The Man From Shanghai

CHAPTER II – A DEAD-MAN’S TALE

THOUGH Kenneth Malfort had forgotten Durlew, Spark Ganza had not. There was good reason why Spark should remember the obscure druggist. Spark had been delegated to the task of using tact with Durlew. He was, therefore, on his way to talk to the man who had provided the poison.

From Malfort’s, Spark had traveled by taxicab to an elevated station. There, he had boarded an East Side train. Riding southward, Spark wore a contemptuous grin as he looked about the lighted car and surveyed the few passengers.

All were buried deep in the final editions of the evening newspapers. They were gobbling news of murder – the law’s version concerning the death of William Hessup, prominent Buffalo banker, member of New York ’s swanky Merrimac Club, where he had been found poisoned.

Theories were absent from the newspapers. The police had progressed only to the point where they rejected suicide as the explanation, but had no other.

Spark’s evil recollections went back to yesterday. Then, the newspapers had screamed the name of Jerome Blessingdale, prominent mining promoter, who had come North from Florida. Blessingdale’s death had been murder, out and out; but it had provided no clues.

The “el” train rumbled to a stop. This was Spark’s station. As he stepped off to the platform, Spark was chuckling over thoughts of the future. Tomorrow, the newspapers would have something new to shout about. Another murder, this time a prominent Wall Street financier. One whose name Spark could predict: George Furbish.

Spark Ganza, in his own crude way, was quite as confident as Kenneth Malfort. The lieutenant shared Wardlock’s belief in the master murderer’s prowess. Moreover, Spark had not forgotten the mention of the mysterious Ku-Nuan.

Spark’s reveries ended as he reached the bottom of the elevated steps. Darkness was thick along the gloomy avenue where the elevated loomed. Only at the cross street was there any sign of bright lights. There, a newsboy was hawking his last few copies of the final editions.

“Uxtry! Uxtry! Read about de new moider!”

Spark paused to listen to the gamin’s shout. He saw the newsboy sell a newspaper; then raise the cry:

“Anudder big moider! Police link de killers!”

Spark spat an oath, as he turned and strode along the avenue. He had expected this sort of thing from the newspapers. Blessingdale and Hessup were both from out of town. It was only logical that the police should see a tie-up between the two cases of sudden death. Malfort’s reason for wanting Hessup to appear a suicide struck itself home to Spark.

Nevertheless, the thuggish lieutenant displayed no worry as he paced past the dingy store windows that lined the avenue. Let the law think what it wanted. Trails were covered. Another death would strike while the police stood baffled.

MUSING thus, Spark came to the building that he was seeking. He slowed his pace, craned his neck forward and studied a grimy store window that bore scratchy gold letters upon its lighted pane:

H. DURLEW

Apothecary

Peering through a glass-paneled doorway, Spark saw a stoop-shouldered man huddled over the counter of the tiny shop. Large-rimmed spectacles gave the fellow an owlish look. Spark could spy twitchy lips; he guessed the reason for the man’s nervousness. The owlish individual was Durlew. The druggist was reading a final edition of an evening newspaper.

Spark shouldered his way into the store. Durlew looked up, saw his visitor and gulped. His twitching lips began to phrase incoherent words. Spark cut Durlew short with a growl.

“Close up this joint of yours,” he told the druggist. “Slide into the back room, where we can talk.”

Durlew nodded, and moved toward the door. Spark picked up the newspaper and added:

“I’ll take this sheet in there with us. I want to see what sort of baloney the bladders have been handing out.”

Durlew closed his tawdry shop and extinguished the lights. He and Spark walked around an ancient show case that reached the ceiling, and entered a dim, dingy passage at the back of the store.

They came to a small room; Durlew turned on the lights and closed the door. They were in the apothecary’s office.

This room was as old-fashioned as the store at the front. The rolltop desk and swivel chair; the revolving bookcase – all were furniture of the past century, as antiquated as the title of “apothecary,” which Durlew preferred to druggist.

“Getting jittery, Durlew?”

Spark snapped the question as the druggist seated himself in the swivel chair. Durlew nodded; licking his twitchy lips, he replied:

“You faked what you said about the bottle and the poison, Spark. If I’d known you were after an important man like William Hessup, I wouldn’t have gone through with it.”

“Just what I figured,” retorted Spark. “That’s why I bluffed you, Durlew. What difference does it make, though? Your moniker wasn’t on that bottle label. It said Northern Drug Company.”

“The police will make inquiries at the Northern Drug Company.”

“What if they do? The bulls will spend a week quizzing mugs who know nothing. That’s all the further they’ll get.”

“Unless they find out that the printer who does work for the Northern Company ran off some labels for me,” Durlew said. “Maybe he’ll remember that he shipped a small batch of Northern Drug labels to the wrong customer.”

“Forget it! There’s no dick on the force who’s smart enough to go to see the printer. But what if some one does? All you’ve got to do is sit tight. Just say that you never got any of the wrong labels.”

DURLEW pondered. Spark pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighted it while he watched Durlew’s expression. The druggist winced under Spark’s scrutiny.

“The facts still remain, Spark,” whined Durlew. “I provided you with the planted bottle and the poison, too. I thought they were for a gang feud, to cover something that the police would soon forget. Actually, I had no proof that you intended murder at all.”

“There’s your alibi, Durlew.”

Durlew shook his head, despite Spark’s reassurance. He licked his lips, blinked owlishly. Swinging away from his desk, he pointed to the newspaper under Spark’s arm.

“Tell me, Spark,” pleaded the druggist, “is there really a link between Hessup’s death and that of Blessingdale, who was murdered yesterday?”

