Had Ku-Nuan thrown the knife, it would have found its mark; but the Mongol, impressed by the ease of the attack, preferred to drive the dirk home with a thrust.
Had The Shadow freed his hands, Ku-Nuan could have met the move. He was looking for such possible resistance. But the stroke that came was different from any that Ku-Nuan had expected; and it arrived sooner than the killer could have believed possible.
Flat on his back, The Shadow shifted his right foot from behind the left. With terrific speed; he launched a gigantic upward kick just as Ku-Nuan reached a spot five feet from the couch.
The Shadow timed that shot to perfection. The heavy-toed shoe swooped upward, grazing Ku-Nuan’s chest. It caught the Mongol in his final leap, squarely beneath the chin. The speed of The Shadow’s kick, plus Ku-Nuan’s bounding advance, gave double force to the timely stroke. Ku-Nuan’s teeth clattered as The Shadow’s foot lifted him completely from the floor.
Ku-Nuan’s head jerked back; his arms went wide as his body launched toward the ceiling. The knife blade clattered to the floor while its owner was still in mid-air. With outsprawled body, Ku-Nuan landed flat on his back a dozen feet from the couch. The Shadow had kicked him senseless. Not even a gulp came from the Mongol’s jaundiced lips.
The Shadow came to his feet. He heard pounds from the stairs. Spark Ganza was coming down; he had heard Ku-Nuan’s crash. Kicking ropes from his left ankle, The Shadow leaped for the opened door. The barrier pointed inward; The Shadow gained its cover just as Spark Ganza appeared beyond it.
Spark saw Ku-Nuan flattened in front of the vacated couch. Quickly Spark shoved inward, with a leveled revolver in his fist. The Shadow saw the arm and the gun; he swept a high, left-footed kick for Spark’s wrist. The kick was accurate. Spark uttered a shout as his gun went flying from his hand, a dozen feet across the floor. Gripping his wrist, Spark saw The Shadow.
The prisoner was again on the move, dashing across the floor toward Spark’s lost revolver. As he wiggled his half-numbed fingers, Spark saw The Shadow’s back; he spotted the cords that still bound the prisoner’s wrists. The Shadow dived to the floor, rolling to plant his body on top of Spark’s revolver. Spark rasped an oath.
He did not need the.38 that he had lost. His thought was to pounce upon The Shadow; to grasp the helpless fighter’s throat and pound his head against the floor. Spark thought that he could forever silence this prisoner before The Shadow could loosen his hands in defense. Spark sprang forward.
The move was the very one The Shadow wanted. His roll to the floor was a trick to make Spark attack. The Shadow was on his right side; his right foot forward, his left retarded, as though in running position. Both feet were toward Spark.
As the thug dived for The Shadow’s body, he was met by a surprise jujutsu move. The Shadow’s left foot kicked forward, catching Spark’s legs. Simultaneously, The Shadow pulled his right foot backward below the left, hooking Spark’s ankles.
Clipped in a hard scissors-slice, Spark was toppled instantly. The force was great; the leverage tremendous. Spark took a long, oblique dive, striking the stone floor on head and shoulders before he could use his arms to break the fall.
THE SHADOW gained his feet. Looking at Spark, he saw the thug move feebly. Spark was completely dazed. It would be minutes before he could rise to action. Important minutes, those, for The Shadow had not forgotten Wardlock. He knew that the secretary must have gone to the second floor to telephone Malfort. Wardlock would be back soon, wondering why Spark was no longer on the stairs.
The Shadow kicked Spark’s gun beneath the couch. He could not use the revolver with his hands bound; there was no time to waste in picking it up. There was another object that The Shadow preferred: that was Ku-Nuan’s knife.
Stooping beside the unconscious Mongol, The Shadow twisted about and picked up the knife with his bound hands.
Carrying the knife behind him, he dashed for the stairs. He reached the ground floor; saw a door that led to the kitchen. With his toe, The Shadow delivered muffled kicks against the door. A few moments passed; the door opened. The Shadow saw Rennig.
Helmedge’s ex-servant had suspected danger from the knocks. He was holding a heavy brass candlestick in his shaky, upraised arm. He recognized The Shadow as the recent guest who had come to the house; but could not decide whether he was friend or foe. The Shadow’s peculiar disappearance had puzzled Rennig.
