The Fate Joss

CHAPTER VI MURDER AT MIDNIGHT

THE old Phoenix Hotel was obscure and poorly located; it fronted on an avenue that was topped by an elevated railway. Because of the noise, the choice rooms were at the rear of the hotel; and from those windows the prospect was one of dingy alleyways and backs of dilapidated buildings.

Raymond Roucard had chosen the Phoenix Hotel partly because of its seclusion, partly because it was not too far from Chinatown. His trips to Shan Kwan’s residence had proven inexpensive at a time when Roucard was counting upon coming funds.

Roucard’s room was on the second floor — number 228 — and he had not returned to it after his departure from Shan Kwan’s. Instead, he had gone directly to Chichester Laudring’s new house; and he had waited outside that building until Laudring had arrived with Satsu.

Hence there had been no opportunity for The Shadow to pick up Roucard’s trail; but present circumstances indicated that the master sleuth would soon have a tracer on the dapper chap who had arranged the transfer of the Fate Joss. The proof of that lay within the walls of Roucard’s room at the Phoenix.

A single lamp was burning on a corner table. Its shaded rays produced but little illumination in the other portions of the room. Hence the figure that moved within Room 228 was nothing but a phantom shape that glided within edging gloom. No eye could have discerned The Shadow in that light.

Arrived at the Phoenix Hotel, The Shadow had gained entry to Roucard’s room. He had found that single lamp aglow; it had served his purpose well. For The Shadow was profiting by Roucard’s absence to make a systematic search. Table, bureau, suitcases, closet — all had come under his inspection.

The search had been a slow one, for Roucard’s room was in great disarray. His suitcases contained stacks of papers; the table drawer was filled with time-tables, clippings and other items. So, for that matter, were the pockets of an old suit and a light overcoat that hung in the closet.

Roucard, apparently, was a man of shady enterprise. The Shadow had brought many items into the light, to study them and then return them. He had found letters, with carbon paper replies that had evidently been typed by Roucard, for a portable machine stood in one corner.

Roucard’s correspondence covered many subjects. It was plain that the man made a business of acting as intermediary in various undertakings. In one letter, he offered to visit a factory in Ohio, to pose as a prospective purchaser, thereby gaining information for a rival manufacturer. In another he expressed a willingness to dispose of some doubtful gold mine stock on a commission basis.

The clippings concerned affairs in which Roucard saw opportunity. His method, apparently, was to follow up any leads that came to his notice.

Sifting all these items, The Shadow had discovered a few of uncommon interest: he had gained inside details on matters that he would take up later, much to the confusion of certain persons who were planning doubtful enterprises.

But the subject that gave The Shadow present concern was entirely untouched in Roucard’s documents. Not one clipping; not one letter contained any mention of the Fate Joss. Either Roucard had destroyed all existing data, or he had been wise enough to carry such evidence upon his person.

HIS long search ended, The Shadow was standing motionless beside the wall when a key grated in the lock of the outer door. Instantly, The Shadow’s cloaked shape performed a fading glide toward a darkened front corner of the room, away from the single window. His gloved fist found the knob of the door that led to an adjoining room. The Shadow opened the barrier and eased into darkness just as a man came into the room and pressed the light switch.

Peering through a tiny crack, The Shadow saw a dapper man with pointed mustache. He knew that this must be Roucard; he could tell by the fellow’s sallow grin that he was pleased with some accomplishment. The Shadow watched Roucard stroll about the room, digging out the very papers that The Shadow himself had so recently examined.

Bundling all his documents, Roucard stacked them on the table where the lamp was still glowing. From his pocket, he produced a thin sheaf of folded papers and laid them on the top of the pile. The Shadow divined immediately that those must be the documents that concerned the Fate Joss. Among them, doubtless, would be names and addresses; in all probability a direct clue to the whereabouts of Chichester Laudring. For The Shadow was sure that Roucard, true to form, had become an intermediary in some transfer of the idol that Chichester had brought from Jehol.

Roucard was packing up; he had tossed his suitcases in the center of the room and was chucking clothing into the bags. He was between The Shadow and that corner table; that prevented any opportunity of gaining the important papers that Roucard had added to his stack.

The Shadow’s chance, however, might soon be due. Roucard had a suit and an overcoat in the closet which was located near the outer door of the room. When he went there to get the garments, The Shadow would have time to glide into the room and remove the papers that Roucard had laid aside.

The Shadow waited, ready. Roucard completed packing and turned about. He stopped short, after a single pace. A telephone bell had begun to ring.

The telephone was on the table where Roucard had laid the papers. The dapper man picked up the instrument and spoke, his tone a trifle nervous. The Shadow saw Roucard’s lips form a smile as the man recognized the voice on the wire.

“Yes, indeed,” remarked Roucard, suavely. “This is Mr. Roucard… Yes, I obtained it… I intended to call you shortly… The price? Just what we expected… Yes, I paid the party the full fifty thousand…

“The commission? Certainly, I insisted on it… Yes, ten percent. That was in the deal. I collected a small shipment charge, too… Certainly, he saw the truckmen; but he didn’t know where they were going…”

Not a mention of any name or destination.

