The Man From Shanghai

by Maxwell Grant

  “Sounds like a pipe dream, chief -”

  “Perhaps it is,” Malfort paused speculatively. “Yes, it would depend upon luck – and luck is always uncertain. The Shadow had luck last night. Perhaps his fortune is due to change.”

  Rising, Malfort paced before the fire, rubbing his hands in front of the flame, chortling softly to himself. His manner changed as he swung toward Spark.

  “LAST night,” reminded Malfort, “it was The Shadow who tipped off the police. He wanted it to look like sheer coincidence; but there were too many police, to be there by pure accident. We must remember that The Shadow has one weapon that he can always invoke. That weapon is the law.”

  “The cops aren’t wise,” objected Spark. “They don’t know that we were covering the Maribar Hotel.”

  “Simply because The Shadow did not choose to tell them,” stated Malfort. “He knows that once the Maribar is attacked, I shall take to final cover with my spoils. Just as I have used Major Rowden as bait for men with money, so has The Shadow kept the situation intact, knowing that I must eventually strike at Rowden.”

  “If The Shadow is Cranston, you’ll bag him -”

  “But suppose he is not Cranston?”

  “Then you’ll slip one past him, chief. He’ll do like he did with Furbish. Send him through and wait for him to come out again, particularly because he’s wise that I can’t show up with an outfit. Only Cranston won’t come out like Furbish did -”

  “You are underestimating The Shadow, Spark. He will foresee that I may be planning to eliminate Rowden along with Cranston.”

  “He’ll figure the pay-off will come tonight?”

  Malfort nodded.

  “Yes,” decided the supercrook. “The Shadow will foresee a final conflict in the penthouse. Therefore, I must act to thwart him beforehand. You will aid me, Spark – you and Ku-Nuan. First, though, I shall rely on luck.”

  “You’ll be taking a long chance, chief,” expressed Spark, doubtfully. “If it goes haywire – this stunt you’re planning on – it may put you on the spot. It might put The Shadow wise to where you are. It might bring him here – to this house -”

  “Possibly.”

  Malfort’s smile, reddened by the fire, was the crimson leer of a demon. Spark gazed, speechless. He had seen that gloat before. He knew the results that it brought. Spark’s idea of odds changed suddenly. He was ready to place his wager on Malfort, against The Shadow.

  “Go,” ordered Malfort. “Rest until tonight. I shall need you then, with Ku-Nuan.”

  Spark arose, his bulldog face as rigid as if under a hypnotic spell. At the door, the lieutenant turned back to gaze again at Malfort. He saw the master plotter against the ruddiness of the fire. Leering features still held their satanic gleam.

  Spark Ganza had a sudden hunch that Kenneth Malfort would depend upon more than ordinary luck in his coming scheme against The Shadow. Spark continued on his way.

  Malfort remained in meditative pose. Concentrated though he was, Malfort’s remark, a few minutes later, showed that he was alert to all that passed about him. Malfort spoke the name: “Wardlock.”

  Though his back was turned, Malfort had heard the soft-footed secretary approach the door. Wardlock responded. Malfort swung about. He questioned:

  “Do you remember, Wardlock; when we came here? I said then that -” Malfort paused. Wardlock was nodding, a gleam upon his moonish face. Knowing that the secretary understood his statement, Malfort continued with a final, cryptic utterance:

  “It will happen tonight!”

  CHAPTER XV – THE MESSAGE AT DUSK

  THE day had ended without new event. On Manhattan’s streets, newsboys were still shouting about the law’s battle with crime; but the evening newspapers provided no fresh details.

  Spark Ganza had not been located; nor had the police found any other members of his band. The evening journals had simply rehashed the morning accounts. One tabloid was beginning a life story of Spark Ganza, terming the missing crook a new “public enemy,” while other newspapers were predicting a general round-up by the police. These were merely attempts to manufacture news where none existed.

  Outside a tall office building, a well-dressed man had paused to scan the front pages of the final edition. After a brief glance, he shoved the newspaper into a trash can near the curb. As he turned toward the entrance to the building, this individual showed his face in the light.