“Quickly!” The Shadow’s whisper was commanding. “Cut these ropes! There are men here who intend to murder your master when he returns!”
The Shadow did not specify that Helmedge was already dead. That would have forced too much explanation. It was best to let Rennig think that Malfort was Helmedge, particularly since the disguised plotter had received The Shadow as a friend in Rennig’s presence.
Rennig planked the candlestick on a chair. He took the dirk and began to cut The Shadow’s bonds. He managed the first ropes; the only one that remained was a tight cord, knotted between The Shadow’s wrists. As The Shadow spread his hands, Rennig pressed the knife downward against the knot. His strength was insufficient to make the cut.
“Quickly!” The Shadow’s whisper was a sharp one. “Press hard with the knife edge!”
As Rennig complied, The Shadow gazed toward the stairs leading from the second floor. He had sensed a possible approach; and his hunch was justified. From around the edge of the stairs came a glaring enemy. It was Wardlock, his moonish face flushed with excitement. The secretary held an upraised revolver.
Velvet-footed, Wardlock had stolen down from the second floor, to hear the whispers at the kitchen door. Turning, he had The Shadow covered from a range of less than fifteen feet. Wardlock’s teeth showed in a roundish grin. Deliberately, the secretary aimed.
Instantly, The Shadow leaped forward, pulling his arms with full force. Rennig had used both hands to press the knife edge against the knot. The Shadow’s jolt supplied the remaining force. As he tugged himself away from Rennig, The Shadow felt the last rope snap.
Though unarmed, The Shadow was free, launched in a furious leap toward the last enemy who blocked his path. Despite the fact that he was hurtling straight for the muzzle of Wardlock’s leveled gun, The Shadow had a chance for victory.
Heavy though the odds stood against him, The Shadow was taking the only course that offered final freedom.
CHAPTER XIX – THE SHADOW ARRIVES
TO Wardlock, The Shadow’s spring was a disconcerting move. Malfort’s secretary was dangerous, chiefly because he was deliberate. In aiming for The Shadow, Wardlock had trained his revolver for a sure, well-chosen shot. He had expected The Shadow to shift; to duck for cover perhaps. But Wardlock had not expected that bold, forward drive. It brought but one quick thought to the secretary’s brain. Wardlock, in that instant, knew that he actually faced The Shadow.
That realization made him drop back instinctively, hoping to gain cover if his gun shot failed. The hesitation ended Wardlock’s chance. In the time that he took to fall back three feet, The Shadow covered five times that distance.
Aiming for The Shadow’s face, Wardlock fired. As he did, his target sped forward, downward. The revolver barked a sizzling bullet past The Shadow’s ear. As Wardlock lowered the weapon, a trip-hammer arm shot upward. Fingers clutched the secretary’s gun hand.
Wardlock gasped hoarsely as he wrenched away. His twist turned him about and made him lose his aim. Before he could jab the revolver against The Shadow’s body, Wardlock was hurled against the wall. With clutching hands, The Shadow held the man’s gun arm and his neck.
Rennig, gaping from the kitchen door, saw a swiftly finished struggle. Wardlock’s revolver thumped the floor. The secretary’s body hoisted upward; then went plunging headlong.
Disregarding his fallen foe, The Shadow snatched up the revolver. He motioned for Rennig to bring the candlestick. Leading the way, The Shadow headed for the cellar.
At the bottom of the stairs, he heard pounds from above. Wardlock had taken only a min
or jolt. For once, the secretary had forgotten stealth; he was coming to the cellar stairs to shout an alarm to those below. The Shadow took a quick look into the room that had been his prison.
There he saw Spark Ganza stooping beside the couch. The thug had seen his lost revolver and was groping for it. Near Spark was Ku-Nuan, rising weakly, his ugly, oversize head gripped between his hands.
Turning to Rennig, The Shadow pressed Wardlock’s revolver into the servant’s quivering hand. Quickly, he told Rennig to threaten Wardlock, should the secretary appear at the top of the stairs.
With that, The Shadow sprang into the prison room, straight for Spark Ganza.
THE thuggish lieutenant whipped up from beside the couch, bringing his regained revolver. The Shadow was upon him before he could aim. Plucking the gun from Spark, The Shadow jabbed the muzzle toward the thug’s body.
