The Man From Shanghai

CHAPTER VIII – THE SHADOW’S PLAN

“TWO men have died.”

The Shadow pronounced the statement solemnly. Major Rowden nodded; his face showed the regret that he felt concerning the deaths of Blessingdale and Hessup.

“Two others are potential victims,” added The Shadow. “Ready for Malfort’s clutch. Our enemy may already doubt that I was George Furbish. He expects no trouble from the real Furbish; nor from Lamport.”

“Agreed,” nodded Rowden. “They will prove as helpless as Blessingdale and Hessup.”

“We hold a certain advantage,” remarked The Shadow, continuing his role of Arnaud. “Malfort does not know that Furbish is coming from Bermuda. He will not strike at Lamport until the latter has funds in hand and brings them to New York. Meanwhile, I can warn both Furbish and Lamport.”

Rowden’s eyes lighted. He realized that if The Shadow could depart as secretly as he arrived, such warnings would be possible.

“I shall keep Furbish in readiness,” decided The Shadow. “Malfort cannot possibly know where he is; if he had, Ku-Nuan would not have attacked me last night. When the time comes, I shall instruct Furbish to visit this penthouse; to buy the jewels that he wants and to carry them when he departs.”

Rowden gasped. For the moment, he believed that The Shadow must have misunderstood his previous statements regarding the constant danger that enshrouded the penthouse. He realized, at last, that The Shadow was serious.

New words partially overcame Rowden’s bewilderment.

“A visit by Furbish,” stated The Shadow, “will damage Malfort’s confidence. It will show him that his schemes are not flawless. It will cause him either to become too cautious; or to seek hasty action. Either will prove to our advantage.”

Rowden was impressed by The Shadow’s conclusion. He wondered, however, what sort of stratagem would make it possible for Furbish to come and go unmolested. Rowden decided to leave that to The Shadow. After all, The Shadow had managed to reach the beleaguered penthouse; he might be able to bring Furbish here.

“As for Lamport,” continued The Shadow, “I shall warn him not to come to New York at all. That will end Malfort’s plot against him. It will mean, however, that when Furbish has gone, Malfort will concentrate upon you.”

Major Rowden nodded. He foresaw that danger; he was ready to encounter it. Just as he was about to make a statement, The Shadow stopped him with a question.

“You spoke of a fifth man,” reminded The Shadow, “one who you said was in no danger. Who is he; and why is he safe?”

FOR a moment, Major Rowden hesitated before giving a reply. His face showed a passing flicker of doubt. His lips pursed as if desirous of withholding words. At last, Rowden overcame his qualms.

“The fifth man,” he confided, “lives here in New York. His name is Tobias Helmedge. He is an old man, a miser who holds hoarded wealth. His name is not listed in the city directory; he has no telephone in his house. Once, years ago, Helmedge purchased bonds issued by the Chinese government.

“We learned Helmedge’s address through reference to an old, forgotten file. Because of his suspicious nature, we communicated with him separately. I wrote Helmedge personally; I told him that I would communicate with him privately after I reached New York. He will not visit this penthouse until he hears from me.

“I am confident that Malfort knows nothing about Helmedge. In brief, Malfort thinks that there are only four purchasers involved; not five. He has murdered Blessingdale and Hessup; he will seek the lives of Furbish and Lamport. After that, I shall become his quarry.

“If Malfort’s menace can be removed, I shall be free to correspond with Helmedge. That is why I state that Helmedge is safe.”

Rowden’s words were logical. Nevertheless, The Shadow’s eyes remained fixed upon the major. Rowden sensed another query. He grasped The Shadow’s thought. From his pocket, Rowden produced a small card and a pencil. He wrote a few words; passed the card to The Shadow. Quietly, Rowden stated:

“This is the address of the house where Helmedge lives.”

The Shadow nodded. He studied the card and placed it in his pocket. In steady tones, he mapped a future plan.