  The well-dressed man was The Shadow; his features bore the make-up of Henry Arnaud.

  This was one of The Shadow’s favorite disguises. Fuller than the face of Cranston, the features of Arnaud completely changed his facial contour. Well-molded, they showed no traces of falsity. Nevertheless, The Shadow could divest himself of that visage in the darkness, as he had proved the night when he had left Major Rowden’s. Beneath the built-up surface of the Arnaud disguise were the features of Cranston.

  There was one reason why The Shadow preferred the Arnaud disguise when roving about town. The character of Henry Arnaud was purely The Shadow’s own invention. No actual Arnaud existed. There was, however, a real Lamont Cranston. Hence, The Shadow deemed it unwise to use his countenance when visiting places where Cranston was not likely to be seen.

  This office building was an example. Though a tall one, it was antiquated; and there were few offices occupied on its upper floors. The Shadow was going to the twenty-fifth, to visit an empty office. Not an unlikely trip for the supposed Henry Arnaud, who seemed to prefer out-of-the-way spots; but certainly a most unusual journey had Lamont Cranston taken it. The globetrotting millionaire liked the jungles of India and the wilds of Tibet; but never the empty floors of Manhattan office buildings.

  When The Shadow was alone on the twenty-fifth floor, he tested several keys in the door of an office. One unlocked the door; The Shadow stepped into the darkened room. As he approached the window, it became apparent why he had chosen this particular office.

  The window commanded a view of the Maribar Hotel, which was less than two blocks distant. It gave The Shadow sight of the penthouse that topped the Maribar’s roof.

  FROM his coat pocket, The Shadow drew two objects; one was a flashlight, the other a small mirror. Tilting the mirror toward the penthouse, The Shadow focused the flashlight upon it. Pressing the button of the flashlight he delivered a series of blinks.

  There was no response. The Shadow repeated his signals. This time, the flashes brought results.

  More powerful blinks showed from a darkened window of the distant penthouse. Major Rowden, watching, had caught The Shadow’s signal. He was sending a message in code.

  “Important…”

  The word was flashed smoothly; a fact which did not surprise The Shadow. He had counted upon the major to use a desk lamp and a hand mirror; he had also foreseen that Rowden’s transmission would be rapid. These reflected blinks were simply a heliograph system.

  Major Rowden, campaigning in China, had frequently employed sun-mirrors to telegraph dispatches. The really remarkable part was the skill with which the major had acquired the special code that he was using. He had seen that code for the first time last night. It had come with the message that George Furbish had delivered from The Shadow.

  “Unexpected call…”

  The major’s mirror was flashing again. Its dull, roundish glow was less conspicuous than the direct flashes of an electric bulb, a fact on which The Shadow had calculated when advising use of this system.

  “… by telephone from Helmedge.”

  The major’s signals paused. Rowden was expecting an O.K. The Shadow gave it quickly. This was news of a most important sort.

  In his conference with Rowden, The Shadow had learned of Tobias Helmedge, the one man whom Rowden had credited with safety. Residing in New York, at the address which Rowden had given to The Shadow, Helmedge had been told to wait for word from Rowden. So far, he had done so; but now a complication had arisen.

  “Knew I was here…” Rowden’s coded blinks were comi
ng swiftly. “Thought I had forgotten him… Wanted to remind me… Call doubtless intercepted…

  “Avoided difficulty by cutting call short… No mention of where Helmedge lives…Crooks know only that another man is in it…Helmedge gave name… May mean danger…”

  A pause meant that Rowden wanted a reply. The Shadow blinked back a question:

  “When did H call…”

  Rowden’s response was prompt:

  “Twenty minutes ago…

  The Shadow blinked a final signal, assuring Rowden of prompt action. With that, he signed off.

  DURING the next few minutes, The Shadow speculated upon the results that might follow the sudden entry of Tobias Helmedge as a factor in this case. Kenneth Malfort had certainly received a report regarding Helmedge. The Shadow took that into immediate consequence.

  Malfort, of course, would regard Helmedge as another potential victim; one to be intercepted and shorn of wealth before he could visit Major Rowden. Malfort would prefer to deal with Helmedge as he had with Blessingdale and Hessup.