At that instant, a new attacker entered. Ku-Nuan came lurching squarely on The Shadow. Clawing, biting, the Mongol tried to seize the revolver. So did Spark. He jabbed a hard fist against The Shadow’s jaw; used his other hand in an effort to help Ku-Nuan get the gun. Reeling backward, The Shadow fired. Pressure suddenly relaxed as Spark sagged with a groan.
Catching Ku-Nuan by the side of the neck, The Shadow sent the spidery killer skidding along the floor. Ku-Nuan rolled over and lay still. The Shadow came up to hands and knees, to hear a shout from Rennig. The servant was aiming up the stairs.
From above came a clatter. Wardlock was driving down to battle the quaky old servant.
The Shadow sprang to Rennig’s aid. He was in time, but his approach was unnecessary. Rennig was gripping his revolver with both hands. He fired as The Shadow arrived. Wardlock mouthed a cry as The Shadow reached the bottom of the stairs. Rennig had gained a hit.
Poised, Wardlock slumped forward. His hand released a pair of heavy fire tongs that he had found on the ground floor. As the tongs clattered to the bottom of the steps, Wardlock tumbled headlong – to sprawl, inert, at Rennig’s feet. Like Spark Ganza, Wardlock was dead.
The Shadow knew that he could depend upon Rennig. He hissed instructions to the servant:
“Second floor! Telephone the police! Tell them your master is dead! Have them protect his wealth! After they arrive, send them to the Maribar Hotel!”
Rennig nodded his full understanding. Once aroused, the old servant was quivery no longer. He had shown his mettle.
Leaving him in charge, The Shadow went back to find Ku-Nuan. The Mongol was no longer on the floor. The Shadow heard him snarl from the farther door.
Ku-Nuan had played possum after his second overthrow. Knifeless, his only chance was flight. He was taking it as The Shadow saw him. The door slammed before The Shadow could aim. Quick in pursuit, The Shadow followed.
Ku-Nuan had cut out through the cellar. The Shadow reached a back passage behind the old house; he aimed at a fleeing figure as it hopped to the street. Again, Ku-Nuan was quick enough to get away; but there was no question regarding his flight. It was genuine. Ku-Nuan would not return here to face The Shadow alone.
That knowledge served The Shadow.
He knew that he could leave the field to Rennig. The servant would lose no time in calling the police. The Shadow was certain that there were no other enemies upon the premises. Had they been present, they would have entered the last fray. Moreover, no crooks lurked hereabouts. Malfort was too wise to let more than a chosen few know the location of his headquarters.
Another fact was certain.
Ku-Nuan could not get word to Malfort. The master crook was already in Rowden’s penthouse, where calls would not reach him. Moreover, Ku-Nuan was a lone hand, who had no contact with Malfort’s minions inside the Maribar Hotel. Spark Ganza or Wardlock could have dispatched an alarm; not Ku-Nuan. With Spark and Wardlock dead, Malfort would gain no news.
THE SHADOW had a lone objective, one that he must reach with speed. His goal was the Maribar Hotel. He wanted to be there before the police reached Helmedge’s; for after that, the law itself would visit the Maribar Hotel, to investigate on Rennig’s behalf.
Taking a direction opposite Ku-Nuan’s route of flight, The Shadow reached the front street through a passage and headed toward the nearest avenue. There, he found his taxi parked by the curb. The Shadow’s long absence had not perturbed the driver; for The Shadow had given no orders to cover a period of delay.
There were instructions, however, as soon as The Shadow entered the cab. The vehicle sped from the curb; it covered three blocks, then stopped at a small cigar store. Alighting, The Shadow entered in the fashion of Arnaud. He found a telephone booth and put in a call. A quiet voice answered:
“Burbank speaking.”
The Shadow’s tone became a whisper.
“Instructions,” he voiced. “Deliver box at Maribar Hotel immediately, by armored truck. Instruct agents to be outside, awaiting taxicab. Expect police within half hour after I arrive.”
“Instructions received.”
Burbank was The Shadow’s contact man. He would flash the orders that The Shadow had given. All was ready in accordance with a prearranged plan. The Shadow’s word had alone been needed. The Shadow was returning to the original schedule that he had fixed for tonight.
