Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 321 - Jade Dragon

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THE JADE DRAGON
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I
? CHAPTER II. NINE O CLOCK
? CHAPTER III. MEN OF MURDER
? CHAPTER IV. VANISHED BATTLERS
? CHAPTER V. DR. TAM EXPLAINS
? CHAPTER VI. BEYOND THE DOOR
? CHAPTER VII. DOUBLE STRATEGY
? CHAPTER VIII. OUT OF CHINATOWN
? CHAPTER IX. THE DRAGONS MEET
? CHAPTER X. WITHIN THE LAIR
? CHAPTER XI. THE WRONG CHOICE
? CHAPTER XII. FORCED MURDER
? CHAPTER XIII. THE BOXED TRAIL
? CHAPTER XIV. BEFORE THE MEETING
? CHAPTER XV. DEATH GREETS THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XVI. THE DRAGON'S BROOD
? CHAPTER XVII. HOUR OF CRIME
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE TRAP THAT FAILED
? CHAPTER XIX. THE WAY OF SHANG CHOW
? CHAPTER XX. SECRET OF THE DRAGON
CHAPTER I
THE lights of Chinatown sparkled like jewels against the velvet background of the darker area
surrounding it. Neon lights - red, green, and blue - were the rubies, emeralds, and sapphires of that
galaxy; while blinking bulbs of white represented the sparkle of diamonds.
Such was the effect of Chinatown when viewed from Chatham Square. Of course, it was all illusion, but
that created by the lights was small compared to the deceptive effect of the blackened background
against which the dazzle played.
There was nothing of velvet in those off streets of Manhattan. Gloomy, dismal, the borders of Chinatown
were places where anything might happen. Indeed, Chinatown proper, far from being sinister, was a
welcome oasis of light in a desert of dangerous darkness.
Yet, the figure that glided through the bordering gloom gave little heed to persons about him. A tall,
shrouded form that had a human shape, he was passing shamblers who had thuggish eyes; panhandlers
whose whines carried the taint of threatening snarls; loafers who could well be wanted criminals posing as
Bowery bums.
Of those, at least three out of four would have relished a glimpse of the figure in black. Had they seen it,
they would have started a hue and cry to rally others of their ilk. Guns, knives, and other assorted
weapons would have come to hands quite capable of using them, had these wolves among the riffraff
sighted the foe who had forced them into the dregs where they belonged.
For the gliding shape in black was the scourge of crimeland, that creature of mystery known only as The
Shadow
Tonight, The Shadow had no time for the skulkers who shunned the glow of Chinatown. The most they
saw of him was an occasional patch of passing darkness that flitted along the grimy sidewalk. By the time
sharp eyes looked for the figure that had cast the passing shade, it was gone.
Other work lay ahead for The Shadow, and his passing up of opportunity to deal with human scum was
proof that his mission must be of prime importance. Moreover, the direction that he took told where his
mission lay.
In Chinatown!
Where lights increased, The Shadow became a master of camouflage, a creature of invisibility. Not that
he actually elbowed his way through throngs, unseen; he was made of too material stuff for such a
practice. Rather, he blended with backgrounds, using what stretches of darkness he could find.
Chinatown was not all lights, not even a large percentage of it, and darkness, where it did occur, was all
the better as a pausing place, when lights were thereabout, to produce a contrast.
From door to door, under the shelter of steps, past windows that were lighted but empty of watching
faces, The Shadow pursued his strange course. On Mott Street, he halted in the mouth of a tiny passage,
while a throng of Americans came down a stairway and filed along the street.
They were sightseers from a Chinatown bus, and they went the other direction, chatting, laughing about
their visit to the joss house. To them, Chinatown was fast losing its spell of mystery, and not one of them
realized that they had passed within a dozen feet of real mystery in human form: The Shadow.
As soon as the last had filed away, The Shadow emerged from darkness, turned into the doorway and
went up the stairs to the joss house. The stairway was dimly illuminated, and The Shadow's ascent, if
noticed, would have been regarded as nothing more than a flicker of a faulty light bulb.
Looking into the joss house, The Shadow saw the serene proprietor and the usual attendants, waiting for
another bus load of Chinatown tourists.
That was all The Shadow wanted to learn.
DOWN the stairs again, The Shadow moved along the street and stopped beside the window of an
antique shop. From an angle where he could not be seen against the lighted window, he observed the
two Chinese partners who ran the place - bland men, who like the joss-house keeper, wore jackets
common in China.
