The Man From Shanghai

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 Rusted bolts were withdrawn.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?”

“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?”

“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.