The Man From Shanghai

CHAPTER IV – THE YELLOW FACE

HOURS drifted in the silent room where The Shadow had begun his interval. Nothing disturbed the lull; not even the arrival of the real George Furbish. Apparently the owner of the apartment had not planned to return to New York tonight.

The long interval caused The Shadow to speculate. Had crooks detected his imposture? Had they learned, from some source, that Furbish did not intend to come to his apartment? Had they decided to ignore the present occupant?

These were riddles that The Shadow himself could not answer, with the few facts at his disposal. He was following a blind lead, in this trip to the Royal Arms. There was a chance that he had missed a full interpretation of those scrawled words that he had gained at Durlew’s.

It was certain that men of crime had changed their tactics. Blessingdale had been murdered in thuggish fashion. Hessup had been framed for death as soon as he had reached the Merrimac Club. Crooks had moved in both those cases, as soon as they had found opportunity. This secluded apartment offered every inducement for a mob attack; yet none showed signs of development.

Beneath his pillow, The Shadow had a ready automatic. Another gun was handy in a suitcase by the bed. Not once, amid a stretch of hours, did The Shadow find cause to reach for the nearer gun.

The only sound that reached the darkened room was the muffled roar of city traffic, that swelled and faded like the beat of distant traffic.

That rhythmic sound was lulling; it gave a sense of false security. Often had The Shadow noted how men had believed themselves safe simply because they were near the heart of Manhattan. This night, he appreciated the fact more fully.

Half dozing, The Shadow awoke himself with a start. He was conscious first of the city’s dull roar. He realized that it had diminished; it did not rise as he listened. The Shadow heard a sound that had not previously stood out above the others. It was the grinding screech of an elevated train, half a dozen blocks distant.

The noise brought a fact home to The Shadow.

He had relaxed during the lulling hours. His doze had been longer than he had supposed. The reason for the loud sound of the elevated train was explained. Other traffic had quieted. For a full hour, perhaps, longer, The Shadow had slumbered. During that period he had lain helpless.

The Shadow doubted that the distant grind of the “el” train had awakened him. He listened for a closer sound. He heard it, in this very room, not more than five feet from his bedside.

Some one was creeping in the darkness; an intruder whose footsteps were padded, whose breath came with a whistled hiss so low-toned that only the keenest ears could have detected it. The unseen intruder was inching toward the bed, with a stealth that was uncanny.

THERE was a space between the bed and the wall. The Shadow let one foot ease to the floor. Without permitting a creak, he edged his body to the wall. He, too, had benefit of darkness; but he made no move to reach for his automatic under the pillow. A surprise attack was too close.

Crouching, The Shadow moved toward the foot of the bed. Close to the floor, he could hear his creeping enemy. As he moved forward, The Shadow paused at intervals to listen. He noted that the creeping sounds were spasmodic.

Reaching the foot of the bed, The Shadow rounded it noiselessly. He waited for a sound from the head. There was none. The creeping man had paused, apparently unready to attack. The Shadow knew the location of the bag that contained his second gun. On hands and knees, he prepared to crawl toward it. He changed that plan immediately.

His head almost to the floor, The Shadow heard the creeping sound again; far more guarded than before. His enemy had discovered that the bed was empty; had guessed the route that The Shadow had taken. With utmost stealth, the foeman was coming toward the foot of the bed.

This could be no ordinary foe. Combat in the dark offered bad odds. New moves to gain the automatic might bring too early a contest. The Shadow wanted to learn the sort of enemy who threatened; he needed an inkling to the mode of attack. There was a way to gain those facts.

The Shadow performed a strategic retreat, toward a corner of the room below the foot of the bed. He could sense that his enemy was following. When The Shadow gained the corner, he was sure that his antagonist had passed the foot of the bed.

Reaching in the darkness, The Shadow found the post of a large floor lamp. He moved his hand and plucked the cord. Though weaponless, The Shadow had found a way to surprise his enemy. He waited, calculating every second, while the elusive footsteps crept closer.

Shadow tugged the light cord. With the move, he performed a side shift; coming to a high crouch, ready for a spring. The Shadow’s eyes were straight toward the bed. The Shadow saw his enemy.

Focused in the lamplight’s glare was a yellow face, as evil a visage as any that The Shadow had ever seen. The intruder was a dwarfish Chinaman, his shoulders brawnier than his body; his arms long and spidery; his head overlarge.

Above the Mongol’s yellow, sweat-stained face was a mass of straight, black hair that formed a downturned mop half across the bulgy eyes beneath it. The man’s nose was flat; his lips formed a grinning oval that displayed protruding, tusklike teeth. The Mongol looked like a human jaguar, more suited to the forest than to the abodes of men.

This foeman was Ku-Nuan, the assassin whom Kenneth Malfort had delegated to murder George Furbish.

THE unexpected glare of the light brought a bestial snarl from the dwarfish Mongol. The killer’s pause was only momentary. Seeing The Shadow as a mere human foe, Ku-Nuan lashed forward. His right arm whipped with the speed of a striking snake; his long-nailed fingers drove a knife straight for The Shadow’s heart.