Then, crossing the street, The Shadow blacked himself out against a basement doorway. Looking back,
he saw two Chinese stopping at the very window where he had paused. They, too, were checking on the
bland proprietors, and when they continued their course, they stopped at the doorway to the joss house.
Nor were these the only persons bound on an inspection tour. In their turn, the two Chinese were being
watched by an American whose manner of gait identified him as a headquarters detective. He peered
through the window of the antique shop; then watched the Chinese ahead. One had gone up to the joss
house, while the other waited below.
Just then, The Shadow had a visitor, whose pounding footsteps announced him. He was a patrolman,
and one of his duties was to try the door against which The Shadow stood.
Looking down into the basement entry, the bluecoat saw nothing unusual. Absolutely immobile, The
Shadow might have been part of the darkened door itself. That was why the patrolman remembered
another, and more pressing, duty. Postponing his trial of the door, he crossed the street and contacted
the plain-clothes man opposite.
While the two were in conversation, The Shadow glided away. The darkness that he left was stirred by
the echoes of a whispered laugh. Well did The Shadow know why certain Chinese were keeping tally on
others, and why the police were checking on both.
Recent crimes - robbery and murder - had shown a distinct Chinese angle, throwing suspicion upon
Chinatown. It didn't please law-abiding Chinese to know that they were under official surveillance. They
were as anxious as the police to learn whom of their compatriots, if any, might be the culprits.
Thus, while honest Chinese were actually luring the police along the proper inspection tour, The Shadow
continued his own.
From Mott Street, he glided into Pell, and looked into numerous places: tea shops, where placid Chinese
let time float by; book stores, where more enterprising Celestials were busy arranging Chinese magazines
on display racks; even into obscure basement restaurants, unlike the showy eating places that attracted
the American trade.
Always, The Shadow was interested in those Chinese who, whether sleepy or wide awake, preferred the
jackets of their native costumes to American style of dress. Somehow, that preference had the effect of a
badge, that marked the jacket wearers as a group unto themselves.
If such were true, the plan was subtle. Oriental tradesmen would naturally wear Chinese garb to attract
the tourist trade. It was simply a case of keeping tabs on all such individuals, to make sure that they
stayed in the stores where they belonged. In doing so, The Shadow noted that more strolling Chinese, all
American-clad, were doing the same.
In the curve of Doyers Street, The Shadow again crossed the path of the sightseeing party. They were
coming from an exit of an old mission, and The Shadow turned back into another basement doorway.
He'd finished his tour of the Chinese shopping district, and his present pause was merely to let the
sightseers go by.
Then the pace of heavy footsteps diverted The Shadow's attention from the tourist party.
Another patrolman was covering the Doyers Street beat. He had more doors to handle, for most of these
shops closed early, and some, like the one in front of which The Shadow was hiding, were empty.
Forgetful of tourists, patrolman, even the murmur of Chinatown itself, The Shadow turned toward the
basement door From the solid blackness representing the cloaked shape in black came muffled, clicking
sounds.
Reaching the door in question, the patrolman came down the steps and thrust his hand into darkness that
looked solid, but no longer was. He tried the door and found it locked.
This time, darkness had swallowed The Shadow, thanks to his deftness with a pick. Using his set of
special tools, he had unlocked the door, gone through, and locked it from the other side, while the
patrolman was making his slow approach.
WHEN The Shadow reappeared, he came from a cellar window opening into a narrow alley. He heard a
rumble and saw the big Chinatown bus go by on a wide street, carrying its passengers back to Times
Square.
Turning into the alley itself, The Shadow was moving back toward the heart of Chinatown, when he came
upon a little side alley nestled between two antiquated brick buildings. The alley was a cul-de-sac; short,
with no outlet. The Shadow observed that fact, and more.
The "more" was this: By the chance light cast from a second-story window, The Shadow saw that the
blind alley terminated in a heavy door which had a metal sheathing. In the door was a small, barred
wicket, slightly more than shoulder high. As The Shadow watched from a darkened corner of the alley,
he saw a crouching Chinaman steal out from beside the wall
The fellow was wearing a Chinese blouse, much like the jackets that so many shopkeepers preferred. He
gave a crafty, slant-eyed look along the alley; failing to see The Shadow, the Chinaman turned his yellow
face toward the wicket and tapped a signal with a quick, darting hand.
