A new story will be published here every other month
SHIWAN
KHAN RETURNS
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine,"
December 1, 1939.
.
Shiwan Khan, master of the orient, again meets The Shadow, master over
crime!
THE thing that stood in the center of
the old garage looked like a crazed
man's dream. It was intended to be an automobile, that much was certain; but
it
looked like a flashback to the experimental days of motor cars, rather than
anything that belonged to the present century.
In the center of a short, broad-beamed chassis, the mechanical
brainstorm
had a squatty V-type motor hung low in a metal square. From each corner of the
motor, a shaft ran to a wheel. In their turn, the wheels were pointed at
different angles, giving the whole contrivance a wabbly, disjointed appearance.
Beside the distorted device stood a man whose expression marked him as mad
as his creation. He was dressed in good clothes, but they were rumpled, soiled
with grime and grease. His face, though youthful, had a haggard look that went
with age. He was unshaven and his face, like his light-brown hair, was streaked
with the same grime that ruined his clothes.
Few of the man's many acquaintances would have recognized him as Howard
Felber, recently heralded as the most promising of young automotive engineers.
Near Felber stood two men in overalls: his mechanics, Casey and Jim. They,
alone, had been allowed to join Felber in this squalid old garage. Located in
a
rundown section of Manhattan, the place was the only workshop that Felber could
afford. He had exhausted most of his accumulated earnings buying the expensive
materials that now lay discarded along the walls.
Felber trusted his two mechanics, and from their solemn expressions, they
regarded the trust as a heavy burden. It wasn't just a case of sharing the
secret of a new invention. Jim and Casey felt that they were looking out for
Felber, keeping his madness a thing unknown to the world.
Watching him steadily, they finally turned to exchange hopeful glances.
Felber looked tired, ready to quit. Perhaps his mood had passed.
Then came an outside roar: the approaching rattle of an elevated train. It
rumbled overhead, above the street that fronted the garage. Felber's sudden
triumphant shriek was drowned by the train's tumult, but his actions told that
his mind had taken another of its crazy spurts.
Frantically, he set to work with a huge monkey wrench, detaching one of
the shafts that ran from the motor to a wheel. Once the rod was loose, it slid
into three sections. It consisted of a solid shaft inside a hollow tube, with
a
still larger tube girdling the inner portions.
Felber spent the next few minutes rearranging those tubes, turning them
end over end. He was trying unsuccessfully to fit them back in place, when a
light rap sounded at the small rear door of the garage.
"It's Miss Cragg," whispered Casey. "She must have come down
on the el
train."
"Better let her in," undertoned Jim. "She's the only person who
can reason
with him."
CASEY opened the door. A slender, dark-haired girl stepped
into the
garage. Gowned in light blue, she brightened the dull setting, though her face
turned solemn the moment that she noticed Felber.
It was a lovely face, though, well-rounded and perfect of profile. Forcing
a smile, the girl managed to make it look genuine as she approached Felber and
in a beautiful contralto voice said:
"Hello, Howard."
"Hello, Marjorie," returned Felber, seriously. "I'm coming along
finely
with my four-wheel drive. See those shafts along the wall? The ones of
different lengths?"
Marjorie nodded.
"I made them work," affirmed Felber. "But not as well as I wanted.
I'm
testing shorter ones on the motor. Three shafts for each wheel" - he was
sliding rod and tubes as he spoke - "and each shaft handles a different
speed.
A new idea in gears. This car will do anything, when I've finished with it!"
Another el train came crashing by, out front. Felber clapped his hand to
his forehead; his blue eyes took a half-crazed gleam. Darting from the chassis,
he reached the wall and began to tinker with the rods of assorted lengths.
Joining Jim and Casey, Marjorie requested their opinions. Both shook their
heads.
"It's those el trains," argued Casey. "Every now and then one
bangs by and
jars him from his senses."
"We can't help it, Miss Cragg," added Jim. "We tried to get Mr.
Felber
settled in a quiet place, but he wouldn't stand for it."
"He just ranted around," added Casey. "He kept telling what his
new car
would do if he could get the right man to test it. He kept saying it would go
anywhere, if he could get back here to finish it."
Slowly, Marjorie nodded. She was familiar with Felber's obsession. Knowing
his genius for invention, she was in a quandary. Jim and Casey, earnest though
they were, might be lacking in the imagination necessary to understand Felber's
final goal.
From her purse, the girl drew a letter; she opened it, let the mechanics
read it. Careful not to touch the letter with their grimy fingers, the men
noted its brief lines. The letter was addressed to a Mr. Lamont Cranston; it
was simply a request, on Marjorie's part, for an interview on a subject that
might prove of importance to him.
"Mr. Cranston is wealthy," explained the girl, "and he is an
explorer. If
anyone needs a type of vehicle that would travel anywhere, he is the person.
Would it be all right for me to send him this letter?"
For answer, Jim thrust a clean glove on his dirty hand, took the envelope
after the girl had replaced the note in it. Jim gave a solemn nod to Casey.
