The Man From Shanghai

by Maxwell Grant

  “He does not refuse,” replied The Shadow, quietly. “He merely wishes to postpone the transaction. He feels that it would be dangerous to sell the jewels here in New York.”

  “Dangerous to himself?”

  “Yes. He would like to have you go to Boston; to await him there with the money.”

  Helmedge’s lips twisted scornfully.

  “I go to Boston?” he queried. “Because of danger to Major Rowden?”

  “Danger may threaten you, as well.”

  “Danger threaten me?”

  Helmedge’s head tilted back. A dry laugh came from his throat. He seemed to relish The Shadow’s statement as a huge jest. Choking with cackled merriment, he wagged a finger at his visitor; then managed to utter loud words:

  “Danger threaten me! Why should I be in danger? Look! For forty years this safe – with all my wealth -”

  Laughing more heartily than before, Helmedge gripped the door of the safe and pulled it open, to show that it was unlocked. Within the safe were stacks of bundled currency. The Shadow saw crisp bank notes: bills of a thousand-dollar denomination. Stooping, Helmedge lifted bundles of cash and spread the notes to show their value.

  “Who would come here to rob me?” he guffawed. “Me – a poor old recluse, who never even paints his front door! Too poor to have electricity, or a telephone! Just a miserable old man, barely able to keep one servant in the house!

  “Bah! I never trouble to lock this safe. Why should I? Who would bother to look for it? There are thieves in this world, yes, but they pick persons who have visible wealth; not an old man, who they think has nothing.

  “Major Rowden may be in danger, yes. He is a man who has gone where there is danger; hence danger may have followed him. You, too, may be a man in danger, Mr. Arnaud. Yes” – pausing, Helmedge straightened; clutching his stack of money in his left hand, he pointed straight with his right. “Yes, you are in danger! Great danger, Mr. Arnaud!”

  The last phrase was almost a shout. The Shadow wheeled instinctively; even as he turned, he knew that he was too late. For an instant, The Shadow paused for a spring; then subsided, letting his hands come upward.

  MEN had entered from both doors. One was a moon-faced man, with silent tread. He was Wardlock. Malfort’s soft-footed secretary, carrying a leveled revolver. The Shadow had never seen Wardlock before; hence he did not recognize the man. But he knew the fiend that had bobbed in from the other door. That arrival was Ku-Nuan, his right hand raised, gripping a gleaming knife. The Mongol’s arm was ready for a quick swing that would send the blade with arrow speed. The tension of his wrist showed his impatience for the throw.

  Another man swung into view – one who had waited while his sneaky companions had made their surprise entry. The third intruder was Spark Ganza – a grin above his bulldog chin, a gun below the level of his glaring, bulgy eyes.

  The Shadow was trapped by a murderous trio. A purred laugh from behind him was indication that a fourth party enjoyed the scene. Half turning, The Shadow looked toward the safe. He saw the face of Tobias Helmedge no longer.

  The old man had shed his age. From his head he had ripped his shocky wig. A streaky line that edged his own dark hair proved that the brownish tinge to his face was nothing more than artificial stain.

  Facial muscles had relaxed. Instead of a contorted face, The Shadow saw a craggy countenance – well-formed, but malicious in its natural expression. Straight lips were as evil as if they had formed a leer. The man was laughing from those lips.

  The Shadow needed no introduction to this satanic foe who held him helpless.

  He knew his captor to be Kenneth Malfort.

  CHAPTER XVII – A CROOK PLAYS SAFE

  MALFORT had drawn a revolver of his own. He was taking no chances with The Shadow. He nudged the weapon forward, a dangerous glare in his eyes. The Shadow raised his arms higher.

  “Search him!”

  Malfort purred the order to Wardlock. The secretary started to pocket his gun. Spark Ganza reached forward and took it from him. Spark, too, was wary. He was afraid that the prisoner would snatch the weapon from Wardlock’s pocket.

  Wardlock frisked The Shadow. He turned to Malfort and gave a puzzled shrug.

  “No gun on him,” stated Wardlock. “Maybe -”

  The secretary paused; but The Shadow understood. It was puzzling to find The Shadow gunless, even though his mission here had been a peaceful one. Perhaps crooks should have known from The Shadow’s failure to resist that he was weaponless; nevertheless, the situation went against what they had expected.