Immediately, the wicket opened. Framed in its square, The Shadow saw a face that could be described
as ivory, both in smoothness and beauty. A girl's face, of the matchless sort that belonged in a garden in
Old Peking. The sparkle of dark eyes carrying the tinkle of a fountain; a background of raven hair that
bespoke the perfume of flowers - these were but the complements of her exquisite features.
There was a glitter from jeweled rings as a lovely, graceful hand moved through the bars of the wicket
and thrust a folded paper to the crouching Chinaman. Then, before the man in the blouse could even bow
his thanks, the wicket snapped shut.
Turning, the crouched man started for the opening of the alley; then, on afterthought, he paused to open
the message, reading it by the light that came down from above.
He didn't hear the faint swish that moved toward him. Instead, the Chinaman scowled only because he
couldn't get enough light. He thought his shoulder was blacking it out, and he turned to look up.
Suddenly alarmed, he faced the other way, to see the figure that had really blocked the light. Burning
eyes from beneath the brim of a slouch hat met those of the scowling Chinaman.
The scowl faded into an expression of alarm, as the Chinaman voiced the name that stood for The
Shadow:
"Ying Ko!"
That was all. Black-gloved hands gripped the Chinaman's throat, suppressing further outcry. Deft
pressure on the proper nerve and the Celestial sank, temporarily paralyzed, at The Shadow's feet. The
note fluttered from his hand; The Shadow caught it before it reached the paving.
It was a slip of rice paper, and on it, written in a girl's thin hand, were the English words:
Herbert Dayland. Nine o'clock tonight.
Folding the paper, The Shadow pocketed it; stooping, he lifted the numbed Chinaman across his
shoulder and moved to the mouth of the alley; thence along the through alley, to the street that bordered
Chinatown.
Just within the shelter of darkness, The Shadow paused; producing a tiny flashlight, he blinked it. The
glow was green.
Soon, a taxicab wheeled up. From it stepped two men: Cliff Marsland and Clyde Burke, secret agents of
The Shadow. To them, The Shadow turned over his burden. He used his flashlight, white on this
occasion, to point out the cellar window leading to the empty shop. As the two left, carrying their
prisoner with them, The Shadow blinked another green flash across the street.
A small, furtive man appeared; he might have been a panhandler or a bum, but he was neither. He was
Hawkeye, a most efficient prowler, who spotted doings in obscure neighborhoods and reported them to
his chief, The Shadow. Briefly, The Shadow gave Hawkeye instructions involving a tip-off to the police.
Then, with a swish of the black cloak, The Shadow was in the cab itself and away, so promptly, that
even the sharp eyed spotter blinked in wonderment. Back to the Chinatown alley came The Shadow's
parting token: a whisper laden with grim mirth.
It told that The Shadow, master of justice, was bound on another mission - that of battle with crime!
CHAPTER II. NINE O CLOCK
HERBERT DAYLAND lived well uptown, in a house that had been a show place of the Nineties. He
liked old things, did Dayland, and the house was one of them. He had modernized the place, yet kept
some of its glamour.
The ground floor was a great reception hall, with a huge dining room at the rear; on the second floor was
a living room, a few bedrooms, and a special room that Dayland called his strong room.
On the third floor, more bedrooms, while the servants' quarters occupied the fourth. Of course, there
was a basement, too, furnished with a bar and game room, with a kitchen to the rear. Such was the
house where Herbert Dayland entertained in lavish style, as he was doing on this evening.
There were at least forty guests, so far, and more were arriving in the reception hall. Dayland's half a
dozen servants were not enough, so he had hired more, planning to keep them through the season, since
events like the present party were to be a common thing.
The guests were all in evening clothes, and among the women, daring gowns predominated. Most of
Dayland's friends were from the cafe set, and they liked his parties because he turned his house into a
night club, or its equivalent.
Not that Herbert Dayland was a playboy. He was an elderly man, with thin hair and serious,
heavy-jowled face that occasionally wrinkled itself into a smile.
Dayland had been serious all his life; so serious, that he had acquired several million dollars. In search of
better things, he had spent a fortune on art works and antique jewelry, only to find that possession of the
same did not make life any merrier.
So Dayland had chosen to surround himself with convivial acquaintances, along with friends of old
standing. He hadn't disposed of his art collection; instead, it was all over the house, making the place into
a mammoth picture gallery. His jewels, however, were in the strong room, along with some much-prized
curios. Dayland's jewels were very valuable, particularly his Chinese collection.
