Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 015 - Green Eyes

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GREEN EYES
Maxwell Grant
? CHAPTER I. THE MARK OF DEATH
? CHAPTER II. THE FACE FROM THE DARK
? CHAPTER III. A MIDNIGHT CONFERENCE
? CHAPTER IV. LING SOO
? CHAPTER V. CLEVE WORKS ALONE
? CHAPTER VI. THE WU-FAN MEETS
? CHAPTER VII. CLEVE SEES THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER VIII. DARLEY OFFERS ADVICE
? CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW LAUGHS
? CHAPTER X. THE CHINESE THEATER
? CHAPTER XI. CLEVE PLAYS THE SPY
? CHAPTER XII. A SHOT FROM THE DARK
? CHAPTER XIII. GREEN EYES SPEAKS
? CHAPTER XIV. THE SUBTLETY OF LING SOO
? CHAPTER XV. GREEN LIGHTS GLOW
? CHAPTER XVI. MOY CHEN FAILS
? CHAPTER XVII. THE FATE OF A TRAITOR
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE HAND OF FOY
? CHAPTER XIX. THE CHINESE JUNK
? CHAPTER XX. ON THE TORTURE RACK
? CHAPTER XXI. THE BATTLE ON THE JUNK
? CHAPTER XXII. GREEN EYES MEETS THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XXIII. CLEVE GETS CREDIT
CHAPTER I. THE MARK OF DEATH
THE MOUNTAIN LIMITED was clicking slowly over the rails that trail through the highest and wildest
land in America - the western slope of the Rockies. Speed was cut down as the big special labored
toward the highest point on its line - nearly seven thousand feet above sea level.
Midnight had struck.
Outside, the gloomy mountains hung over the track; seemed about to close in on it, and wipe out the train
and all its passengers.
Within the club car of the train, only a handful of men remained in the comfortable chairs.
All of these were dozing away, with the exception of one who sat at the end of the car, puffing furiously
at a pipe that was no longer alight. His lips twitched, his eyes blinked furiously, and every time one of his
dozing companions stirred, he whirled around quickly, as though the sound had some hideous portent.
Pulling a watch from his pocket, he gave it a hurried glance, then allowed his eyes to wander around the
car. Satisfied that no one was observing him, he crossed quickly to the writing desk.
His hand shook, partly from nervousness and partly from the swaying of the train. Making no effort to
control the blotching of the pen, he pushed it rapidly across the paper. There was something furtive in his
haste.
Finally he signed his name - Stephen Laird - and blotted the letter. Just then one of the other men in the
car mumbled something drowsily, and Laird thrust the letter into his pocket. He leaned back and
assumed an air of nonchalance that was obviously false.
For a minute he sat there, tensely posed in an attitude of ease. Then, he took the sheet of letter paper
from his pocket, and laid it on the desk.
Rapidly Laird addressed an envelope, blotted it, put the letter in, and stamped it. The glue from the stamp
smeared over his lower lip as he licked it with sharp, uncertain movements.
Stephen Laird jumped up from the desk, and started to walk forward in the car. Suddenly he stopped,
went back to the writing desk, and, picking up the blotter that he had used, thrust it into his pocket.
It was a new sheet of white blotting paper, and had retained an almost perfect reproduction of what
Laird had written. Drops of sweat appeared upon his forehead, as though in horror at a near escape.
The sweat made a mark on the man's forehead stand out in relief. It was a red mark - almost as red as
blood. There was something awe-striking about it.
LAIRD started toward the front end of the car again. As he neared the corridor, the porter appeared,
blinking drowsily. Laird handed the Negro a dollar bill.
"How soon can you mail a letter for me?" he asked in a low, nervous, voice.
"Next stop is Truckee, suh," answered the porter.
"How soon?" was the sharp retort.
"Bout fo'ty minutes, suh. Train goes downhill pretty soon, now."
Laird hesitated. His hand moved toward the pocket where he had put the letter.
"Come and see me in twenty minutes, then. I'll have a letter for you."
"Yes, suh."
"Or, no, wait a minute." Laird took the letter from his pocket, and held it tentatively for a minute. He
studied the porter through narrowed eyelids.
The porter gazed back timidly. He noticed that the passenger's eyes were close together. They seemed
like two threatening knife points to the superstitious Pullman hand.