“Furbish will come here,” promised The Shadow. “Lamport will not. Malfort will see his schemes doubly thwarted. Knowing nothing about Helmedge, Malfort will then have reached the end of his first campaign.”

“He will be ready for his final stroke,” acknowledged Major Rowden. “He will come here to seize the jewels.”

“Exactly,” agreed The Shadow. “Therefore, we must arrange something that will postpone his attack until an opportune time.”

“How can that be done?”

“Quite simply. By introducing another factor into the game. First, major, we must let Malfort know that your Chicago purchaser, Lamport, has lost interest in the jewels. In place of Lamport, you will find a substitute – a wealthy man who will consider buying gems, but who will not commit himself too definitely.”

“You know of such a man?”

“Yes. His name is Lamont Cranston.”

Rowden nodded.

“I have heard of Cranston,” he declared. “He is a multimillionaire, who travels everywhere. I understood, though, that Cranston was in Australia.”

“He has returned to New York,” asserted The Shadow, in a matter-of-fact tone. “He flew from the Orient by clipper ship. You can reach him by telephone at the Cobalt Club, here in New York. Call him at eleven o’clock tonight. Tell him your proposition. Ask him if he would like to buy gems that Lamport no longer wants.”

“But Malfort’s spies will overhear the call!”

THE SHADOW smiled. Rowden’s eyes widened. The whole plan dawned upon the major. He realized that The Shadow intended two contacts after leaving the penthouse: one, with Lamport, a warning to the Chicago railroad magnate; the other, with Cranston, telling him to consider the major’s offer but to make no immediate decision.

Success in this strategy depended directly upon the fact that Malfort would get word of Rowden’s call. Malfort would drop Lamport and be ready for Cranston instead. But the master crook would make no move while Cranston remained undecided. Thus would The Shadow hold off the time of Malfort’s final stroke: the attack against Rowden himself.

What Major Rowden did not guess was that the real Lamont Cranston was still in Australia. It was The Shadow, himself, who would be at the Cobalt Club to receive Rowden’s call. When Cranston was absent from New York, The Shadow frequently passed himself as the globe-trotting millionaire.

Rowden, nevertheless, had grasped the main idea of The Shadow’s plan. Smiling, Rowden sat puffing at his meerschaum. He laid the pipe aside when he saw The Shadow don his cloak and hat. He watched his visitor draw on a pair of thin black gloves.

The Shadow moved about the living room. He examined doorways, windows. He came to a far wall that was hung with a huge Oriental tapestry, which was green in background, adorned with silver dragons. Lifting the mammoth cloth, The Shadow examined the wall behind it. He found the wall solid.

Dropping the tapestry in place, The Shadow stepped out into an anteroom and noted the doors of elevators. Returning he spoke to Rowden; this time, his voice was a whispered tone:

“Summon Peju. Let him show me the rest of the apartment.”

Major Rowden clapped his hands. Peju appeared; the major ordered the Siamese to conduct The Shadow through the penthouse. Peju led the way. The Shadow followed and examined every room as carefully as he had the living room. Returning to the curtained center hall, The Shadow pointed toward the living room. Peju bowed obediently, and went in to join Major Rowden.

“Where is our guest?” queried the major, looking up from his teakwood chair. “Does he wish to see me, Peju?”

“He is in the hallway, sir.”

“I shall join him there.”

Reaching the curtains, Rowden parted them. He stared at vacancy; then looked upward. The trapdoor was settling into place. Rowden could hear the muffled scrape of tightening bolts. The Shadow’s present mission was ended. Departing; he had closed the trapdoor as he found it.

ROWDEN’S stare was tribute to The Shadow’s agility. The major was amazed when he realized how skillfully The Shadow must have regained the height of the trapdoor. Deep-set panels in the hallway wall offered the explanation. The Shadow had used them as a foothold. Even with that aid; the feat had been remarkable.