  Malfort, however, had not managed to locate Furbish in time to commit an early murder. Helmedge’s position resembled Furbish. Though in New York, Helmedge lived at an address that was not listed as his residence; and he had no telephone. The Shadow had checked on those matters. He knew that Malfort – unless he gained chance information – would find it a long and tedious task to uncover Tobias Helmedge.

  Because of that, The Shadow saw opportunity.

  He knew Helmedge’s address. By visiting the old miser, he could persuade him to leave New York. That accomplished, The Shadow could postpone tonight’s visit to Rowden’s penthouse in the guise of Cranston. A simple telephone call would be sufficient to tell Major Rowden that the jewel sale was off.

  The Shadow knew that Malfort was wary regarding Cranston. Perhaps the master crook suspected that The Shadow was playing a double role. The Shadow had hoped that Malfort might attempt a raid on Cranston’s New Jersey residence; or even at the Cobalt Club. In either event, The Shadow would be ready for him. Malfort, however, had been content to wait.

  By ending his own jewel deal with Rowden, The Shadow could force Kenneth Malfort to concentrate upon Tobias Helmedge. It would not take Malfort long – particularly if facts were subtly dropped in his direction – to learn that Helmedge was a miserly old man; an easy sort of prey. That learned, Malfort would attack Helmedge to find The Shadow instead.

  Quickly, The Shadow formed a plan from these possibilities. He knew that each succeeding step would depend upon the one before it. The first step, therefore, was to visit Helmedge. That could be done within the next half hour. There would still be another hour before The Shadow, as Cranston, would be due to call at Rowden’s.

  That would allow time for signals with reflected mirrors, to explain why Rowden would receive a telephone call from Cranston canceling the appointment.

  Quickly, The Shadow left the darkened office and hurried to the elevators. He rang for a car; when it came, he boarded it without sign of haste. When he reached the street, however, he quickened his pace. Pushing through dinner hour throngs, The Shadow came to a corner near Times Square. His taxi was waiting at its usual stand.

  Entering the cab, The Shadow spoke his destination. The taxi took a northward course. Catching the through lights of an avenue, it made speedy progress. Turning west, it reached a secluded street; there, it pulled up in front of a melancholy brownstone house, where hall lights showed the number of the building upon a panel over the front door.

  The Shadow had reached Tobias Helmedge’s residence. The house was serenely quiet. The Shadow opened a satchel on the floor of the cab; he dropped two articles into the bag: the flashlight and the mirror that he had used for his recent signals.

  For the present mission, a short talk with Helmedge, The Shadow’s best guise was the one he already wore. As Henry Arnaud, he could introduce himself as a messenger from Major Rowden. Tobias Helmedge would be best impressed by such a visitor.

  Stepping from the cab, The Shadow glanced along the street. Positive that no lurkers were in the vicinity, he strolled up the brownstone steps that led to Helmedge’s home.

  CHAPTER XVI – HOARDED WEALTH

  A DISTANT tingle answered The Shadow’s pressure of the bell-button at Helmedge’s front door. The sound brought a smile to the lips that represented Arnaud’s. That bell was an antique – the type that was common in the nineteenth century. It bore out facts that The Shadow had gained concerning Helmedge.

  Major Rowden had classed the man as a miser. The bell proved that Helmedge was a penny saver. So did the brownstone steps, with their smooth-worn edges; the door, itself, with its paint-patched cracks. Even the numbers on the glass panel were faint. It was obvious that Tobias Helmedge did not care to pay for unnecessary improvements to his home.

  Faltering footsteps sounded beyond the old door. Rusted bolts were withdrawn. The door swung inward. In the vestibule, The Shadow saw an old and shaky servant, who wore a time-frayed jacket as a sort of uniform. The man’s face was weary; his eyes blinked dimly.

  Beyond him, The Shadow saw the hall light waver; the glow was from a gas jet and the air had caused the flame to quiver. This was another token of Tobias Helmedge’s economy. The miser had never had the house wired for electricity.

  “What is it, sir?”