  Even Malfort showed doubt. That fact pleased The Shadow. He knew that bluff would be his only course. He had gained a good start.

  “Bind him!” ordered Malfort. “You, Wardlock; and Ku-Nuan.”

  Reluctantly, Ku-Nuan put his knife away. He and Wardlock went for ropes. They returned and thrust The Shadow to the couch. There, they began to tie his wrists behind him. For a moment, The Shadow offered resistance; but curbed it quickly. The knots tightened into a double binding.

  Wardlock added other knots, while Ku-Nuan held a rope ready. The secretary took the rope; stepped toward The Shadow’s feet, while Ku-Nuan set his teeth into the knots that bound The Shadow’s wrists. The Mongol had his own method of adding to the tightness of the bonds.

  The Shadow rolled as Wardlock wrapped the rope about his ankles. His feet crossed; the secretary tied them as they were. Ku-Nuan arrived to bite the knots and tug them. The two henchmen rolled The Shadow on his back.

  Approaching, the master crook faced The Shadow. He eyed the visage of Arnaud; then spoke to Ku-Nuan.

  “This was the man?” queried Malfort. “The one who fought with you at the Royal Arms?”

  Ku-Nuan nodded promptly.

  “And on the roof of the Maribar Hotel?” questioned Malfort. “And at the trap last night?”

  Ku-Nuan stared but made no immediate remark.

  “Take a good gander at him,” put in Spark. “We want to know whether this mug is The Shadow, or some stooge. Look him over right, Ku-Nuan.”

  THE Mongol shook his head as he turned to Malfort. The gesture indicated that he could not positively identify the prisoner as The Shadow.

  Malfort showed an ugly grimace. He stepped toward The Shadow.

  “There is no need to make you talk,” sneered Malfort. “That would prove nothing within the short time that I have to question you. Whoever you are – whether The Shadow or some one who serves him – you have worked against me. Therefore, you shall pay the penalty!

  “You came here, thinking to find Tobias Helmedge. It may interest you to know that he is dead – slain weeks ago, before either Blessingdale or Hessup. I had been informed of Helmedge, through my correspondents in China.”

  Pausing, Malfort gestured upward with his thumb.

  “Helmedge had dismissed his old servant,” he stated, “in order to live more cheaply. For years, he had kept the second floor closed off, as a form of economy. After Helmedge died” – Malfort’s tone showed irony – “I became his heir. I occupied the second floor and modernized it. We enter it by the back door.

  “I might mention that a large door blocks the stairway at the second floor. Today, when I considered it wise to trap you, I sent for Helmedge’s old servant, Rennig. He came here; he thinks that I am Helmedge. That is why he helped to deceive you.”

  Pondering, Malfort eyed his prisoner.

  “If you are The Shadow,” purred the supercrook, “you can not disturb my plans tonight. If you are not The Shadow, I have an idea that he will prove to be Lamont Cranston. Of course, there is the possibility that you intended to masquerade as Cranston, using the same face that you showed when you called yourself Furbish.

  “In that event, Lamont Cranston will not appear at the Maribar Hotel tonight. If he does appear, it will be positive that you and he are not the same. There are many answers to the riddle; I prefer to learn for myself. It affords more zest, particularly when the cards are stacked
entirely in my favor.” Malfort drew a watch from his pocket, studied the time, and turned to Wardlock.

  “I shall reach the Maribar in thirty minutes,” he stated. “If there is any new development, call the desk and ask for me at that time. I shall remain in the lobby a short while before I go up to the penthouse.”

  Turning to Spark and Ku-Nuan, Malfort added:

  “Watch the prisoner, both of you. If he makes one false move, you can use him for a match of skill. I would be interested to know which weapon could deliver the swiftest death: your revolver, Spark; or your knife, Ku-Nuan.”

  To The Shadow, Malfort added, “You will remain a prisoner only until my other affairs are settled. I shall deal with Rowden; with Cranston also, if he proves foolish enough to visit the penthouse. Perhaps I already hold The Shadow; possibly, I have still to find him. But you will die when I return.”