"I'll mail it," said Jim, starting for the door. "I'm going uptown
to get
those special tires, though I can't figure why Mr. Felber needs them. You talk
to Miss Cragg awhile, Casey."
Casey did talk, after Jim had left. He used a guarded undertone, so that
Felber couldn't hear him, though the precaution was scarcely necessary. Felber
was rattling rods and other gadgets at a great rate, muttering, sometimes
loudly, as he passed back and forth from his invention to the wall.
Only when an elevated train went by did he pause. On those occasions, he
stood with wide eyes fixed in a far-away gaze, as though the discordant rumbles
were music to his whirling brain.
"All those parts cost like blazes," confided Casey, solemnly. "They're
made of some alloy that's lighter than aluminum and tougher than steel, so Mr.
Felber says. I wouldn't have believed him, if I hadn't hefted those rods myself
and watched the way he whacks them."
Mentally, Marjorie decided that the information would be a sales argument
with Cranston. Her mechanical knowledge was very meager, but she could at least
declare that Felber used costly materials.
"Maybe the thing's too deep for me," admitted Casey, "but I'd
say that if
Mr. Felber got over this three-shaft idea of his, he might get somewhere. He
hasn't figured yet how he's going to steer the car or brake it. But you can't
argue with him."
"Do you think he'd welcome a visit from Mr. Cranston?"
"If you brought Mr. Cranston here - yes," decided Casey, after considering
Marjorie's question. "Mr. Felber trusts you, just like he trusts Jim and
me."
GLANCING at her wrist watch, Marjorie decided that it
was time to leave.
She broached another subject to Casey, speaking very firmly.
"I'm going to talk to Dr. Buffton," said Marjorie, as they were walking
to
the door. "I've mentioned Howard's case to him and he is quite willing
to help
us. Howard's mental condition may be the whole trouble, you know."
Casey nodded his agreement.
"Mr. Cranston should receive my note this afternoon," added the girl,
"so
I can hope to hear from him this evening. I'm all booked for a cruise; I am
supposed to go on the boat this evening. But if anything can be done for
Howard, I shall cancel the trip."
Outside the garage, Marjorie saw a dingy cigar store across the little
street. Pausing, she looked inside the place and observed a telephone. After
a
quick glance about her, the girl entered the store. Marjorie had gained the
momentary impression that eyes were watching her.
They were. Dark eyes that belonged to darkish faces. Two men, crouched in
a parked coupe, had noticed the girl leave the garage. They held muttered
conversation in a foreign dialect. One slid from the car and entered the cigar
store.
In peculiar broken English, the darkish man was asking for cigarettes at
the counter when Marjorie made her call at the open phone. He understood
English better than he could speak it, for the fellow's saffron lips showed
a
smile beneath his smudge-black mustache, as he listened.
"Dr. Buffton is not there?" Marjorie was saying. "Yes, this is
Miss
Cragg... Not until seven o'clock, you say... Very well, I shall expect a call
from him then... Yes, at my apartment..."
The darkish man was back in the car when Marjorie came out to the street.
He and his companion were exchanging guttural mutters, as they watched the girl
walk toward the elevated station. The glitter of their ugly eyes, the fangish
expressions of their leering mouths, were those that hunters might give when
sighting a choice and helpless prey.
Savages both, despite their ability to travel freely in New York, the
villainous pair were confident that they could wait for an easier opportunity
to pluck Marjorie Cragg from circulation. Their calculations told that they
had
until seven o'clock that evening, at which time darkness would favor them.
The men waited, motionless, in their car, until they heard the heavy roar
of an elevated train. Their faces firmed, their eyes glistened like fireballs,
bulging in a sightless stare.
When the clatter had faded, the two strange men relaxed. The one at the
wheel started the car, while the other gazed curiously from the window, much
interested in observing the peculiar customs of Manhattan dwellers that they
passed.
With all their vigilance, the spies had failed to notice the letter that
Jim carried when he left the old garage. Coming out through the door, the
mechanic had thrust the small envelope into one pocket, his glove in the other.
Marjorie's letter, slight though the facts it gave, was on the way to Mr. Lamont
Cranston.
A girl in danger, as Marjorie Cragg definitely was, could have chosen no
better person with whom to correspond. Though noted for his remarkable
experiences in many foreign lands, Cranston had a habit of finding still
greater adventures in New York. Any shred of mystery or intrigue became his
cue
for action.
On those occasions, Lamont Cranston frequently disappeared. In his place,
there roved a singular being known as The Shadow!
MARJORIE CRAGG was punctual, when it
came to keeping appointments. She had
to be; otherwise, her profession would have suffered. Marjorie wasn't really
famous as a vocalist, but she had made some fairly profitable concert tours
through the Middle West.
Certain persons had enthused quite highly, regarding the merits of
Marjorie's contralto voice. One was Howard Felber, but Marjorie had long ago
decided that his opinions were not based on her voice alone. Otherwise, he
wouldn't have traveled many miles to see her, on nights when he couldn't arrive
until the concert was over.