Major Rowden would have had new cause for admiration, had he viewed the roof of the penthouse. There, flat against the surface, The Shadow was moving steadily for the edge, guarding against the observation of any distant lookouts. This time, he had chosen the rear of the penthouse. It offered darkness like the side.

The Shadow’s purpose was to examine the broad space that formed the roof of the hotel – an area which surrounded the penthouse like a plaza. Dropping from the penthouse, he landed on the hotel roof. Moving like a phantom shape, The Shadow found a flat door that led down into the hotel. Testing it, he discovered that it was bolted from the inner side.

The Shadow turned, to head back for the side on which his own room was located. He was ready for the descent to his room on the fourteenth floor. To cover his course, he circled toward the water tower, to merge with its long shadow that stretched across the roof and past the penthouse. For one brief stretch, The Shadow was visible in the city’s glow. It was that fact that made him pause as he reached the covering darkness below the water tower.

Instinctively, The Shadow looked toward the one place that offered nearest danger; namely, the roof of the warehouse across the narrow street. The Shadow was just below the level of the concrete rail that adorned the top of the warehouse.

The Shadow’s instinctive precaution was all that saved his life. A grotesque figure had risen above the concrete rail. As The Shadow saw it, he noted a spidery arm driving downward to hurl some object with terrific speed.

Instantly, The Shadow whirled about, to gain protection as well as cover. He was beside a post of the water tower. His twist brought him just beyond that thickset pillar.

A whirling blade drove point foremost into the wooden post. The air whistled in echo; the knife quivered, buried almost to the hilt. The spider-armed creature on the warehouse roof plopped below the solid concrete rail before The Shadow could draw an automatic.

The would-be assassin was Ku-Nuan. The Shadow had foiled the Mongol killer’s thrust. At forty feet, Ku-Nuan could find a target with a knife as accurately as a sharpshooter with a gun. All that the blade lacked was a bullet’s speed. In a split-second, The Shadow had been able to choose the post as refuge before the straight-aimed blade arrived.

Ku-Nuan had made his thrust; he had taken to flight, unready to face The Shadow’s guns. The Mongol would spread the alarm; there was time, however, for The Shadow to make his departure. He wanted no forced battle with thugs tonight. Combat would not fit with his coming plans.

REACHING the side edge of the roof, The Shadow swung over the cornice. Swaying back and forth, he brought his feet in to the wall and gained a toehold above a window. The cornice offered inner projections beneath it. Gripping them, The Shadow worked his way down to the twentieth story ledge. Sidling along, he found an unlocked window.

Out through a corridor, down a stairway, The Shadow gained the fourteenth floor with speed. Whisking off his cloak and hat, he spread the garments over his arm. He did not return to his room; the empty suitcase that he had left there was of no use. His cloak and hat masked to look like ordinary garments, The Shadow rang for an elevator.

Riding down to the lobby, The Shadow strolled from the hotel. There was no sign of commotion; no excitement on the street. The Shadow had departed, almost unnoticed, before Ku-Nuan had gained opportunity to get word to Malfort. Stepping aboard a taxicab, The Shadow rode from the district that was infested by the master crook’s thugs.

The Shadow stopped at a telegraph office. There, he sent a wire to Calhoun Lamport in Chicago, signing the name of Major Rowden. That done, The Shadow boarded another taxi that had a sleepy driver slouched behind the wheel. In quiet tones, he ordered the man to take him to the Cobalt Club.

As the cab wheeled along, The Shadow dug finger tips deep into his disguised face. Puttylike make-up came away. The Shadow’s visage took on a more hawkish aspect. Special touches were needed. The Shadow applied them in the darkness; for his fingers were accustomed to the task.

When the cab reached the Cobalt Club, The Shadow stepped forth and nodded to the doorman. The fellow bowed and said:

“Good evening, Mr. Cranston.”

A slight smile fixed itself upon The Shadow’s newly disguised lips. His next move was to wait until he received Major Rowden’s call.