cranston is the last man,” stated the master crook, “there is no need to intercept him before he reaches Rowden’s. We intended to concentrate upon the major, as soon as the money men were gone. Tonight, it will be a simple matter to eliminate both Cranston and Rowden, when they hold their meeting in the penthouse. I, personally, shall attend to that task.”

  Malfort paused to study the fire flame. When he spoke again, his tone was harsh.

  “So much for our campaign,” he declared. “We must now consider The Shadow as a factor. Let us assume that he knows everything. He has learned why we murdered Blessingdale and Hessup – to say nothing of Durlew. To show his strength, he arranged Furbish’s visit to Rowden, last night.

  “Since he protected Furbish, he will also be on hand to safeguard Cranston. We can not chance an open battle with The Shadow. Therefore, I must see to it that The Shadow can not be present. Unless -”

  Malfort stopped suddenly; his eyes revealed a cunning gleam. Spark listened expectantly.

  “Unless,” concluded Malfort, “The Shadow and Lamont Cranston prove to be one and the same!”

  Spark uttered an exclamation of astonishment. Finding his voice, he warned:

  “You’ll have to look out then, chief. If The Shadow is Cranston, he’ll show up in the penthouse.”

  “Let him,” retorted Malfort. “The penthouse will be a perfect trap! Better even than the one last night! That snare had a loophole, which Ku-Nuan did not cover. Rowden’s penthouse will have none. All that I shall need is four competent marksmen.”

  “You’ve got them, chief. The gorillas at the hide-out. Barthow can smuggle them through when you need them.”

  “I am depending upon those four. Cranston will be doomed, whether or not he is The Shadow. For the present, however, we must consider The Shadow independently. Suppose that we should block him completely; take him from the field beforehand. How would that appeal to you, Spark?”