Among the early guests was a girl named Margo Lane. Though she belonged to the cafe set, she was
quite different from the rest of the feminine contingent present on this evening. To begin with, Margo was
a brunette, whereas most of the other girls were blondes. Moreover, she was a quiet brunette, friendly,
but with a smile that could be genuine.
Margo listened more than she talked, which made her very popular with people who counted. As for
attire, her evening gown was modish, but neither too revealing nor too garish.
In looks, Margo could more than hold her own, and she gained attention by her manner, not by her
get-up. This was proven by the way the men of the cafe set singled her out when they arrived.
Two such young men were Errol Garvin and Don Feldon, who came in together, and hurried over as
soon as they had checked their top hats with a servant. They met Margo at the bottom of the grand
staircase, under a huge painting of the Roman Coliseum.
Garvin was stocky, and an athletic type. He looked as if he had come from a polo match, which he
hadn't, because this wasn't the season for them. His squarish face and thin, light hair suited the character
of an outdoor man.
Feldon, lighter of build, dark-haired, and with roundish, sallow features, looked like an indoor product;
but such was not the case. His complexion was mostly tan, gained from sailing in Long Island Sound. As
a yachtsman, Feldon had more than average reputation.
The two were going to the game room, and they wanted Margo to join them after they'd had time for a
few drinks, which they agreed, would handicap them sufficiently for a billiard game with Margo, who was
quite adept with the cue.
Margo said she would remember the invitation, so Garvin and Feldon went their way, followed by some
other new arrivals.
Margo was glad of the interruption, for it gave her an excuse for pausing on the stairway until Harry
Vincent arrived; which he did, quite shortly.
HARRY was a clean-cut chap who frequented cafe society but didn't let it throw him. Considering that
both he and Margo were levelheaded, it was odd that they didn't get together more often than they did.
The oddity was explained by a fact that both kept strictly to themselves.
Harry and Margo were working for The Shadow, and parties like Dayland's were a duty with them - the
sort of duty that meant keeping to their separate ways.
Noting Margo glancing at the Coliseum painting, Harry looked the same direction and nodded his
approval.
"A fine painting," he said. "One of the best in Dayland's collection." Then, in an undertone, he added:
"That phone call from Burbank. Chinese trouble, heading here. I'm going to have a look outside. Stay
close to Dayland, particularly after nine o'clock."
Continuing up the stairway, Margo noted a huge clock at the top. It showed twelve minutes of nine.
Knowing that The Shadow had probably gone to Chinatown, Margo could understand why he had
relayed a call through his contact man, Burbank. There wouldn't be time for The Shadow to get to
Dayland's uptown residence before the zero hour of nine.
On the second floor, Margo looked along the hallway. She saw Dayland's strong room, and its door was
open. That wasn't unusual, since all the smaller curios were in the vault, but Dayland always locked the
room, itself, when he threw these big parties.
At the rear of the hall was a stairway which the servants used, and Margo was starting in that direction,
hoping for a look into the strong room as she passed it, when the sound of voices made her turn.
Herbert Dayland was coming from the front living room. With him were two friends of the
jowl-and-paunch variety. One was Louis Walstead, a retired tycoon like Dayland. The other was still in
harness; he was Burton Royce, the celebrated artist, who might have rated half a millionaire, had he
chosen to save his money.
Wheeling quickly on one high heel, Margo began to study the picture gallery in this section of the hallway,
and, as luck had it, she found herself right among the Royces. Dayland had bought at least a dozen
paintings from his artist friend, and they were all on exhibit.
Sprinkled among paintings of modern New York skylines and street scenes were three human studies,
each posed by a different blonde. Royce paused, lifted his heavy eyebrows with interest, as he noted the
contrast between the blondes in the paintings and the pronounced brunette who was surveying his work.
Royce had met Margo, and saw an opportunity to extend the acquaintance.
"How do you like my work, Miss Lane?" he inquired in a purring tone. "The studies from life, I mean."
"I don't know," replied Margo, wrinkling her forehead. "I'm comparing them with the originals that I just
saw downstairs. They don't exactly match the paintings. Of course, they're wearing a few clothes this
evening, but hardly enough to make them look so different."
Royce smiled. Margo was right; his blond models were at Dayland's party. They were among the early
guests who raided the bar immediately upon arrival. Royce had started a model fad among the cafe
crowd that frequented Dayland's and was becoming bored by too many applicants.