Howard Felber was ambitious, and so was Marjorie Cragg. Perhaps that was
why they had never really talked of love. Each recognized that the other had
a
career ahead; that not until success had been individually attained would they
talk of sharing it together. Pure coincidence had brought them to New York.
Howard had come to discuss
the commercial possibilities of new automotive developments, while Marjorie
had
been attracted by a short-term radio contract.
Once in New York, they had stayed on - Howard, to work on a new invention;
Marjorie, to accept a singing engagement on a cruise ship. Then Marjorie had
learned of Howard's strange mental turn.
How it began, and why, she did not know; but it perturbed her. She hoped
that his brain, and his invention, both, would prove sound; that Buffton, the
physician, would certify one, and Cranston, the financier, would approve the
other.
She was willing, in the emergency, to sacrifice her future for Howard. All
day, she went about her shopping, pretending that she was going to take the
cruise; but she made it a point to dine early, and reach her little apartment
ahead of seven o'clock.
She knew she would hear from Buffton, perhaps from Cranston. If either
insisted that she remain in town to further Howard's welfare, the cruise ship
could leave without her.
The apartment looked quite pathetic when Marjorie reached it. Her luggage
formed an unsightly stack, featured by the huge but almost empty trunk that
was
to hold the many costumes which were being sent to the boat.
With an entertainment scheduled for nearly every night of the three-week
cruise, Marjorie had decided to vary her performances. With the aid of
costumes. In fact, she was being advertised as the "International Songstress,"
and there would probably be considerable speculation regarding her actual
nationality.
Around the trunk lay suitcases; one was open for last-minute packing.
Though she was tense with worry about Howard, Marjorie decided to pack the
articles that she had brought back from her shopping tour. She was piling
bundles on the trunk, studying the suitcase to see if all would fit in it, when
she gave a sudden gasp.
The aeolian harp was gone!
Of all articles that Marjorie prized, the aeolian harp rated first. She
had obtained it literally for a song. Someone who liked her radio singing had
sent it to the studio, as a token of appreciation. The harp was a ten-stringed
instrument, shaped like a long, shallow box; but no skill was required to play
it.
That was, no skill except nature's own. When the harp was placed in a
breeze, the air currents themselves would play it, sometimes producing most
remarkable harmonies.
HER hand pressed to her forehead, Marjorie tried to think
clearly. Her
head was aching from worry over Howard; she wondered if she could have put the
wind harp in the trunk or in another suitcase.
Not wanting to unlock and open all the luggage, she was hoping for some
clue to the missing instrument when the harp itself supplied one.
Vaguely at first, then with gusts of sweeping melody, the tunes of the
rare instrument reached Marjorie's ears.
She turned to the window, gave a happy sigh. The aeolian harp was on the
window sill, where she must have left it. The window, too, was open, though
she
thought that she had closed it when she left the apartment before noon. Outside,
a night breeze was stirring, its fitful impulse gaining a steady strength.
The spirit of the breeze was registered by the harp. The twang of the
strings came louder. They faded into a fairylike pianissimo, to which
Marjorie's fancy could add the tinkle of sylvan bells. Then, to the
accompaniment of a powerful gust, the harp produced an imposing forte that
strengthened the girl's fiber.
From the window, Marjorie saw the lights of Manhattan - a myriad array of
forceful glow that seemed in keeping with the harp's proud melody. Then they
were gnome lights dancing in the distance, as the easing breeze swept lighter
music.
Eyes half closed, Marjorie caught the dreamy lilt of vague and distant
song. It faded; she listened, intent, hoping it would return.
Then came the voice.
It was a voice that spoke, each word tuned to a twang of a harp string. A
tone that was at moments kind; at, others, commanding. It spoke her name,
ordering her to listen; then its gentle words soothed her, much like the
cooling breeze.
The voice spoke thought-words.
They were in no language, yet she understood them. The voice was telling
her to wait, to let her problems rest. Should other things distract her, she
was to pause and contemplate. The voice would answer.
Into that lovely mental harmony came a discord: the ringing of the
telephone bell. It grated on Marjorie; she drew her body taut and clenched her
fists. She wanted to hear the voice again. It came. Striking a mighty beat from
the harp, it said:
"Answer!"
Marjorie found the telephone, lifted the receiver and gave a detached
hello. Over the wire came a precise tone that she recognized as belonging to
Dr. Buffton. He was asking about Howard Felber. He had to repeat the question,
for Marjorie didn't answer.
Letting her lips relax, Marjorie waited for the mental voice to tell her
what to do. Almost before she realized, she was speaking into the telephone.
"Howard Felber?" Marjorie gave a musical laugh, that she caught from
the
rippling harp strings. "He's quite all right, doctor. I called you to tell
youso."
Came more questions, that Marjorie heard but did not weigh. Some other
mind had taken command of hers. Its vibrant music gave her words to say - words
that she echoed in a tone not quite her own.