Back in the cab, The Shadow ordered speed to the Maribar Hotel. He tugged at his Arnaud make-up; pulled his face away, to leave the features of Cranston beneath. Tonight, however, The Shadow resorted to final details. From the satchel on the floor, he produced a make-up box that glowed with a tiny light the moment that he opened it. The Shadow applied new dabs to the features of Cranston, covering every minor point.
Even then, The Shadow was not satisfied. Edging forward, he pulled at the back of the rear seat; reached down and drew out a flat dress suitcase. From it, he brought a tuxedo. While the cab wangled through side streets and unimportant avenues, The Shadow performed a rapid change of attire, even donning light shoes instead of the heavy brogans that had served him so well in battle with Ku-Nuan and Spark.
When the taxi neared the lighted district above Times Square, The Shadow’s transformation was complete. From the satchel, he took two automatics; shoved them beneath the ample front of his tuxedo jacket, into deep pockets that were made for the big guns. The Shadow, however, did not take a cloak and hat that were lying in the satchel.
THE cab stopped in front of the Maribar Hotel. The Shadow alighted, paid the driver and gave a leisurely wave of his hand to dismiss the cab. Strolling past the doorman, he entered the hotel lobby. He approached the desk where Barthow was on duty.
Quietly, The Shadow inquired for Major Philip Rowden; then announced himself as Lamont Cranston. Barthow nodded and remarked that he would call the penthouse at once. While the clerk was picking up the telephone, The Shadow added:
“I came here by taxi; but I expect my limousine to pick me up. Can you see to it that there is parking space out front?”
Barthow nodded, and called for the doorman. When the fellow arrived, the clerk gave him the instructions. That done, Barthow telephoned the penthouse. After a short conversation, he hung up and turned to The Shadow, with the invitation:
“You may go right up, Mr. Cranston. Major Rowden is expecting you.”
When The Shadow reached the elevator, he found two operators aboard, one explaining the mechanism to the other. The tall man who looked like a house detective came over from the cigar counter and also entered the elevator. The Shadow’s thin lips showed a barely visible smile.
Crooks were taking no chances tonight, as they had with George Furbish. They were on the watch for such chaps as Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland. They feared no trouble from The Shadow, however. To them, he was Lamont Cranston, the victim whom they had been told to expect.
The inside men at the Maribar were set to reveal themselves tonight, should occasion so demand. The trio with The Shadow were but part of the camouflaged squad who worked for Kenneth Malfort. This night was to mark the final duty of Malfort’s henchmen.
&nb
sp; For the penthouse itself was the trap where the master crook would seek his pay-off. Though The Shadow had been lured to snares before, this time he was seeking one of his own volition.
It would be the greatest of Malfort’s meshes. Yet The Shadow did not fear it.
CHAPTER XX – THE CHEST OF GOLD
WHEN The Shadow stepped from the elevator, he was met by Peju. The elevator descended with its three-man crew. Peju bowed and ushered The Shadow into Rowden’s living room. The Siamese did not recognize The Shadow as the cloaked visitant of a few nights before.
Nor did Major Rowden, ready with a greeting, see in the features of Lamont Cranston any traces that betokened Henry Arnaud. Hence The Shadow was calm, almost indifferent, when the major introduced him to another man who was seated in the living room.
This man was Kenneth Malfort, wearing the wig in which The Shadow had first met him. The master crook’s face still showed its brownish stain. His features were twisted in the contorted fashion that he used for the part of Tobias Helmedge. Major Rowden had been deceived by the masquerade; for he showed no trace of doubt when he introduced Malfort as Helmedge.
“Mr. Helmedge is another purchaser,” explained Rowden. “He came here unexpectedly tonight; I asked him to wait until you arrived, Mr. Cranston.”
“We can see the gems together,” inserted Malfort in Helmedge’s sharp tone. Then, with a chuckle: “We shall have equal choice, after all, Major Rowden.”
The Shadow looked toward Rowden with a puzzled gaze. The major explained.
“Mr. Helmedge brought no funds with him,” he stated. “Naturally, that gives you preference when you purchase, Mr. Cranston. But it appears that you, like Mr. Helmedge, have not brought money with you.”
The Shadow smiled as he opened a cigarette case and slowly extracted a cigarette. He used a lighter, puffed for a moment, then studied his companions.
The Man From Shanghai Page 12