“What time? They’ve been there and gone by this time… I paid the truckmen in advance; I have the receipted bill right here.” Roucard tapped the stack of papers. “What’s that…? Yes, any time from now on. Send your own men up there to get it; but there’s no need to hurry… Nobody’s going to bother those crates…

“Yes, three crates. The Joss is in the big one; the others contain the dog cannons… The truckmen? Not a chance… Everything’s covered with canvas. They didn’t catch a glimmer… Fine. I’m glad you’re satisfied.”

ROUCARD thumped the receiver on the hook. He sat down at the table and leaned his head back to deliver a pleased chuckle. The Shadow watched him dig into his pocket; from it, Roucard produced an envelope, opened the container and counted out fifty crisp bills, each of a thousand dollar denomination.

The Shadow understood all. Roucard had arranged the sale of the Fate Joss to the unnamed person who had just called him on the telephone. The price had been fifty thousand dollars. Roucard had promised to buy the Joss and collect a commission from its owner, who — The Shadow knew — might have been Chichester Laudring.

Somehow, Roucard had gained the Joss without payment. He had bluffed both purchaser and seller, keeping the money for himself, Roucard was planning a prompt departure from New York. The Shadow watched him pocket the bank notes. Then he saw Roucard pick up the papers that he had added to the stack. He put them in the same pocket that contained the money.

That done, Roucard went to the closet and brought out suit and overcoat. He packed them in a bag. Going back to the table, he made a hurried inspection of the odd papers, tearing up some and pocketing the others. Roucard’s chance action had caused The Shadow to miss his opportunity of gaining the papers that concerned the Fate Joss.

Roucard lifted the telephone receiver and called downstairs. He asked for a porter, to carry down his bags. Quietly, The Shadow closed the connecting door. He moved through the darkness of the adjoining room; reached a hallway and descended by a gloomy stairs. Reaching a passage behind the Phoenix lobby, he saw a porter entering the elevator.

From his vantage point, The Shadow would be prepared to trail Roucard. The passage led to a side street; once Roucard arrived to check out, The Shadow would make his exit in that direction. From the corner of the avenue, he could take up Roucard’s trail.

The porter arrived with Roucard’s bag and typewriter. From his spot of gloom, The Shadow watched the man stack the burdens; then nod to the elevator operator.

“Better go up again,” said the porter. “That fellow from 228 will be along in a minute. He sent me ahead with the bags while he was looking ‘round to be sure he hadn’t forgot nothing.”

“He’ll ring when he wants me,” retorted the operator. “I’ll wait here.”

Three minutes ticked past. No sign of Roucard; no buzz from the elevator. Turning, The Shadow took to the darkened stairs. He reached the second floor; the corridor was empty.

In the gloomy light, The Shadow made an instant discovery. There was a side passage that terminated in a window with a red light, signifying a fire tower. That window was open; it had not been when The Shadow had left the second floor.

Quickly, the Shadow entered the unlocked door of Room 226, the room that he had used before. On his way, he noted that Room 228 was closed. Gaining the connecting door, The Shadow opened it. From the threshold, he saw a horrible sight.

Raymond Roucard was lying face upward on the floor. His sallow face was frozen; his eyes were bulged toward the ceiling. Driven deep in his breast was a long knife, clear to the hilt, its heavy handle glimmering in the light. Roucard’s shirt front was dyed with a huge crimson stain — his heart’s blood.

ABOVE the dead man crouched the murderer, an insidious, leering fiend. The killer was a Chinaman, clad in American garb. His breath was coming in gloating snarls; the venomous sound was proof that he had enjoyed his kill.

His big, bony hands showed yellow against the whiteness of objects that he had tugged from Roucard’s inside pocket. The Chinaman had found the envelope with the bank notes; also the sheaf of papers that The Shadow knew concerned the Fate Joss.

As the killer thrust these trophies into his pocket, The Shadow swung forward into the room. With gloved hand, he whipped forth an automatic, to cover that evil-faced croucher.

Though The Shadow’s approach was silent, the murderer somehow guessed of the advance. With a quick upward tilt of his head, the Chinaman glared straight into The Shadow’s burning eyes.

Instantly, the Chinaman’s form shot upward and forward. From a crouching figure that seemed of normal height, he became a giant of startling proportioms. Six feet six in stature, massive of build, the Mongol rocketed forward like a mammoth battering ram. Head downward in an incredible lunge, he sped long arms ahead of him, while his lips voiced a hideous cry of rage.

Only six feet separated The Shadow from his adversary. Springing up from beside Roucard’s body, the giant Chinaman covered the distance in one unbelievable lunge. His left hand, jabbing its writhing claw, caught The Shadow’s right wrist in a ferocious twist. His right hand, swinging overarm, went straight to The Shadow’s throat.