"I'm leaving tonight on the cruise ship," said Marjorie. "We
can see
Howard together, when I return. Thank you so much, doctor, for offering to
help."
There were other words, that Marjorie answered; then the click of a
receiver that she did not hear. Her hand drifted downward to place her own
receiver on the hook. The telephone was like a weightless plume as she rested
it lightly on the table.
From the harp came a happy melody of triumph, which Marjorie felt she
shared. The music seemed to inspire the breeze, rather than be governed by it.
Under the fascination of complete hypnosis, Marjorie waited dreamily for the
next command.
The telephone bell began to ring again. The girl did not even notice it. A
lighter sound, however, attracted her full attention. It was a slow, repeated
rap at the door. Automatically, Marjorie spoke the word:
"Come!"
The door opened in a drifting fashion. On the threshold stood a tall,
darkish man, who bowed.
""We are ready, Miss Cragg," he announced in choppy tone. "The
cab is
waiting downstairs, to take you to the ship."
THOUGHTS of the luggage did not bother Marjorie. Her only
reluctance was
that of leaving the music behind her.
Curiously, the harp faded of its own accord. Trying to catch some haunting
recollection of the melody, Marjorie walked mechanically from the room and
toward the stairway.
She passed other men that she did not notice. They waited, while the one
who had entered leaned above the aeolian harp in the window. The strings were
twanging jerkily, its tones as jarring as the telephone bell, which kept up
its
persistent ringing. The dark man at the window spoke, in English:
"It is I - Suji. I have word, Kha Khan."
His gleamy eyes fixed in a rigid stare, as if his brain were ejecting full
news of Marjorie's departure and the unanswered telephone call. Then the dark
face lighted, as if receiving answer. Curling lips announced:
"It shall be done, Kha Khan!"
To his darkish fellows, Suji gave orders in a guttural tongue. They
finished packing the baggage, adding the aeolian harp. To the accompaniment
of
the telephone bell's jangle, they cleared the room of luggage in a single trip.
Only Suji waited; his lips formed a satisfied sneer as the ringing ceased.
Extinguishing the lights, he departed.
In a cab that she had found awaiting her, Marjorie had begun a trip that
seemed to carry her through circular paths of light and darkness. She had no
way to judge the time it took, for she was solely concerned with humming the
last bars of a strange melody that she did not want to lose.
She lost count of the times she hummed it. Still singing softly to
herself, the girl alighted when the cab stopped. A dark-faced driver guided
her
into an obscure doorway, which, to Marjorie, in her present mental state, might
have represented anything, even the gangway of an ocean liner.
Next, she was on an elevator, trying to fit its constant thrum-thrum to
the haunting tune that she hoped never to lose. Exiting from the elevator, she
followed a corridor, lured by the tone of the harp itself!
Ahead was an open doorway, a maid waiting beside it, but Marjorie did not
notice her. Entering, Marjorie merely realized that the door had closed behind
her and that she was alone.
The harp was on the window sill; the sash was slightly raised, to admit
the wafting breeze that strummed the strings. All about was Marjorie's baggage,
carefully arranged. Some of her things had been unpacked; the bed was turned
down, and her pajamas were lying on a chair, along with slippers and dressing
gown.
Marjorie decided that she had been assigned to a very lovely stateroom.
Her voice vibrating softly to the lilt of the aeolian harp, she undressed.
She didn't notice her wrist watch as she removed it. Much had happened in a
very
short space of time. Dr. Buffton had phoned the apartment at seven o'clock,
and
the watch, still running, registered only quarter past that hour!
Nor did Marjorie realize that she was retiring at a surprisingly early
time. She was intrigued by the way her clothes seemed to float away as she
touched them, until they were all gone. She drifted into the pajamas, then
found herself in bed. Her hand found the lamp above her head, extinguished it
with a lazy touch.
With the lulling notes of the harp, Marjorie heard the deep moan of a
steamship whistle. It was distant, but her impressions of space were as vague
as those of time.
Totally unaware of the fantastic experience that had overtaken her,
Marjorie sank into a deep, comfortable sleep, undisturbed by any dreams that
might have furnished an inkling of her plight.
RIDING in the rear seat of his luxurious
limousine, Lamont Cranston again
studied the letter that he had received from Marjorie Cragg. The passing lights
of the avenue showed Cranston's features to be masklike, but of a singularly
hawkish mold.
His eyes were suited to his profile. Sharp orbs of burning power, they
scanned each line of the letter, as if ferreting out some hidden meaning from
the penmanship alone.
The letter was unusual. In stating little, it said much. A simple request
for an interview, from a young lady named Marjorie Cragg, was slight in itself;
but the reference to a "matter that might prove of importance" meant
much when
written by the girl in question.
Though Cranston had never met Marjorie, he recognized that the matter
which she mentioned could be vitally important to some third person, whose name
was not stated. Unwittingly, Marjorie Cragg had written her own personality
into
the letter.
