The Man From Shanghai

CHAPTER VI – THE MAN FROM SHANGHAI

IT was a long trip from Chinatown to the Maribar Hotel. Moreover, The Shadow delayed his journey by a halt along the way. He stopped to make telephone contact with his agents, to learn that there had still been no sign of George Furbish at the Royal Arms. The Shadow gave orders for agents to maintain their vigil.

By the time The Shadow reached the vicinity of the Maribar, men of crime had already gained their posts. Spark Ganza and his thugs were stationed; so was Ku-Nuan. Nevertheless, there was no evidence to prove that they were about.

Malfort’s ways were cunning. The master crook was shrewd enough to keep Spark and his crew far enough from the hotel to escape observation, yet near enough to be ready on call. As for Ku-Nuan, Malfort knew that the catlike killer could keep under cover anywhere. Ku-Nuan had taken a closer post, without the knowledge of other watchers.

The Maribar Hotel was a twenty-story structure that formed a thin shaft among side street buildings, not far from Times Square. As The Shadow’s taxi rolled along the side street, its keen-eyed occupant sensed the danger of the neighborhood.

Here were old buildings, scheduled to be torn down. Low-built garages; an abandoned theater; converted dwellings that housed ground-floor restaurants, with empty floors above – these were suitable nests for hidden hordes of thugs. If crooks so chose, they could make the Maribar Hotel the center of a death zone.

Among the spots that The Shadow noticed was an old office building half a block away from the hotel. It was tenanted, but open at night only to persons who had keys. That office building was the actual headquarters for Spark Ganza and his crew.

The Shadow was more interested in his approach to the Maribar Hotel. Crooks could lurk as they chose, provided that The Shadow’s present plans succeeded. His goal was the penthouse; if crooks had to be met along the route, The Shadow intended to draw them, rather than seek their lair.

The Shadow spoke an order to the driver of the cab. The taxi slowed as it neared the Maribar, to let another cab swing in front of it. Passengers alighted, to enter the hotel. The Shadow dropped off a moment later. He was dressed in street clothes; he was carrying a suitcase. The doorman was taking other luggage into the hotel; The Shadow entered promptly without delivering his bag to an attendant.

THE lights of the garish lobby showed The Shadow’s features as he neared the desk. He was wearing the make-up of the night before; that full visage in which he had introduced himself as George Furbish.

Behind the desk was a smug, sleek-haired night clerk. On the desk was a small stand that bore the clerk’s name “Mr. Barthow.” The Shadow watched other guests register; he stepped forward and registered himself as Henry Arnaud.

Glancing upward, The Shadow kept watch on Barthow. The clerk showed no special interest in the new guests. He simply assigned rooms and called for bell boys.

The Shadow rode up in an elevator to the fourteenth floor. During the trip, he eyed the operator. Walking through the corridor, he carefully observed the bell hop who was carrying his bag. Both were as neutral in type as Barthow. Neither betrayed any trace of recognition when they saw The Shadow’s features.

Alone in his room, The Shadow extinguished the lights. He opened his suitcase, produced garments of black. Donning his cloak and hat, he placed a brace of automatics beneath his inky garb. Approaching the door, The Shadow opened it and edged out into the corridor.

Inspection indicated that The Shadow was unwatched. The conclusion that he formed was accurate. If crooks were stationed here at the Maribar Hotel, they were merely spies who had a single duty: to report on all persons who inquired for Major Rowden or who showed interest in the penthouse.

Whether such underlings belonged to Major Rowden, or whether they were secret enemies of the Britisher, were matters which could be learned later. One fact was evident, however: no spotters who had been at the Royal Arms were here at the Maribar Hotel.

The Shadow had proven that by wearing the same facial guise. Crooks who had seen the false George Furbish would have recognized Henry Arnaud. That would have meant immediate concentration upon The Shadow’s room. Yet there was not the slightest indication of any spy upon the fourteenth floor.

RETURNING to his room, The Shadow closed the door and approached the window. Opening it, he gained a side view from the hotel, across low-lying buildings. Peering toward the rear street, he saw the looming bulk of a blank-walled warehouse directly across the narrow street. It was the only near-by structure that rivaled the hotel in height.

Looking upward, The Shadow saw rows of ornamental ledges that marked the upper floors of the hotel. There was such a ledge below his own window; it was less than a foot in width. Nevertheless, it suited The Shadow for his next venture.

Swinging from the window, The Shadow found a foothold on the ledge. The Shadow began a beetlelike, upward course. Clutching a stone above the window, he raised his tall form and stretched to the cornice above. Gripping the ledge, he pulled himself to the fifteenth floor. There, he found a blank window; used it to reach the sixteenth.

A lighted window offered an obstacle. The sixteenth-story room was occupied and The Shadow did not care to attract the notice of persons within. Instead of climbing, he moved sidewise along the ledge until he reached a darkened window. There, he climbed smoothly to the seventeenth floor.

The Shadow was forced to make another side trip at the nineteenth. Above it, he had no trouble with the twentieth. The final cornice marked the roof of the hotel; it projected so far outward that The Shadow was forced to swing precariously above a yawning space two hundred feet in depth. He accepted the hazard as a routine of the climb. Clambering over the ledge, The Shadow flattened upon a shelf three feet in width.