Laird seemed satisfied with his scrutiny. He relaxed slightly, and handed the porter the letter. The latter
gazed at it slyly, and said:
"I'll sho' mail this, Misteh Laird. I won't forget now!"
Laird jumped.
"How did you know my name?" He shot the question at the terrified porter viciously.
"Fum the envelope, suh. Jus' fum the corner of the envelope."
Again Laird relaxed. The porter tried to pull himself together, but just as he was on the point of regaining
his composure, he noticed the little red mark on Laird's forehead.
It seemed to strike terror to the Negro's soul, though he could not explain why. There was something
sinister about the bloodlike mark.
Laird laughed, half in relief at having gotten the letter off his hands, half in amusement at the porter's
obvious terror. Then he turned and walked unconcernedly back toward the rear of the train.
After the passenger had gone, the porter stood still a moment, trying to connect the red mark with
something else in his experience. Finally he shook his head, and walked to the letter rack in the rear of
the car.
Into the open rack he dropped the letter. There were already a half dozen envelopes there, ready to be
mailed at Truckee.
The porter disappeared into the linen closet. Immediately one of the dozing men leaped to his feet. He
sprang to the letter rack, threw a quick glance around the car, and withdrew the letter the porter had just
placed there. Then he hurried from the car.
THE train was slowing down still further as it reached the pass through the mountains. As the man who
had just stolen the letter hastened in the same direction Stephen Laird had taken, he noticed that there
was hardly any sideward motion at all.
The letter thief quickly reached the observation car. It was deserted. The man walked to the glass door
at the rear of the car, hesitated a few moments, and then stepped out onto the platform.
Although it was now past one o'clock, there was a man sitting in the darkness on the left side of the little
platform. He glanced up sharply as the thief appeared; but the newcomer paid no attention to him.
Instead, he dusted off the unoccupied chair, and sat down on the right side of the gallery.
After a few minutes of silence, the man on the left lighted a cigarette. The glare of the match in his cupped
hands revealed the sallow, nervous features of Stephen Laird. The crimson mark stood out over the
blinking, furtive eyes.
The match went out. Laird's head was facing forward, looking straight back along the dropping tracks
that stretched to the coast.
The train rattled as it bumped over a switch point and onto the double-tracked roadbed that indicated a
bypass. A signal post appeared.
It carried a single green light. Laird's eyes focused on that glare. His body shook with an irresistible
shudder. That single disk of brilliant green had awakened some horrible memory in his mind!
He mumbled: "Green! Green! Like those other lights - like those awful eyes!"
The words were not loud enough for the man who had stolen the speaker's letter to distinguish. His side
of the platform was wrapped in a blanket of clickings and grumblings as a long line of darkened sleepers
passed by, bound west.
Brakes ground as the eastbound limited slowed. A crying gasp sounded on the observation platform. It
rose to a crescendo that was completely obscured by the noise of the brakes and the passing train.
Finally it sank to a gasping moan.
The observation platform was dark. The brakeman who climbed over the rear railing noticed nothing as
he swung his lantern over the right side of the platform for an increase in speed.
The limited picked up speed on the easy down grade to Truckee. The brakeman, his work done, turned
to go into the car. His red lantern swung within a foot of the chair that Laird had been occupying. The
light showed the huddled, motionless form of a man. His head was forward on his chest. His breath was
coming in short, audible gasps.
The brakeman set down the lantern and shook the huddled body. There was no response. Quickly the
train hand swung the helpless man into the closed part of the car, and dropped him on a long couch.
The light in the car showed a horrible sight. Stephen Laird's chest was covered with blood. His coat and
vest were ripped to shreds. He had been brutally stabbed!
The brakeman dropped to his knees to support the gory victim, and shouted for the porter. The latter
brought the conductor, who tried to force water between Laird's lips.
Both the brakeman and the conductor focused their eyes on the crimson sign that stood out like a beacon
against the deathly pallor of Laird's forehead.
The porter ran to try and find a doctor. It was immediately apparent that without medical assistance,
Laird would not live the few minutes it would take the train to get to Truckee and a hospital.
Laird's lips were moving. The conductor bent over, trying to catch something that would give a clew to
the attack.