The rounded curves of the writing, with wide margins at the ends of the
lines, were clues to an artistic temperament. Slight separations in the midst
of words were signs of intuition, produced by lifting pauses of the hand. There
was sincerity in the vertical formation of the letters. Whatever favor that
writer might request, it would not be for herself.
More than that, if some risk should be involved, Marjorie would be willing
to share it. Whether or not the risk already existed was a fact unrevealed,
but
there was a circumstance that made it seem most likely.
The letter had been addressed to the Cobalt Club; arriving there at seven,
Cranston had received it and had promptly called Marjorie's telephone number.
The line had given a busy signal; when it cleared, Cranston's call had
remained unanswered. Obviously, some sudden occurrence had been responsible.
After a second attempted call had failed, Cranston had promptly left the club
and ordered his chauffeur to take him to Marjorie's address.
As the big car swung from the avenue, Cranston reached beneath the rear
seat, drew out a hidden drawer that was fitted under it. From the drawer he
brought a black cloak, a slouch hat, and a pair of .45-caliber automatics.
He was attired in the black garb, his guns were beneath his cloak, when he
reached for the speaking tube and spoke in calm, leisurely tone:
"This will do, Stanley. Wait here five minutes, then return to the club."
Those words were the final token of Cranston. The figure that glided from
the limousine was not the dinner-jacketed form of the jaunty clubman. It was
a
blot of blackness - a strange, sinister shape that had the ability to blend
with gloom.
Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow!
THE apartment house where Marjorie Cragg lived was in
a secluded
neighborhood, about two blocks from where the limousine had stopped. The path
that The Shadow followed to reach his destination was untraceable.
Avoiding the front entrance, he entered a rear courtyard, scaled to a
hallway window on the high first floor. Finding the stairway gloomy, he
ascended it.
Marjorie's apartment was number 3C. Past the doorway, merged with
blackness at the end of the hall, The Shadow stretched a gloved hand to the
knob, found the door latched. His next move was to produce a small tool shaped
like a gimlet. Its shaft no thicker than a needle, The Shadow bored the point
straight through the old woodwork, slanting pressure against the latch.
The door slid open from the jogging pressure of a black-cloaked elbow.
After a dozen seconds of absolute silence, The Shadow entered, closing the door
behind him. He used a flashlight guardedly, keeping its beam shrouded in the
folds of his cloak.
Brief inspection showed the tiny apartment to be furnished, but
untenanted. The only sign of recent occupancy was the open window. Above a roof
on the opposite side of the courtyard - the roof was on a level with this window
- The Shadow could see a considerable portion of Manhattan's skyline.
Superficially, the situation could represent either a hoax or a trap. More
careful consideration indicated that it was neither. Marjorie's letter was
neither a jest nor a lure; not with the sober, troubled indications that The
Shadow had observed in it. If someone else had taken a hand in the matter, it
was too trivial to be a hoax. As for a trap -
The Shadow interrupted a rapid chain of thought. He had just about decided
on the verdict that a trap, to be worthy of the name, would have some features
to occupy his full attention. This apartment lacked any such; yet it was a
trap. The Shadow had seen the proof of it.
A thin slice of light had disappeared. It was the dim streak of glow that
showed beneath the doorway from the hall. Blocked partly by a rug, the
disappearance of that faint token would not have been noticed by anyone
standing in the apartment. It happened that The Shadow, in making his rounds,
was keeping to a crouched position below the window level.
The question was: how had The Shadow's entry been detected? No one had
seen him enter the building; there had been no lurkers in the hallway when he
opened the apartment door. Chances favored the supposition that the arrivals
did not know their prey had arrived. They might be coming here to put the place
up to the standard of a proper trap.
Before The Shadow could carry the question further, the door was opened.
The Shadow sensed the fact from the slight breeze that stirred in from the
window, only to cease as promptly as it had begun. Whoever these entrants, they
had closed the door behind them, and they were experts in ways of stealth.
Two of them. The Shadow sensed that, also, as he worked toward the door.
Their breathing was barely audible, yet more pronounced than The Shadow's. He
was shoulder to shoulder - first with one, then with the other.
Crouched low, they were working inward from the door, yet taking turns at
crossing the path to that outlet. They acted as if they expected to find
someone. The Shadow decided to let them.
With a quick sweep, he drove toward the man on his right, expecting to
floor him, then whirl on the other. The Shadow shot one hand for an invisible
throat; in the other fist, he clenched an automatic, prepared to use it as a
cudgel. The swiftness of his surge took his opponent almost off guard; not
quite.
The result was a real surprise.
Instead of striking a rising human form, The Shadow struck a thing that
whirled. Hands sliced in past his own; The Shadow's gun stroke overreached.
Hoisting shoulders came up in corkscrew fashion, aided by a twisting, butting
head.
Lifted from his feet, The Shadow was hurled into a sideward fling as if
recoiled from a cannon!