The cloaked climber was beside the wall of the penthouse. From his vantage point, The Shadow made a survey.

The penthouse occupied a front corner of the roof; The Shadow was at the side where it stood close to the edge. There were windows in the wall; all were fitted with heavy bars. At the nearest window, The Shadow saw a narrow streak of light. It was the slit between a pair of heavy curtains that masked the interior.

Following the wall, The Shadow came to the end, halfway along the roof. Peering past the corner of the penthouse, he viewed barred windows in the rear wall. Diagonally away was a high water tower, with bulky wooden legs as its supporting trestle. It was too far from the penthouse to offer access to the flat roof of the chunky building.

Assuming that the far side and the front of the penthouse were also equipped with barred windows, The Shadow moved back in the direction from which he had come. Gripping the bars of a window, he scaled the ten feet to the penthouse roof and rolled upon the flat surface.

Raising his head slightly, The Shadow saw that he was just above the level of the warehouse across the rear street. He noted that the warehouse roof was topped by a concrete rail.

THERE was reason to lie low on the penthouse roof. Here, the surface was visible in the flickering brilliance of lights from the Times Square district. The Shadow had scaled the hotel wall that was away from the lights; the building itself had blocked the glow. His present position was one that could be observed from any higher structure; although the nearest taller building was more than a block away, The Shadow would be visible if he roamed too openly.

The roof of the penthouse was light gray in color. Only by keeping close against the surface could The Shadow be sure of escaping possible observation.

A square patch of blackness showed against the roof. Crawling, The Shadow reached it. The patch was a trapdoor. It was heavily bolted in place.

Close to the black square, The Shadow worked upon the bolts. He used a pair of compact pliers in his task. The bolts yielded stubbornly. When he had finally loosened them, The Shadow tested the trapdoor. He found it loose. The trap had no fastening beneath.

Edging the lidlike surface upward, The Shadow peered within. He was looking into a small hall, dimly lighted. All that he saw was a tufted Chinese rug of streamer shape. The hall was silent and deserted. Twisting about, The Shadow slid his body beneath the half raised trap, feet-first.

The Shadow’s left hand clung to the edge of the opening, while his body dangled down into the hallway. His right was easing the trapdoor, settling it into closed position.

At the final inch, The Shadow loosened his left-hand grip. The trapdoor clamped with a barely audible thump; simultaneously, The Shadow dropped down into the hall. The tufted rug broke the sound of his arrival.

There were heavy curtains at each end of the hall; The Shadow knew that no noise could have penetrated. The curtain slit at one end showed darkness; at the other, light. The Shadow chose the latter. Approaching silently, he parted the curtains to look into a living room.

The room was furnished in Oriental fashion; but its contents were not restricted to any one type. The Shadow saw Chinese taborets; decorations that had come from Burma; a solemn Buddha that was of Hindu workmanship.

Seated in a teakwood chair of Javanese construction was a stalwart, broad-shouldered man, clad in baggy trousers and shirt sleeves. The Shadow studied a square, blunt-featured face that was adorned with a short-clipped mustache. He knew that this man was Major Philip Rowden.

THE Britisher was puffing at a meerschaum pipe. His ruddy face was wrinkled as his sharp eyes studied the columns of a newspaper. Beside him, on a handy taboret, rested a bulky service revolver.

Parting the curtains, The Shadow stepped forward. His cloaked figure formed a streak across the floor; a blackened silhouette registered itself upon the major’s newspaper.

With a quick grunt, Rowden looked up. He saw The Shadow; he sped a hand for his big revolver. The move stopped, as The Shadow’s right hand whipped into view. The black-clad intruder had produced an automatic to halt Rowden’s act. At sight of the looming.45, the major froze rigidly. His eyes showed challenge, rather than fear.

Eye to eye, The Shadow met the major’s glare. Rowden’s lips moved, as if about to speak. They stopped before they gave utterance; a turn of Rowden’s eyes told The Shadow that something was due to strike. Quickly, The Shadow wheeled toward the curtains of the hall.

A tawny-faced attacker lunged forward in a leap. The Shadow caught a flash of colorful Oriental garb. Long arms drove toward him; swift fingers grabbed The Shadow’s gun. Fading, The Shadow met the drive with an upward twist of his left shoulder. His right arm came up beneath the attacker’s left; his left hand clutched the dark-faced man’s chin.

With a powerful heave, The Shadow sent the servant hurtling to the right. The attacker did a sprawly dive straight for Rowden. It was a timely stroke on The Shadow’s part, for the major had seized his gun and was swinging to aim. Half from his chair, Rowden was bowled over by his plunging servant. Bounced back into his chair, the major lost his gun. The dark-faced servant landed up against the wall, to blink in dizzy fashion as he came to hands and knees.

Master and servant stared alike into the muzzle of The Shadow’s automatic. Both were helpless, ready to hear whatever terms their conqueror might offer. Motionless, The Shadow waited while Major Rowden regained his scattered wits.

The Shadow had found the man from Shanghai. He was ready to learn what cause had brought Major Philip Rowden to New York.