  WITH this cold statement, Malfort strolled toward the door. Wardlock followed him; The Shadow heard the secretary put a question. Wardlock was asking about Rennig. Malfort thought a moment, then said:

  “Come upstairs with me. I shall introduce you to Rennig as my secretary. Stay on the first floor with him. I do not want him to see either Spark or Ku-Nuan. Rennig will be good for an alibi later; he will swear that he saw Tobias Helmedge alive tonight.

  “If either Spark or Ku-Nuan need to speak to you, Wardlock, they can meet you at the top of the stairs, on the ground floor. You hear that?” Malfort swung to Spark and Ku-Nuan. “Keep in contact with Wardlock, on the ground floor.”

  Henchmen nodded. Wardlock added a question:

  “What if I have to call you by telephone?”

  “Send Rennig to the kitchen,” replied Malfort. “Then you can go to the second floor. Remember, though, the call must come exactly half an hour after I leave. I want no calls after I reach the penthouse.”

  “I shall only be there a short while.” Malfort looked toward The Shadow as he spoke. “It will not take long to deal with Major Rowden; nor with this chap Cranston, if he chances to arrive.”

  At the door, Malfort paused to don the wig that he had pocketed. He hunched his body, screwed his face into the contorted visage of the dead Tobias Helmedge. In the old man’s voice, he snapped the order:

  “Come with me, Mr. Wardlock.”

  CREAKY footsteps on the stairs marked Malfort’s departure. Wardlock’s tread was noiseless. The Shadow leaned back against the wall; the flare of the gaslight showed his face to be expressionless. Silent, he intended to continue his part of Arnaud.

  Spark Ganza and Ku-Nuan glared at the poker-faced prisoner. Had they been sure their captive was The Shadow, they would have followed Malfort’s emergency instructions and dealt immediate death. But where their chief had been uncertain, they were necessarily the same.

  Helpless, with cutting cords about his wrists and ankles, The Shadow seemed in absolute plight. Yet, all the while, his keen brain held a plan.

  All that The Shadow needed was the right time for a daring stroke. He was allowing half an hour until the proper moment. From the moment that Malfort had so confidently discussed his plans, The Shadow had seen a future opportunity.

  Malfort had chosen to play a safe game; to hold this prisoner until he was sure that he possessed The Shadow. From Malfort’s viewpoint, the game seemed sure.

  The master crook had never realized that he, himself, had supplied a loophole; one that The Shadow – less helpless than he seemed – could use to good advantage. Nor had Malfort’s henchmen seen any opportunity for the prisoner.

  Only The Shadow had foreseen the deeds that he himself might soon accomplish.

  CHAPTER XVIII – THE SHADOW TALKS

  MINUTES dragged slowly in the room where The Shadow lay prisoner. Though he gave no glances toward the men who watched him, The Shadow gradually betrayed a melancholy expression. This was accomplished quite effectively with the countenance that he wore.

  As Henry Arnaud, The Shadow habitually showed a friendly personality, accompanied by an occasional smile. By curbing all joviality, he soon created the impression that he was resigned to whatever fate might come.

  Both Spark and Ku-Nuan believed that their prisoner was engrossed in thought; that he was recognizing, more and more, the hopelessness of his position. They were right when they guessed that The Shadow was engaged in concentration; but they did not know the reason why.

  The Shadow was mentally counting off the minutes, with an accuracy that would have surprised his captors. He needed to know when a half hour had nearly ended.

  After ten minutes had passed, Spark Ganza glanced at his watch, without turning the dial toward the prisoner. With word to Ku-Nuan to keep careful guard, Spark left the prison room and went upstairs. He was gone about three minutes; during that time, he had held a chat with Wardlock.

  All during Spark’s absence, Ku-Nuan had crouched beside the couch, his lips twisted as if to voice a snarl; his hand clutching the long-bladed dirk. Ku-Nuan’s beady eyes were steadily, upon The Shadow. The Mongol merely wanted an excuse to knife the prisoner.

  Spark’s thoughts differed from Ku-Nuan’s. Spark looked forward to Malfort’s return. He hoped the big-shot would not order an immediate death sentence. Spark wanted a chance to put the heat on the prisoner. He wanted to hear this melancholy captive squawk for mercy.

  Gun in hand, Spark slouched in a chair. Another ten minutes went by. Spark glanced toward the door; then shrugged his shoulders and decided to wait a short while longer.