IN the midst of that half sprawl, he recognized the mode
of battle; one
that belonged to a clime far different from Manhattan. Coming to one hand and
knee, The Shadow made a quick spin of his own to meet the second foe, in whose
direction he had been tossed.
The clash came instantly; this time, it was equalized. As The Shadow's
whirling figure met that of a revolving opponent, they locked like two jamming
cogwheels out of gear. Lashing arms hooked tight, but The Shadow's spin was
the
one that carried the greater power.
Twisting his foeman with him, The Shadow drove straight for the man who
had supplied the first fling. Fresh arms grappled; all three were in the
struggle.
The Shadow recognized the breed of his enemies. They were Afghans, killers
of the sort that stalked the Khyber Pass. They used these twisty tactics not
only for attack, but as a means of wriggling free when outnumbered. Holding
the
odds, they weren't thinking of getting loose. They were working hands free
merely to draw their favorite weapons: knives.
They were depending too much on their own game. It didn't work for them.
It took two arms to hold The Shadow's one. His free fist was slashing with its
heavy gun, making the Afghans duck, striking down the hands that tried to haul
out long-bladed knives.
They were snarling in their native language, Pukhtu, and The Shadow
understood the jargon. The pair wanted to get their troublesome foe over by
the
window.
Apparently, they were afraid of knifing each other by mistake. Their
butting tactics, too, would serve them better if they could ever combine beside
the window, for in that case The Shadow would go out across the sill.
Each was calling the other by name: one was Suji; his pal was Kuli. In the
midst of the whirl, The Shadow soon lost track of which was which.
He was letting them swing him toward the window. He knew that when they
reached it, they would think to trap him unawares. A swing, half across the
ledge, would give The Shadow a backhand sweep at their heads. It would be tough
for either Afghan who tried to hoist his shoulders or draw a knife. In either
case, the fellow would have to straighten, which was what The Shadow wanted.
The whirl reached the window; The Shadow feinted with a tricky lunge.
Again, the Afghans did the unexpected. Kuli used both hands to hang onto the
one cloaked arm that they already had. Suji made a high, sweeping grab for The
Shadow's gun wrist and caught it. They were hauling him back, trying to pin
his
arms behind him, keeping his cloaked form directly toward the window. As they
made that effort,the pair raised an outcry, far louder than their
former babble. Together, they shouted a name:
"Ahmed!"
Faced toward the window, The Shadow saw a figure rise from the low parapet
of the opposite roof. It was the tall, lithe figure of an Afghan warrior,
lifting himself from ambush as coolly as if he had sprung from a mountain rock
on his native soil. It was the way such Afghans rose when they felt that their
prey was sure.
Usually, their targets were visible. In this case, Ahmed was simply
picking the blackened square of a window, confident that Suji and Kuli would
perform their part.
Ahmed's lifting hand raised high above his head, drew back, clutching the
most formidable of Afghan weapons, a war spear.
His limber figure poised, then slung forward. From his fist, with all the
power that could score a bull's-eye shot at fifty yards or more, Ahmed launched
the mighty shaft straight for the square black target that held a waiting
victim, The Shadow!
DESPITE the power of his arm and the
accuracy of his aim, Ahmed the Afghan
had overlooked one factor regarding an invisible mark. He had forgotten the
time
element, or perhaps he had never known that such a thing existed.
In aiming spears from mountain passes, at men or beasts that he could see,
Ahmed, like all others of his ilk, instinctively sped their aim, or deviated
it,
according to the chance movement of the prey.
This was the first time that Ahmed had ever depended upon a blind hurl. In
pausing for a straight, hard thrust at short range, he had left too much to
Suji
and Kuli.
The Shadow had seen Ahmed, the instant that the spearman rose.
He, too,
had gone on the move, in a fashion that neither of his grapplers expected.
Braced between their forward-shoving arms, The Shadow had flung his feet ahead
of him, against the window sill. Timed to the lift of Ahmed's spear, The Shadow
supplied a mighty recoil.
Three figures were slashing backward in the dark, as Ahmed made his poise.
Wildly, Suji and Kuli were trying to keep The Shadow in the spear path as the
shaft whizzed toward the window. They were slashing with their knives, to force
The Shadow to his feet, a thing in which they succeeded; but they couldn't stop
his whirl.
Whipping at an inward angle, The Shadow struck the inner wall of the room
just as the spear arrived there.
It skimmed him as it struck; then, burrowing like a mighty arrow, the
weapon finished deep in the wall, quivering its full length.
Hearing the challenge of a sinister laugh, the closer Afghans knew the
thrust had failed. They dived for obscure corners of the room, to be away from
the threat of The Shadow's gun. Their scramble was unnecessary; the automatic
wasn't pointed their way.
Dropping his arm along the spear that ran beneath it, The Shadow aimed his
.45 along the rooted shaft. The weight of the automatic brought the wooden brace
to level as he fired. This time, the targets were reversed, as were the
conditions. The Shadow was picking Ahmed, a target that he could see.