Momentarily, Spark’s facial muscles tightened in ugly fashion. Quickly, the crook relaxed. His growl lessened as he replied:

“Sure! We bumped Blessingdale yesterday. That job was a cinch! Hessup was just as easy.”

Durlew’s troubled expression changed to a look of shrewdness. Spark saw it; instead of betraying anger, he pretended, greater confidence. Leaning over the edge of the rolltop desk, he announced:

“There’ll be another job tonight. Sweeter than either of those two! Ever hear of George Furbish?” Durlew shook his head.

“Furbish is a Wall Street guy,” informed Spark. “Out of town right now; but he’s due back, maybe tonight. He’s coming to a new apartment; one of those big-dough joints that you’ve got to buy, because they won’t just rent them. It’s a ritzy place, called the Royal Arms.

“Blessingdale and Hessup went the route. So will Furbish. This is a real racket, Durlew; I’m working for a big-shot, a guy who put a bank roll into the game. The fact that we’re knocking off blokes like Blessingdale, Hessup and Furbish ought to show you that we’re out to grab real potatoes.

“Get over the jitters.” Spark clapped a brawny hand on Durlew’s frail shoulder. “If you’re worried, close up this joint and take it on the lam. I’ll see the big-shot tonight; and I’ll slip you a fistful of mazuma tomorrow. Well pay your freight wherever you want to go.”

Durlew raised his head with a pleased smile. He nodded, as if eager to accept Spark’s suggestion. Spark grinned, dunked his cigarette in an ash tray and strolled to the door. He gave a wave of his hand as he departed.

DURLEW listened intently to Spark’s fading footsteps. The crook was going out by a rear passage that led to a back alley. Durlew heard a door slam. It signified Spark’s final departure, for the rear door had an automatic latch.

Quickly, Durlew reached into a pigeonhole of the desk. He produced a long-pointed pencil and a small prescription pad.

Hurriedly, Durlew wrote the same of George Furbish; after it, the next victim’s address: the Royal Arms.

Worry dominated the druggist’s owlish face. At last, Durlew drew a tense breath. He picked up a telephone book, found a number; he lifted a telephone that stood upon the revolving bookcase. Raising the receiver, Durlew dialed a number.

The druggist was calling detective headquarters.

From the moment that he had connected the deaths of Blessingdale and Hessup, Durlew had been hoping for a way to square himself with the law. The link between Blessingdale and Hessup was insufficient to amend Durlew’s deed of supplying Spark Ganza with poison. Durlew had wanted something that would better fortify his position. He had gained it, thanks to Spark.

The crook had named a coming victim: George Furbish. Durlew could tell the law facts that would forestall crime. That would establish his sincerity. The police would believe him if he claimed to be an unwitting tool in the matter of Hessup’s death.

Durlew’s shaky finger delivered the final twist to the dial. The druggist was holding the receiver clamped against his left ear. Suddenly, a hand planked itself upon his left. A snarl sounded, as the hand wrenched away the receiver and banged it down upon the hook.

Gasping, Durlew revolved in his swivel chair. His bespectacled eye blinked into the muzzle of a leveled revolver. Back of the weapon were the ugly eyes of Spark Ganza.

The crook had faked his departure. He had sneaked in through the passage, to learn if Durlew had decided to use the information that had been fed to him.

Spark saw the telltale pad on Durlew’s desk. With his left hand, he ripped away the top sheet that bore the scrawled name of Furbish. Wadding the paper, Spark thrust it in his pocket. All the while, his gun was straight between Durlew’s eyes.

“Spark! I – I wasn’t – I – don’t kill me, Spark! I – I -”

Durlew’s incoherent protest ended as the revolver shoved forward. Spark pressed the trigger. From a two-inch range, a bullet boomed into Durlew’s brain. Spark watched the victim’s head tilt back. The swivel chair spun crazily; Durlew’s form slumped toward the desk. His mutilated forehead thudded the woodwork.

There was a tremble of the building. An elevated train was rumbling along the tracks that ran in front. Spark knew that the rear alley was deserted. No one could have heard the revolver’s blast. Pocketing his gun, Spark strode from the tiny office. This time, his departure was unfaked.

THE muffled slam of the rear door was the last sound, except for the loud ticking of an alarm clock that stood upon a windowsill, in front of a drawn blind. Minutes passed slowly, solemnly, in this room of death. Seven had gone before a new motion occurred.

Something stirred the frayed green windowshade behind the clock. An edge moved slightly, to a distance no greater than the width of a human eye. Motion stilled; then gloved fingers appeared uncannily beneath the windowshade. They were black, those fingers; they acted like detached creatures.

The windowshade lifted. Solid blackness loomed inward. Eerily, it became a living shape. When the shade had dropped to its former level, it formed the background for a weird figure. A being cloaked in black had entered this room of doom.

Above shrouded shoulders, the uncanny visitor wore a slouch hat, with downturned brim that hid his features. Eyes alone were visible; they showed like points of fire as they directed themselves upon the dead form of Durlew, half across the desk.

The Shadow, superfoe to crime, had arrived upon the newest scene of murder. He had gained the trail that Durlew had feared; the one that Spark Ganza had thought too slim for any sleuth to follow. While the law had decided to quiz the employees of the Northern Drug Company, The Shadow had visited the printer who supplied the labels.

The Shadow had come to make Durlew speak. Arriving, he had found the druggist dead. Nevertheless, a whispered, mirthless laugh came significantly from hidden lips.

The Shadow had hope that he might learn a dead man’s tale.