"Eyes," said the dying man. "Green eyes!"
The conductor reached for a slip of paper. He urged Laird to speak further.
"In the box," was all he could distinguish.
"Yes," said the conductor. "In the box. What box?"
"See -" The words were cut off by a gurgle of blood issuing from Laird's pale lips.
The dying man said something indistinguishable. The conductor crouched closer.
"T - A - G -" A pause, and then: "A -" The pale lips and dimming brain were trying to say something of
such importance that it had to be spelled. The conductor wrote down the letters.
They were the last that Stephen Laird ever said. His mouth opened, and more blood gushed forth. His
fingers twitched twice, and then stiffened.
A physician, hastily aroused by the observation-car porter, hurried in, dressed in trousers over pajamas.
He bent over Laird a moment, and then straightened.
"He's dead," he said. "Murdered!"
THE conductor went through Laird's pocket, looking for a railroad check. He found it, in an envelope
marked Stephen Laird. He wrote the name on a sheet of paper, and then copied his notes. He read them
to the doctor:
" 'See in the box. Tag A.' He tried to spell it. 'T - A - G' - then, he managed to gasp out the letter 'A.'
That was all he was able to say."
The brakeman went out on the platform where he had found Laird's body. He called to the conductor,
pointed to the blood-stained corner of the platform, and held up a piece of white paper.
"Right here, where I found - found him, there was this."
The conductor took the fragment. It was part of the blotter that Laird had thrust into his pocket in the
club car. This scrap bore only two letters: R and D, in reverse, the last letters of the murdered man's
signature.
The conductor did not realize this. He searched for the rest of the blotter, in vain.
"Go up ahead," he said to the brakeman, "and bring back the porter from the club car. Maybe he'll know
something. This looks like one of the line's blotters."
The porter, brought in by the brakeman, eyed the body cautiously.
"Yes, suh," he said. "That's the one, suh. He give me a letter, suh, jus' a li'l while ago. I got it heah, Misteh
Conductuh, right heah in the mail foh Truckee."
While he spoke, he had been searching through the mail for Truckee. There was no envelope with
Stephen Laird's name on the corner.
Meanwhile the observation-car porter and the brakeman had been having trouble keeping curious
passengers out of the car. The brakeman called to the conductor.
"Here's a gentleman who says he's from the newspapers, conductor. Shall I let him in?"
The conductor nodded his assent. A man bustled forward, dressed, like the doctor, in pajamas and
trousers. He showed the conductor his credentials. He was a correspondent from one of the newspaper
syndicates, returning from a Western story.
The conductor told this man what he knew about the murder. The latter's eyes glistened. This was a fine
story. "Murder on the Mountain Limited." He could already see the headlines.
He made a special note of the mysterious last words of Stephen Laird.
"Laird said something, too, about eyes," remarked the conductor thoughtfully. "Green eyes, as I
remember it. But that was when I first got there. This is all I have written down: 'In the box,' and then
'see,' and then this about 'Tag A,' that he tried to spell."
Up ahead, the whistle blasted through the night. The train was coming into Truckee, where the authorities
would take over the body and the mystery.
The little group of men around the dead man dropped into silence. The correspondent was sitting down
scribbling off a telegram to file at the station.
But he said nothing about the red mark on Stephen Laird's forehead, because no one had thought to
mention it.
That mark was scarcely noticeable now. It was nothing more than a faint blur.
Living, the red mark on Laird's forehead had impressed three men: the porter, the conductor, and the
brakeman.
Now that Laird was dead, the mark was dying, too, as though it were connected with his soul, rather
than with his body. In the excitement, the mark was forgotten.
The porter had been sent back to his car. All that the newspapers and the authorities were told was that
a man had been found stabbed on the observation platform; a fragment of blotter had been found beside
him; he had uttered certain vague words and letters before his death; and a letter which he had written
had been stolen.
But of all the details marking the murder of Stephen Laird, that vanished crimson mark was most
significant. For it was that sign that brought him to his doom!
That spot that shone like blood was the mark of death! Now, death had struck; and its mark - no longer
needed - was gone!
CHAPTER II. THE FACE FROM THE DARK
SEVERAL days had passed since the strange death of Stephen Laird, passenger on the Mountain
Limited. The case had created a wide sensation at first. Now, with no solution toward the mystery, it had
dropped into prompt oblivion.