With all his speed, Ku-Nuan was no swifter than The Shadow. Moreover, he had lost a split-second in the attack. As Ku-Nuan struck, The Shadow drove forward. A quick left hand plucked Ku-Nuan’s right wrist and twisted it upward. The knife skidded from The Shadow’s shoulder. Its point had missed the mark. Ku-Nuan lost his grip upon the handle; the blade rattled harmlessly as it struck the wall.

Ku-Nuan’s loss of the weapon produced a reverse effect. Instead of easing The Shadow’s battle, it hardened it.

Had Ku-Nuan kept the knife, he would have writhed harmlessly in The Shadow’s clutch; for The Shadow had made Ku-Nuan’s right hand the chief object of attack. Deprived of his knife, Ku-Nuan countered. Twisting, he clawed for The Shadow’s throat; his finger nails slipped, then gained the shoulder of The Shadow’s pajamas. Cloth ripped; long nails dug into The Shadow’s flesh.

Ku-Nuan had gained sufficient hold to wriggle away from a firm jujutsu grip. The dwarfish Mongol became a raging battler. Furiously he tore at The Shadow’s throat, writhed free from every hold, grappled and sent The Shadow rolling across the floor. Never had The Shadow found a more slippery adversary than this yellow-faced assassin.

It was sudden strategy that enabled The Shadow to gain a real advantage. Ku-Nuan had a trick of tightening against a tough hold; then relaxing, sliding away in slimy fashion, to come back with a fiendish grip of his own. The Shadow had gained a hold that he had used before; he saw Ku-Nuan’s game about to be repeated.

Bending Ku-Nuan backward, The Shadow stared past the yellow face. He saw the foot of the metal bedstead just behind Ku-Nuan’s neck. The Mongol did not know his position; he held tight, his forehead veins swelling as he resisted his superfoe. Ku-Nuan, nevertheless, was prepared to writhe the moment that The Shadow sought to throw him.

The Shadow shifted his left arm, bringing it across in front of Ku-Nuan’s face. He leaned back his elbow just below the Mongol’s chin. The Shadow eased his grip a trifle; Ku-Nuan relaxed in copy of the move. The Shadow jabbed a hard blow with his elbow. Ku-Nuan bobbed his head back to break the force of the blow.

The Mongol’s head cracked the hard edge of the bedstead. The jolt forced a vicious snarl from the yellow lips. Ku-Nuan slumped; before he could either snatch or writhe, The Shadow caught the killer under the hip and hurled him clear over the foot of the bed. Ku-Nuan somersaulted in the air, hit the floor and bounced almost to the window.

THE SHADOW leaped for the bag beside the bed. From it he whipped his.45, prepared to cover Ku-Nuan before the Mongol, could regain his senses.

Once again, Ku-Nuan staged a surprise. Though jarred by the fall, Ku-Nuan had come to his feet. Seeing the gun in The Shadow’s hand, the Mongol made a dive for the window.

The Shadow aimed at the yellow face beyond the sill. Ku-Nuan bobbed his head from view. His clawish nails left the edge of the window. With a long, outward leap, Ku-Nuan cleared the rail of the little balcony. Springing to pursuit, The Shadow saw the dwarfish body hurtling to the roof of the next building, two stories below.

Ku-Nuan landed like a cat. From the balcony rail, The Shadow saw the yellow face turn upward. Late lights from Manhattan ’s sky line were sufficient to show the venomous glare that the Mongol gave his conqueror. Ku-Nuan bounded across the roof, seeking the edge.

Deliberately, The Shadow aimed. He pressed the trigger of his.45. A bullet dug through the tin sheeting of the adjoining roof, two feet behind Ku-Nuan’s speeding heels. The Shadow fired again; this bullet whistled over Ku-Nuan’s shoulder. The Mongol reached the roof edge; he spun about and gripped the cornice with his hands. He dropped over the edge. The Shadow’s only target was the leering yellow face.

The Shadow fired a third shot. The bullet chipped a stone four feet from Ku-Nuan’s hands. Again, The Shadow fired; this bullet was two feet wide, on the other side. Further shots were useless. Ku-Nuan had dropped from sight. He was crawling down the sheer wall of the next-door building, away from The Shadow’s view.

The Shadow found Ku-Nuan’s knife by the wall; he inspected it, tossed it into the bag beside the bed. He turned out the lights and listened, expecting the wail of a radio patrol car. It came. The police had heard the shots; they were starting an investigation.

More sirens whined. Fifteen minutes passed while The Shadow heard sounds of motors in neighboring streets. The noises ended. The police had failed to learn the source of the gunshots; they had also missed Ku-Nuan in their search.

There was a telephone in Furbish’s living room. The Shadow went in and turned on a floor lamp; he dialed a number and waited while he listened to a persistent ringing. At last, a voice spoke in English. The Shadow answered in Chinese. For several minutes, he babbled in that language; then ended the call.

Turning out the light, The Shadow returned to the darkened bedroom. He rolled into bed and settled into comfortable repose. There was no need for further vigil. There would be no new attack after Ku-Nuan’s failure. Thugs would be wary about venturing into a place that the yellow-faced assassin had fled.

Moreover, the law had served The Shadow. Crooks would surely have scattered when the patrol cars arrived. In his role of George Furbish, The Shadow was secure at last. Sleep was his present mission.

For tomorrow, The Shadow would resume his trail. His telephone call had made it unnecessary for him to seek Ku-Nuan until later.