Maxwell Grant - The Man From Shanghai

Immediately, the mobster released the gate. They were ready with the machine gun, in case The Shadow showed life when Spark reached him. Those at the other barriers were as tense as the men whom Spark had left. They knew of others who had dealt unwarily with The Shadow. Not one of the two dozen henchmen would have cared to have taken Spark’s place.

In contemptuous fashion, Spark arrived beside the huddled form. Stooping, he used his left hand to pull aside The Shadow’s cloak, while he gripped his revolver in his right. One fact made Spark hesitate: There was no protruding knife handle beneath the cloak. Spark had supposed that Ku-Nuan had stabbed The Shadow in the back.

The cloak half away, Spark gripped the shoulder beneath; with a powerful wrench, he hauled the slumped form over on its back and whisked the cloak away. This time, Spark expected to see the dirk projecting from The Shadow’s chest. Observing no weapon, he looked quickly to the face above.

The oath that came from Spark’s lips was spontaneous, yet incoherent.

The cloak, fully away, revealed a deformed body that could not be The Shadow’s. The lights that glowed from barred gates showed a face that was certainly not that of the master sleuth. It was a countenance that Spark Ganza recognized: one that he could never mistake.

The sprawled man on the paving was Ku-Nuan!

VAGUELY, Spark grasped what had happened. He looked up toward the window on the second floor. The Shadow had scaled that wall; grappled with Ku-Nuan. Enveloping the Mongol in the folds of a knife-slashed cloak, The Shadow had finally hurled his adversary to the courtyard.

It was The Shadow – not Ku-Nuan – who had come down through the metal-sheathed door. Croaking words in Chinese, The Shadow had bluffed Spark. The Shadow was gone, with minutes between himself and Spark’s band of henchmen. In his place, he had left Ku-Nuan – alive, but too groggy to do more than crawl a dozen feet and fall motionless.

The Shadow had timed his departure to perfection. He had left a substitute prisoner, sufficiently cloaked to deceive Spark and the thugs. Had Spark chosen to pepper the prisoner with a hail of machine-gun slugs, he would have done The Shadow an added service by eliminating Kenneth Malfort’s most capable assassin.

The Shadow, himself, had not had time to finish Ku-Nuan. He had pitched the Mongol to the courtyard in the midst of the fray, in order to finally end the clutch of Ku-Nuan’s choking fingers.

To add a final touch, The Shadow had tossed his slouch hat to the courtyard. Lying beside the cloak-covered shape of Ku-Nuan, the headgear had convinced all observers that the prisoner was The Shadow.

Rising from beside Ku-Nuan, Spark Ganza growled savagely and waved his hands sidewise. His henchmen understood that something had gone wrong. Spark’s headshakes finally told them that their prisoner was not The Shadow. Ugly mutters passed among the members of the thwarted crew. Crooks swung about in their passages, each group fearing that it might suddenly become the object of an outside attack.

Then came a shout from one passage. Crooks flashed lights; halted their finger triggers just in time to recognize a member of their own band, an extra thug whom Spark had posted elsewhere. Cries came to Spark, with the announcement:

“It’s Mokler, Spark. He’s got somethin’ to spill!”

Mokler’s face appeared excitedly at a barred gate. In breathless words, the messenger gave the news.

“Barthow just called up, Spark!” he informed.”Slipped me the dope that Furbish has come into the Maribar Hotel! Goin’ up to the penthouse to see Rowden!”

Spark howled for thugs to raise a gate. They obliged; Spark leaped into the passage and shouted for all his henchmen to take to their cars. One thing alone had puzzled Spark: that was why The Shadow had departed without delivering a sudden fire upon at least one unsuspecting crew.

At last, Spark knew why. The Shadow had contact with George Furbish. From some place close by, he had telephoned the man, to tell him that the way was clear to Rowden’s penthouse. With cover-up men absent, Furbish could leave the Maribar as safely as he had come there.

That, at least, was The Shadow’s belief – but it would be correct for only the next fifteen minutes. Spark Ganza was ready to drive for the Maribar Hotel with more than a score of henchmen, there to challenge the new move that The Shadow had so suddenly introduced.

SPARK GANZA had guessed right. It was The Shadow who had ordered George Furbish’s prompt visit to the Maribar Hotel. Furbish had arrived there in the taxicab. Carrying a heavy satchel, he had stopped at the desk to inquire for Major Rowden.

Seated in the lobby were two men who had strolled there separately, a short time before. They were Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland, redoubtable agents of The Shadow. They had recognized the cab when it arrived. They knew that the passenger was George Furbish.

Though they were watching the desk, The Shadow’s agents did not identify Barthow as one of Malfort’s inside men. Barthow had acted smoothly in the pinch. There was another clerk on duty with him. Ordinarily, Barthow would have stepped into the picture when he heard some one inquire for Major Rowden. But Barthow had also heard Furbish give his name; and he had wisely let the other clerk call the penthouse.

That bit of quick thinking had given Barthow the chance to step into the office unnoticed and put in the call that had so promptly reached Spark Ganza.

In the lobby, Furbish waited at an elevator, curbing his nervousness. When a door opened, Furbish stepped aboard a car that was manned by a tough-faced operator. Another passenger strolled into the elevator just before the doors closed. This passenger was Harry Vincent. Hands in his pockets, The Shadow’s agent was gripping a ready revolver.

Two guests of the hotel were also on board. They called their floors; the elevator stopped at the ninth and the fifteenth. Furbish gave his destination. As he said “Penthouse,” the elevator operator turned around and gave a sharp look. He saw Harry and growled:

“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.