It was evening, in San Francisco. A tall, well-dressed man entered the lobby of the Aldebaran Hotel,
carrying a light suitcase. He stepped up to the desk to register. The clerk noted the name which the writer
fashioned in a clear, sweeping hand.
The new guest's name was Henry Arnaud.
"What kind of a room would you like, Mr. Arnaud?" questioned the clerk.
"I should prefer one on the top floor," was the reply.
The clerk looked over the list of vacant rooms. The Aldebaran was a second-rate hostelry, and was
never filled with guests. But due to its location on one of the noisy streets that angle northward from
Market, the rooms on the upper floors were always occupied. At present, there was just one vacancy on
the eighth floor, the highest story in the house. The clerk passed it by.
"I can give you something on the seventh -"
"No," said Arnaud, shaking his head emphatically. "I want to be as high up as possible. If I can't get a
room on the top floor, I shall go somewhere else."
"Wait a moment!" The clerk pretended to make a sudden discovery. "Here you are, sir - Room 806. A
very nice room, Mr. Arnaud."
The guest seemed highly pleased, and turned his bag over to the waiting bell boy. The clerk called out the
number of the room, and Henry Arnaud started to the elevator. The clerk shrugged his shoulders.
There was a very definite reason why Room 806 was vacant. Until a few nights ago, it had been
occupied by Stephen Laird. That guest had left the Aldebaran one evening to take the Mountain Limited
for Chicago.
The police at Truckee had discovered an envelope in Laird's pocket, marked with the number of the
room and the name of the hotel at which he had stopped in San Francisco.
So, on the following morning, the police of the coast city had called at the Aldebaran to search the room
for clews that might lead to a solution of the murder of Stephen Laird. The room had been bare of
evidence, and the clerk had been instructed to keep it vacant for a few days.
There was no ban now; but 806 was not to be offered to a guest without good excuse for so doing. The
excuse had worked excellently tonight. Henry Arnaud had insisted upon an eighth-story room; he had
received the only one available.
The clerk's eyes scanned the lobby. He wanted to be sure that the issuing of Room 806 had caused no
comments. Many of the guests at the Aldebaran were permanents who might talk about the fact that
Laird had lived there almost until the time of his murder.
One man who had been reading a newspaper was strolling from the lobby; no others showed any sign of
activity.
MEANWHILE, Henry Arnaud had reached Room 806. The room occupied a corner of the hotel. One
window opened on the front street; the other covered a vacant lot.
The room was small. It had no bath. A large wardrobe stood in the corner, in lieu of a closet. The only
modern touch to this room was a reading lamp on a small table beside the single bed.
Yet Arnaud did not appear dissatisfied with his quarters. He tipped the bell boy and carefully locked the
door after the attendant had left the room. He seated himself in a chair beside the bed. He took an old
newspaper from the pocket of his light overcoat.
As Arnaud spread the paper, his eyes rested upon a paragraph relating to the death of Stephen Laird. It
was an exact account of the man's demise, and gave the conductor's version of everything he had heard
the dying man say.
What was the meaning of the statement, "Tag A," the last message that Laird had tried to give? That was
a mystery. The newspaper paragraph also stated that the envelope scrawled with 806, Aldebaran Hotel,
had been found in the dead man's pocket.
Henry Arnaud smiled as he scanned that notice. It explained his presence here tonight. He had chosen
this room by design, not by accident.
The light that shone upon Henry Arnaud's face revealed a countenance that was both distinctive and
unusual. Henry Arnaud was possessed of firmly molded features that appeared almost as if they had been
chiseled by a human hand. They gave a quiet, motionless expression to his countenance.
One could not have told the age of this man. Forty years might have been a fair estimate, but its accuracy
could not have been more than speculative.
He was a being with a human mask, whose face became more inscrutable as it was examined closer. In
the proximity of the light, it was even more impressive than in the poorly illuminated lobby. Arnaud's eyes
were an amazing factor. They sparkled with a glow that boded mystery.
Slowly, Henry Arnaud raised his hand and extinguished the light beside the bed. The room was now in
total darkness. No sign existed of its human occupant.