"They were sober when I did the paintings," remarked Royce. "That makes a difference, I suppose,
though I must confess" - he eyed his own paintings critically - "that they are too much of a type. I need
contrast in my work." He turned, to scan Margo from head to foot. "You know, Miss Lane, I believe you
could supply it."
Margo gave another glance at the paintings. She was turning to shake her head, when Royce added
pointedly:
"In costume, of course. I said my work needed contrast. I must trend toward another extreme. What I
have in mind might be termed 'A Portrait of a Princess.' Most particularly, I need a model who can
properly display my choice collection of antique jewelry."
Sudden interest showed in Margo's eyes, whereat Royce withdrew his smile and became very serious.
"My collection rates on a par with Dayland's," he declared. "Like Dayland, I have traveled extensively in
China -"
ROYCE was rousing Margo's enthusiasm more rapidly than he had expected; nevertheless, he was
forced to interrupt himself. Both he and Margo turned to see a stocky man, of swarthy complexion, who
had joined the group outside the strong room. Royce was sure that the arrival wasn't a guest, and Margo
could have told him why.
She knew the stocky man; he was Inspector Joe Cardona. Ablest official on the New York police force,
Joe hadn't any spare time to spend learning the fancy ways of society.
Cardona was introducing himself to Dayland, but he wanted the rest to take in what he had to say. He
looked hard at Margo, to make sure she was with Royce. Then, wresting his attention from the paintings,
Cardona swung back to Dayland.
"It's about your Chinese jewelry," said Cardona bluntly. "Those recent robberies had a Chinese angle.
We just had a tip-off that the same might apply here. Where do you keep your jewels, Mr. Dayland?"
"Here in the strong room," returned Dayland, with a gesture. "They're in the vault, of course."
Cardona looked into the strong room, noted that its many curios were heavy. More important, in Joe's
estimate, was the size of the formidable vault door and the strength of the steel-shuttered window. He
turned to Dayland again.
"You're locking the strong room, Mr. Dayland?"
"Not just yet," replied Dayland. "I was going to show the antique jewelry to these friends of mine."
"What about the rest of the party?"
Dayland shook his head.
"I'd include Alexander Marne, of course," he said, "but he phoned to say that he was stopping at a board
meeting and can't be over for a while. I'll leave word downstairs to have Marne shown up, should he
arrive."
"I'll leave the word," announced Cardona. "And while you're in the strong room, keep it locked, Mr.
Dayland. Don't open it until you hear me knock and give the word."
"You mean -"
"I mean just this: the other men who were robbed were murdered, too, Mr. Dayland. Your jewels are
safe enough in the strong room. The best place for you to be is with them."
Dayland saw the logic. He gestured the rest into the strong room. When Margo hesitated, Royce took
her arm and escorted her through the door. She turned, saw Royce throw a heavy latch bolt that securely
locked the door. Then, before Royce could pick up his previous theme, Margo questioned:
"Who is Alexander Marne?"
"Another collector," returned Royce. "Like Dayland, Walstead, and myself. Now, about that portrait,
Miss Lane -"
Margo was looking at Dayland and Walstead. Much alike, facially and in manner, the two friends both
appeared troubled, even if Royce didn't. Perhaps it was because they were both so wealthy, whereas
Royce had spent most of his fortune.
"If you're all in danger," interrupted Margo, speaking to Royce, "perhaps you ought to notify Mr.
Marne."
"He's safe enough at the board meeting," assured Royce. "Let's look at Dayland's jewels, Miss Lane. I
know he would be glad to let you try them on, so we can see the effect. Of course, when you pose for
the portrait, you will wear those from my collection."
"Has Marne been to China, too?" put in Margo. "Like the three of you?"
"Yes," replied Royce, ruffled by the interruption. "That's where we all became acquainted. But I've been
all through the Orient, Miss Lane. I'm not picturing you as a Chinese princess. Rather, I would choose as
our locale -"
This time, Margo's interruption was a breathless gasp. Dayland had opened the vault and taken out a
large teakwood container. Opened on a taboret between two golden Chinese screens, the coffer
disgorged the most glorious glitter that Margo had ever seen. The Chinese gems were large, magnificent -
and Royce, pleased by Margo's enthusiasm, moved her forward to the taboret.
"Suppose we hear Miss Lane's comments," Royce suggested to Dayland and Walstead. "We have seen
these baubles before; this is her first view of them. Her reactions will prove more interesting than ours.