Half over the edge of the opposite parapet, Ahmed jerked upright with the
spurt of The Shadow's gun. The impact of the bullet jarred him as it struck
his
chest; then, his balance thrusting forward, Ahmed toppled from the brink. His
throat voiced a shrill, meaningless shriek as he made that nonstop journey to
the cement courtyard.
In dropping Ahmed, The Shadow settled the riddle of the trap. Ahmed had
served as watchman, prior to taking over a murderer's task. He had seen a
slight light from the doorway, when The Shadow had entered the apartment. By
a
signal to Suji and Kuli, lurking somewhere below, Ahmed had brought up the two
who were to bring The Shadow into his range of power.
WITH Ahmed gone, the others were thinking only of escape.
They hurled
their knives wildly as they flung themselves for the door, thinking to balk
The
Shadow's aim.
Shots blasted after them, but did not score. They had dead Ahmed to thank
for that luck. His spear had done them one favor.
Skimming The Shadow's ribs, the pointed shaft had bundled the black-clad
fighter's coat along with his cloak, actually pinning him to the wall. The
Shadow's side had received a painful gouge, but that was a minor problem. With
garments skewered to the wall, he had managed his straight aim at Ahmed; but
twists to reach the others were impossible.
The Shadow's shots were meant to spur their flight, no more. As the
slamming door told of the double exit, The Shadow set to work to free himself.
Grabbing the spear, he tried to loosen it, but failed for lack of
leverage. Trying opposite tactics, he kept his grip and made a powerful
sideward twist, that brought him free at the sacrifice of coat and cloak.
Ripped from sleeve to hem, the cloak gave the effect of a wide-spreading
V, as it caught the breeze when The Shadow yanked open the door to start below.
The hallway was dark, as the Afghans had left it, and there was no sign of the
two fugitives.
Sidling rapidly across to the stairway, The Shadow took up a position
there. He knew the tricky ways of these Khyber killers. Having identified them
for what they were, he used the proper tactics to offset them.
On the chance that they had dodged into hiding places on the third floor,
he waited, keeping his gun moving in a slow, sweeping arc. Then, when no sounds
stirred the hallway, The Shadow began a slow descent by the stairs.
Stealth masked his departure. So did blackness, until he reached the
second floor. From there downward, it was a case of watching all doorways and
other hiding spots. On journeys to Kabul, the capital of Afghanistan, The
Shadow had often watched wary natives dodge from sight, vanishing into spots
that seemed no larger than big rabbit holes.
If either Suji or Kuli tried such methods hereabouts, they would be due
for trouble when The Shadow neared them. His probing gaze picked out every
cranny along the second floor.
Starting down the final flight of stairs, The Shadow was prepared to
repeat his stalking process, when a clatter from the front street told him of
a
new development.
Reaching the first floor, The Shadow sighted men in uniform hammering at
the front door. Someone in an apartment pushed a buzzer to admit them.
The noise of The Shadow's gunfire had alarmed the tenants. They had
summoned the police.
One officer must have caught a glimpse of The Shadow whisking to the
window at the rear of the hallway, for a shout came from the front door.
Vaulting through the open window, The Shadow landed lightly in the courtyard,
just as bullets began to whiz through the space above.
Knowing that the bark of the police guns would rouse any lurkers, The
Shadow came to a crouch and began a rapid spin. The move was opportune. In from
darkened spots about the gloomy court came a surge of whirling attackers:
reserve Afghans, who had crept into this vantage spot, to remain while others
went upstairs.
THE SHADOW'S free hand was plucking wrists that swung
through the air,
warding away the strokes of slashing knives. His gun was spouting return
thrusts more dangerous than the slashes that the Afghans attempted.
Twisty as ever, the darkish men scattered. Their own rapid thrusts had
failed, but they were quick enough to scoot away amid the first blind shots
that The Shadow fired.
The cloaked fighter had revolved across the courtyard. Back to the farther
wall, he drew his second gun and made three fan-spread jabs in the darkness,
to
spur the flight of his routed opponents. With the echo of the last shot, The
Shadow caught a sound from above. He pointed his gun toward a dark window and
fired.
There was a scream: Kuli's. He and Suji had lurked on the third floor and
returned to the apartment. Hearing the gunfire below, Kuli had yanked Ahmed's
spear from the wall and leaped to the window. Spotting the three jabs from The
Shadow's gun, Kuli had tried to make amends for Ahmed's miss.
The Shadow's shot clipped Kuli in the midst of his throw. It jolted him
backward, giving his arm an upward jerk. The spear struck the wall above The
Shadow's head, took an angled bounce and clattered across the courtyard.
Vague light showed the window empty. Kuli was out of harm's way, dragged
back to safety by his sidekick, Suji.
Other weapons were in action. Guns were talking from the window in the
lower hall. Bullets from Police Positives flattened against the wall where The
Shadow had been. The cops had seen the cloaked fighter's final shot. Taking
him
for an invisible foe, they were trying to drop him in the darkness. But The
Shadow hadn't waited for that mistaken attack.