Henry Arnaud had not stirred from his chair. But now, his eyes were turned toward the window.
Blocks away, they saw the glow of an illuminated district. Henry Arnaud was looking toward the
strangest and most fascinating district of America - San Francisco's Chinatown.
The lights from that cluster of steep-pitched streets betokened a merging of Occidental invention with the
glamour of the Orient. There, within sight of this hotel, dwelt the largest settlement of Chinese outside of
China itself.
Electric signs glowed with Chinese characters. These were accompanied by English words. It was upon
one such sign that Henry Arnaud's eyes were focused. This sign bore the large words:
MUKDEN THEATER.
The sign itself was a bizarre Oriental creation. Rows of colored lights crawled dragonlike from the lower
corners until they reached a glittering ball of resplendent incandescents near the top of the sign.
Above these was a small circle of yellow lights that did not move. From the center of the circle shone two
lights of green, placed side by side. They seemed a challenge to the man who watched them from the
window of the hotel.
An imaginative person - had Henry Arnaud been such - might have sworn that those lights were staring
back at him.
Click! The lamp came on in the room. Henry Arnaud arose from his chair and walked about. He doffed
his coat and vest. He removed his collar and necktie. He went to the telephone and ordered ice water.
When the bell boy arrived, Arnaud opened the door and stepped into the hall to receive the pitcher. He
yawned as he tipped the servitor.
"Leave a call at the desk for me," he said. "Tell them seven thirty - and to keep on ringing until I wake up.
I'm dead tired. I'll be sleeping soundly ten minutes from now, and it takes lots of noise to arouse me."
"Yes, sir," responded the bell boy.
The door closed. The lock clicked. The bell boy returned to the elevator and stood waiting in the deep
silence of the hall.
The Aldebaran was a gloomy hotel. When the bell boy had gone down in the elevator, the place was as
still and as morbid as a morgue.
ACROSS the hall from Arnaud's room, a door was ajar. Eyes were peering through the crack of that
door - eyes that stared with a sinister purpose. They were glued upon the single exit from Arnaud's room.
They were waiting and watching, making sure that the guest in 806 did not leave.
Now a figure appeared from the door. It was a grotesque, crouching figure that crept slowly forward,
making no noise as it advanced. The clothes that it wore were dark; but the face above them bore a
yellow tinge.
In action, although not in guise, this creature bore the semblance of a Chinaman. His hands were close
against his breast.
He listened outside the door of 806, his face now hidden from the light. This was a secluded portion of
the hall. Yet the crouched man seemed ready to slide back to the other room at the first sign of an
approaching person.
Within the room, Henry Arnaud again stood in darkness. The only indications of his presence that
reached the man outside were the sounds that he made.
The clasps of the bag clicked as Arnaud undid them. He coughed slightly as he removed articles of
apparel from the bag. The door of the wardrobe banged dully as he pushed it shut. Then the bed creaked
as Arnaud flung himself upon it.
The noise of his breathing was interrupted occasionally by a slight cough. Then those sounds decreased,
and there were steady minutes of prolonged silence.
The man outside the door was listening intently. With the subsidence of all sound, he moved, surely, but
cautiously.
One hand came from his body. Deftly, he inserted a pass key in the lock of the door. The key turned.
The other hand was upon the knob.
Softly, steadily, the door of Henry Arnaud's room opened until it was ajar like that of the room across the
way.
In this end of the hall, the light was dim and obscure. Even so, the filtering rays might have attracted the
attention of a man awake upon the bed. But there was no sign to show that Henry Arnaud had stirred.
The sinister approacher took this as a good sign. He stepped softly into the room, and closed the door
behind him.
He crept around the foot of the bed, and passed slowly by the half-opened window. He was close to the
floor; the dim, reflected glow from Chinatown was not sufficient to betray the presence of the sneaking
native who had come from that section of the city, to be here tonight.
But those vague rays of light did tell something of the man's purpose. Something gleamed in one of the
creeper's hands. It was the blade of a long, vicious knife - the silent weapon of a noiseless assassin.
The crawling Chinaman stopped at the table by the head of the bed. He listened there; then loomed
upward. His body extended over the bed. His knife was in his right hand, ready to deliver a well-aimed
thrust. His left hand gripped the cord of the table lamp.