  The question came from the servant; he had opened the door only halfway. Apparently, he was suspicious of all visitors; for he was craning his neck to stare at the taxicab, still waiting by the curb.

  The Shadow signaled with one hand; the cab glided along the street. Still the servant seemed doubtful; almost ready to close the door.

  “I have come to see Mr. Helmedge,” stated The Shadow in a pleasant tone. “Is he at home?”

  “No, sir,” quavered the servant. “That is, sir, he sees no visitors.”

  “I come from Major Rowden.”

  The Shadow gave the statement a confidential note. The servant recognized Rowden’s name and gave short, nervous nods.

  “Come in, sir,” he voiced in a hoarse whisper. “I think that Mr. Helmedge will see you.”

  The Shadow strolled inward, as the servant stepped aside. He waited in the hallway, noting pieces of antique furniture, while the servant closed the door and bolted it. The faltering man came toward The Shadow, with the question:

  “What is your name, sir?”

  Before he could reply, The Shadow sensed watching eyes from somber curtains at the side of the hall. He did not glance directly toward the curtains; instead, he merely paused instead of answering the servant’s question. At that moment, the curtains parted; The Shadow could hear the scrape of wooden rings as they slid along a rusted metal rod.

  A testy voice snapped a sharp question to the servant:

  “Who is it, Rennig?”

  “A gentleman to see you, Mr. Helmedge,” quavered the servant. “He comes from Major Rowden.”

  THE SHADOW turned as Rennig spoke. In front of the curtains, he saw a hunched-shouldered man, whose face was brown with age. Curious eyes gleamed from beneath a huge shock of whitish hair. Long, nervous hands were rubbing together, as if rinsing themselves of water.

  “I called Major Rowden tonight,” snapped the old man, eyeing The Shadow closely. “He did not say that he would send some one to see me.”

  “My name is Arnaud,” returned The Shadow with a bow. “I talked with Major Rowden soon after you called him. He said that he did not have a chance to tell you that I would come here. Since you have no telephone in the house, he was unable to call you himself.”

  “Telephone!” snorted the old man. “Bah! I had not used one for ten years, until tonight. I went to the corner drug store to call Major Rowden. What a time I had with that new instrument they call the dial. No wonder my call was abrupt.

  “Well, Mr. Arnaud, I shall accept you on your own word. After all, no one but Major Rowden could have heard my call. Tell me, sir, why did he send you here?”
<
br />   “To discuss the purchase of the jewels,” replied The Shadow, in Arnaud’s easy tone. “There is a reason why it must be postponed.”

  Helmedge’s lips opened to start a question; then shut in clammish fashion. Turning, the old man gestured to Rennig.

  “Unbolt the door to the basement,” he ordered. “Mr. Arnaud and I will go down to my strong room. No one is to disturb us, Rennig.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Rennig opened a door at the back of the hall. He found a long wax taper and lighted it. Conducting The Shadow toward the stairs, Helmedge stopped Rennig before the servant could descend the stairs.

  “Give me the taper, Rennig.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  Helmedge took the light and beckoned to The Shadow. The old man descended in crablike fashion, with his visitor close behind him. At the bottom, Helmedge found a gas jet and lighted it. The flickering flame showed a plain basement, with stone floor and ceilings. It also threw grotesque shadows on the floor. Helmedge’s hunchy figure, with The Shadow’s long form beside it.

  “This way, please.”

  Helmedge used his right hand to bring a large key from his pocket. He unlocked a heavy wooden door, swung it inward and approached another gas jet, which he lighted with the remnants of the taper. This time, the illumination showed a room with wooden floor furnished with three old chairs, a battered table and a heavy, old-fashioned couch with moth-eaten upholstery.

  THERE was another door at the back of the room. Near it, in a corner, The Shadow saw a heavy steel safe of obsolete pattern. Helmedge beckoned; they approached the safe. There, with his saggy shoulders forward, the old man clapped his hand against the safe.

  “Old, perhaps,” clucked Helmedge, “but this safe has seen long service. It is where the jewels will be some day. A bargain, those jewels! I have waited long for them, Mr. Arnaud! Tell me” – his voice rose angrily – “why does Major Rowden refuse to sell me the gems?”