  That suited The Shadow. By his calculation, only twenty-three minutes had elapsed. Spark kept glancing at his watch; at the end of three more minutes, he arose and went out. The Shadow heard his footsteps on the stairs.

  Immediately, The Shadow turned his eyes upon Ku-Nuan. The murderous Mongol met the gaze with a snarl. He tightened his grip upon the knife; urged the blade forward, holding its point close to The Shadow’s throat.

  The Shadow spoke. His words brought a bulge of Ku-Nuan’s eyes. The Shadow’s low-toned utterance was in Chinese.

  THE singsong words caught Ku-Nuan’s attention; they held him riveted. Translated, The Shadow’s speech was this:

  “Ying Ko is powerful. He is greater than the master whom you serve. Ying Ko has a friend in Yat Soon. When Ying Ko strikes, many Chinese will be with him. They are prepared, tonight, to aid Ying Ko against your master.”

  To Ku-Nuan, the name “Ying Ko” signified “The Shadow.” For the first time, Ku-Nuan had learned of The Shadow’s connection in Chinatown.

  Promptly, Ku-Nuan understood why he had been so quickly followed by watchful Chinese. They were men who owned loyalty to Yat Soon, the most powerful person in all Chinatown.

  Cunningly, The Shadow had spoken of Ying Ko as an individual other than himself. For the moment, Ku-Nuan was positive that the prisoner was The Shadow. Through the Mongol’s sneaky brain flashed the thought that here was news for Malfort. Hissing, he withdrew the dagger from The Shadow’s throat. He looked toward the door that led to the stairs.

  Spark Ganza might not return for several minutes. Then it would be too late for Wardlock to telephone to Malfort at the Maribar Hotel. Ku-Nuan looked at The Shadow’s bonds; tugged the knots with long-nailed fingers. Satisfied that the prisoner could not wrench loose from those tight ropes, Ku-Nuan leered viciously. In snaky fashion, he arose and started toward the door. He was on his way to tell Spark and Wardlock what he had learned.

  Ku-Nuan reached the door; shot a look back toward The Shadow. He saw a troubled look upon the prisoner’s face. Ku-Nuan took to the stairs. Hasty in ascent, he did not move with his usual silence. The Shadow could hear the patter of the Mongol’s footsteps.

  Instantly, The Shadow came to action.

  HIS ankles were crossed, just as Ku-Nuan had tied them; the right foot was above the left. With steady effort, The Shadow wrenched his right ankle downward. It stopped beside the left. The binding ropes showed an immediate slack. The looseness of the ropes represented the difference between
the thickness of The Shadow’s ankles and their width.

  Swinging his feet to the floor, The Shadow forced the heel of his left shoe against the heel of the right. He was wearing shoes of more than ordinary weight. Though the lacings were tight, the thick leather gave the shoes a looseness. In a dozen seconds, The Shadow managed to force his right shoe from his foot.

  That done, he doubled his right knee and worked his right foot upward through the coils of slackened rope. His next move was to replace his foot in the empty shoe. Coming to a standing position, The Shadow accomplished the task by forward pressure. His legs were completely loose; but he had no time to work upon the crisscrossed ropes that bound his wrists.

  Already, The Shadow could hear Ku-Nuan coming down the stairs.

  Seating himself upon the couch, The Shadow pulled his right ankle in back of his left, squeezing loose ropes between, to make it look as if his ankles were still bound. His left foot was in front of his right, the reverse of the original position; but The Shadow felt sure that Ku-Nuan would not notice.

  Ku-Nuan was at the doorway. Looking into the room, the Mongol paused. He saw The Shadow upright on the couch; he noted the ankles of the prisoner. Before Ku-Nuan could detect that the bonds no longer held The Shadow’s legs, his attention was diverted.

  His lips compressed to show a strain, The Shadow was tugging hard at his wrists, seeking to break the cords that held them clamped behind his back. That was enough for Ku-Nuan. With a triumphant snarl, the assassin bounded forward. He had his excuse to knife the prisoner.

  AS Ku-Nuan loped forward with his hand upraised, The Shadow dropped back upon the couch, flattening his body on his tied hands. He was helpless, his body an easy target for the downward stroke that Ku-Nuan intended to deliver.