The hovering creature was one who planned his purpose well. He was ready to perform two operations
simultaneously. That hand toying with the cord was prepared for its duty.
When the light came on, the knife blade would descend swiftly toward a vital spot before the sleeping
victim could become cognizant of danger.
Click! The light was on. Its sudden glare revealed the face from the dark - the yellow, leering face whose
peering eyes were seeking the helpless form of the man in the bed.
The knife blade gleamed beside that sinister countenance. But it remained suspended - motionless.
The bed was empty! Not only empty, but the covers were unturned.
Henry Arnaud was not there!
THE lean, leering face of the Chinaman became a hideous, glaring monstrosity. The stooping man
wheeled quickly, looking for his prey.
With the lamp still lighted, he dropped beside the bed, and his peering eyes glared beneath. Arnaud was
not hiding there.
Writhing serpentlike along the floor, the man approached the wardrobe - the only spot in the lighted
room that afforded a hiding place.
The big door of the upright chest was latched - a sign that no one could be within. But the Chinaman
intended to make sure. He was willing to rely upon his blade, even though his intended victim might be on
the alert.
His clawlike hand clutched the little knob of the wardrobe. It drew the door open, and the Chinaman
leaped into the space behind it, his knife blade launching for a thrust.
That deadly arm stopped midway. The wardrobe, like the bed, was empty!
Revolting though the yellow face had become, the look of perplexity now upon it was ludicrous. The man
stood momentarily thwarted, but his bewilderment did not last. He sprang back across the room and
extinguished the table lamp.
The sinister face from the dark had returned to the dark. But those insidious eyes were still searching.
They peered from the front window of the room.
The head extended through the opening, and turned downward toward the street below, a drop of sixty
feet. It appeared again at the side window. Here, too, it inspected a sheer drop of more than sixty feet.
The wicked face turned its gaze toward the distant glow of Chinatown. There, the sign of the Mukden
Theater still displayed its roving change of lights. But the luminous circle at the top now presented a blank
center. The two glaring spots of green had disappeared.
The Chinaman turned his eyes back into the room. His hands were buried against his body. The knife
was there, waiting.
Ten minutes went by; then the crouching figure went back across the room and tiptoed to the other side
of the hall. The door of 806 was closed and locked. But the tricked assassin waited, wondering.
Within the room, the dim glare of the distant lights was totally obscured by a black shadow in the
window. Henry Arnaud had returned. He went noiselessly to his suitcase and took it with him to the
window. He affixed the handle of the bag to a thin, suspended rope.
His body - virtually invisible - swung from the window. Long arms, reaching upward gripped a protruding
row of bricks below the roof. With amazing agility, the man ascended and drew himself to safety. His bag
came, up as he pulled the slender rope.
Across the roof he strode, toward the rear of the hotel. He slid down a wall to a lower building. His form
seemed to dwindle away and disappear. His further descent was an action unseen.
Henry Arnaud had gone. He did not reappear. But in his stead, a tall, black-clad man arrived at the end
of a narrow street, a block from the Aldebaran Hotel.
Stooping in the gloom, he compressed his suitcase into a small, compact bundle that disappeared beneath
the flowing cloak that he wore. From beneath his slouch hat, this man peered forward with shrewd,
gleaming eyes.
There, in the silence, hidden lips laughed, and their low, throbbing mockery made an eerie sound on the
night air.
In the guise of Henry Arnaud, The Shadow had come to San Francisco! The Shadow - dread avenger,
who menaced evildoers of the East - had come to the Pacific coast!
What was his purpose here? Did it concern the strange death of Stephen Laird? Had that event declared
摘要：

GREENEYESMaxwellGrant?CHAPTERI.THEMARKOFDEATH?CHAPTERII.THEFACEFROMTHEDARK?CHAPTERIII.AMIDNIGHTCONFERENCE?CHAPTERIV.LINGSOO?CHAPTERV.CLEVEWORKSALONE?CHAPTERVI.THEWU-FANMEETS?CHAPTERVII.CLEVESEESTHESHADOW?CHAPTERVIII.DARLEYOFFERSADVICE?CHAPTERIX.THESHADOWLAUGHS?CHAPTERX.THECHINESETHEATER?CHAPTERXI.CL...

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