The Shadow had met with a foe whose speed and power were as amazing as his deceptive crouch. Like a living Jack-in-the-box, this fierce murderer had aimed for his mark and found it. Hurled back by the terrific attack, The Shadow, with all his surpassing skill, did not have time to even press the trigger of his automatic.

Shots were useless once his hand had received that upward jolt. Twisted in the grip of his giant enemy, The Shadow found the gun a handicap. He let it fall as the Chinaman’s gripping arms encircled him. With fiendish vigor, the Mongol had gained the hold he wanted. He was trying to snap The Shadow’s body as one would break a tree bough.

The Shadow writhed. His free left hand drove back the Mongol’s chin; the punch brought a contemptuous snarl from the murderer. Lifted clear from the floor, The Shadow was helpless in the giant’s grip, unable to gain a counterhold against the killer. Only his contortions saved him from the Chinaman’s back-breaking tactics.

Back and forth across the room, stumbling past Roucard’s body, the hissing Chinanan carried his black-cloaked burden. With each pause, he tried to snap The Shadow’s body; every time, The Shadow twisted in the giant’s grip, sufficiently to defeat the would-be killer’s game.

THE SHADOW had realized instantly who this terrible foe must be. He had heard of Hoang Fu, mightiest of mongol wrestlers, who had long dwelt in Manhattan’s Chinatown. But Hoang Fu had been classed as a genial giant, his nature free from malice.

Driven berserk, he had become a raving demon with a lust for death. With all his mighty skill concentrated upon murder, Hoang Fu was seeking to destroy The Shadow, whom he — like others — knew to be the arch-foe of crime. Yet though the Mongol held The Shadow in a terrific grip, he could not perform the last snap that his huge arms sought to give.

Fiercely, Hoang Fu whirled, driving toward the outer door. Past Roucard’s body, he turned; as The Shadow performed another safety twist, the killer changed his tactics. Stooping almost to the floor, he shot upward to his full height, swinging The Shadow’s form aloft. Then, with a fierce heave of his tremendous shoulders, Hoang Fu sent the cloaked form whirling sidewise through the air.

The Shadow struck the floor beyond Roucard’s body. Jouncing, rolling, he was bound for the wall; had his head struck that spot, he would have been knocked senseless, an easy prey for the gigantic killer. But The Shadow’s left arm was swinging as he sprawled. With it, he clipped a chair that stood near the corner, seeking to break the violence of the coming blow.

The chair served as buffer. The swinging arm sped it to the wall. The Shadow’s shoulders struck the chair legs and cracked them into pieces. The thud that his head received was eased by the slouch hat that was clamped down upon his eyes. Jolted, but still conscious, The Shadow was ready for Hoang Fu’s next move.

That stroke had already begun. Diving forward, the Mongol was twisting the long-bladed knife from Roucard’s heart. The dirk came free, accompanied by a torrential gush of blood.

Hoang Fu saw The Shadow trying to rise, by clutching the broken chair. Backing almost to the outer door, the murderer swung his hand straight backward; then, with a whipping underhand swing, he sent the dripping blade straight for The Shadow’s heart.

The Shadow’s arms moved as Hoang Fu aimed. Gloved hands had gripped the seat of the broken chair; they swung that improvised shield forward and outward. Hoang Fu had hurled his dagger with precise marksmanship; but The Shadow’s protective move proved quite as accurate.

The whirring blade drove straight into the wooden chair. So terrific was its speed that the obstacle did not stop its point. The blade sped completely through the wood; it was the hilt that stopped its progress. Wisely had The Shadow thrust his arms to their full length. They jolted back as the blow came; but tightening muscles absorbed the shock.

Gleaming before The Shadow’s eyes, inches only from his heart, was the point of that Chinese dagger with which Hoang Fu had sought to deliver another death.

THE SHADOW cast the chair seat aside; his lips delivered a fierce laugh in challenge to Hoang Fu’s evil hiss. Rolling over, The Shadow managed a dive in the direction of the automatic that lay by the wall. Twangs of pain slowed his progress; but with a final crawl, he gained the gun.

Hoang Fu was no longer at the door. The killer had loosed his only weapon; seeing The Shadow’s move, he had opened the door and fled along the corridor.

Coming to his hands and knees, The Shadow could hear the slam of the fire escape window. The Shadow rested, panting; a new sound reached him. Voices were coming from the direction of the elevator. The commotion must have been heard downstairs; hotel employees were coming up.

Gaining his feet, The Shadow limped into the adjoining room. As he closed the door, he heard startled cries from the door of Room 228. Moving out through Room 226, The Shadow found the hall vacant. The arriving employees had gone into Roucard’s room.

Half limping, The Shadow reached the stairway and descended. He took the obscure passage to the side street. Strength returning, he glided off into the darkness of the night. Too late to pursue Hoang Fu, he had been forced to let the killer escape with those all-important papers that had belonged to Raymond Roucard.

Yat Soon’s belief had been realized. Crime had developed; murder had crossed the path of the Fate Joss. One course alone belonged to The Shadow. He must move to deal with coming crime and, in that task, remove the Fate Joss from all fields of strife.