He was out, through the mouth of a narrow alley by which the Afghan mob
had fled. Brief seconds, though, had changed the nature of that route. It was
no longer clear. A trio of patrolmen was surging in, with flashlights. As one
gleam took a sweep, The Shadow saw a fourth officer picking himself up from
the
curb.
Evidently one cop had encountered a twisty, fleeing Afghan, so all were
coming through to look for more. The Shadow decided to let them think that they
had found one. Before the first flashlight revealed him, he hurdled forward,
smothering its glow. Guns cloaked, he went into a dervish spin, flinging his
arms for the man with the flashlight.
The Shadow cut a tornado path right through the converging officers. Their
flashlights went clattering, their guns spouted off at angles. They were
grabbing for him one-handed, too late. Ripping from fingers that clawed his
cloak, The Shadow stumbled across the curb, found his footing, and dodged away
in darkness.
He had won his escape, but he was serving the Afghans as well as himself.
Four vengeful cops were spreading, spattering wild shots, in an effort to flank
the swift fugitive that they had scarcely seen. Attracted by the fire, the
police in the apartment house dropped out through the window and joined in the
chase.
The next ten minutes were strained ones for The Shadow. He couldn't seem
to shake the trailing police.
They didn't see him, but they heard him. There were times when he had to
reach for fire escapes and climb upward, to get across the blocking ends of
blind alleys. The neighborhood was full of cul-de-sacs, that afforded all sorts
of complications.
Once, The Shadow was momentarily spotted by an arriving police car, as he
sped across the street in the path of its approaching lights. A siren's wail
brought pursuers in that direction, forcing The Shadow to a roundabout change
of course.
He was trying to pick up the path of the scattered Afghans, but it
couldn't be done. Like The Shadow, they were men of the dark. Given a scant
head start, they were able to veer their own course away from the sounds of
pursuit.
PICKING an opportunity that at last came his way, The
Shadow dropped from
a fire escape, cut across a street at an angle. Waiting in a doorway as a
police car rolled by, he took another angle back across the street and sped
through a narrow passage that he remembered.
Another crossing, a quick path in the dark - he was back in the courtyard
behind Marjorie's apartment house.
That scene of rapid battle had become a quiet center in the midst of a
storm of circling police. It had been that way ever since The Shadow's flight
had begun, fully ten minutes ago. All was silent when The Shadow snapped on
his
flashlight, keeping its glow close to the ground.
The sweeping beam showed vacancy. Ahmed's body was gone; so was the Kafir
spear that had twice been flung The Shadow's way. Three floors above, The
Shadow saw the glint of a closed window in Marjorie's apartment. The grim
silence mocked The Shadow.
It meant that the tricky Afghans had reversed their own course during the
ten minutes that The Shadow had wasted dodging the police. Bobbing back, they
had removed Ahmed and his weapon; probably, they had also helped Suji take away
the wounded Kuli. They had covered their tracks in skillful style, but at last
The Shadow's laugh came whispered in the darkness.
In the outlet from the courtyard, he had found a trail: slight blobs of
blood, that showed at intervals under the flashlight's probing gleam. He traced
that course across the street, through an opposite alleyway, along a zigzag
path
of a hundred yards, before he realized what it really meant.
The trail was The Shadow's own!
For the first time, he felt the painful gash that Ahmed's scraping spear
had given him. His energetic progress had caused the wound to bleed; the torn
edges of the cloak were well stained with blood. At present, the flow from the
gash had lessened and could be easily stanched.
Sounds told that disgruntled police were returning to the source of their
chase. Silently, The Shadow worked out through the loosely closing cordon. On
his way, off into darkness, he issued a low, sinister laugh, its tone repressed.
Crime lay behind the vanished Afghans. Hidden crime, that involved the
disappearance of a girl named Marjorie Cragg, who, like dark-faced fighters,
had left no trail. An arduous campaign awaited The Shadow; one in which he
would have to mask every move, since many lives - like Marjorie's - might be
at
stake.
Behind this mystery, involving the fighters imported from Afghanistan, The
Shadow could picture the machinations of an insidious brain. It belonged to
a
master criminal of gigantic mental prowess; one that the world thought dead.
The Shadow, however, had never agreed with that view. He had long been
alert to the prospect of a returning menace, in the person of a master plotter
known as Shiwan Khan.
When last they had met, The Shadow had won victory over the genius of
evil; had seen his vicious foe disappear beneath the waters of New York Bay.
But that event had been no proof that Shiwan Khan had died.
The ways of the master mind were devious; his followers were many. Even
self-destruction could be a sham with Shiwan Khan: a scheme of pretended death
to throw trackers off his trail. Nor was Shiwan Khan, monstrous creature of
the
Orient, a person who would ever admit defeat.
Shiwan Khan was the sort whose taste of failure would whet his appetite
for success. His schemes might change, when he discarded old for new, but
Shiwan Khan would never lose his urge to acquire mighty power.
The Shadow knew!