ROYCE was wrong. The real reactions were to come from himself and the other men, as much as
Margo. But the gems were not to be the only cause. First token that the strong room had other visitors
came when the two golden screens crashed to the floor.
Devil screens, they were, the sort that Chinese used to block doorways and keep out wayward demons.
These screens, however, were behaving in reverse. Until they crashed, they were hiding places for fiends
in human form.
Turning about, the group at the jewel coffer saw two leering faces that glistened yellow in the light.
Each invader had narrow-slitted eyes beneath jet-black hair. Both were wearing the native jackets so
common in Chinatown. Their backs to the light, they were keeping their faces obscure, as though hoping
to hide the fact that they were Chinese. But they weren't concealing the revolvers jutting from their fists.
The cold steel of the gun muzzles had a glitter all its own, that out-vied the sparkling jewels. For it told,
that glint, that the owners of the guns intended to own Dayland's gems, too.
Nine o'clock had come, and with the hour crime had struck, in keeping with The Shadow's warning.
Crime had begun, however, in the last place where it was expected: within the very walls of Dayland's
strong room!
CHAPTER III. MEN OF MURDER
GESTURED back by the motions of pointed guns. Margo Lane found herself in a corner where a screen
had been. Burton Royce was close beside her, and his face was very grim. In the other corner were
Herbert Dayland and Louis Walstead, their faces, hitherto similar, forming a distinct contrast.
Dayland's heavy features were set with determination, whereas Walstead's were thoroughly imbued with
fright. The reason for the difference was simple enough: these were Dayland's jewels in the coffer; not
Walstead's. Both men had lived to acquire wealth, and considered the two things inseparable.
Hence, Dayland could think of risking life when he saw a portion of his wealth departing; whereas
Walstead, his own possessions quite safe elsewhere, was worried for fear he might not live to enjoy
further the thing he owned.
Watching the armed robbers, Margo was impressed by the ways of the Chinese. She was sure that she
could never pick those two leering faces out of a thousand other yellow countenances, should she be
asked to do so.
To Margo, all Chinese looked alike; and she had heard that, to them, all Americans appeared identical.
Which explained, of course, why they were keeping crouched and throwing their glances upward. They
were thinking, in their way, that their ugly faces might be remembered.
Perhaps they would be, by Dayland or Royce. Noting Dayland's determination, and Royce's grimness,
Margo realized that these two men, through long sojourns in the Orient, might be capable of distinguishing
between strange Chinese. Margo couldn't count Walstead in with the others; though qualified, he was too
scared to remember anything.
Guns still wagging, the Chinese were half bowed over the coffer, scooping out its loose contents. Jewels
in shimmering showers slid from yellow fingers into pockets somewhere beneath the baggy blouses the
Chinese wore. Then, with the coffer emptied of wealth representing many thousands of dollars, the
leering robbers backed away to the center of the room.
Instead of showing their faces when they reached the light, they turned and scrambled for the door, each
racing to be the first to open it The man who grasped the knob, tugged at it. The door wouldn't open
because of the latch bolt. The second Chinaman, about to turn and wag his gun at the people in their
corners, became excited and snatched at the bolt.
Both were babbling Chinese words that Dayland and Royce understood. Exchanging quick glances, the
two Americans nodded. From the conversation, they knew that the Chinese were too busy with the door
to bother about anything else. With mutual accord, Dayland and Royce drove forward.
The opportunity ended as suddenly as it had begun. The Chinese couldn't have timed the thing better, had
they tried deliberately. They solved the business of the bolt just as the charge began, and as they whipped
the door open to squirm through, they turned, remembering that they might be open to a rear attack.
Walstead gave a frantic bleat, and Margo, from her corner, could not withhold a genuine scream. Of the
two who heard the warning, Dayland was too maddened to heed it. He bore down on the door like a
wild bull, even to his bellows.
Royce, however, was more calculating. Realizing he needed a weapon, he stopped in his tracks, made a
quick turn and grabbed the taboret, tumbling the empty coffer from it.
Two guns clicked just as Royce grabbed the taboret. Hard on those hits of hammers against empty
chambers came new tugs of triggers. This time, the guns blasted in unison, and their target was Dayland,
who had just reached the doorway through which the Chinese had gone.
The Chinese couldn't have aimed at anyone else, for Dayland blocked their path of aim entirely. Not for
long, however. Receiving the shots, Dayland stumbled and landed face down, just beyond the doorway.
Royce was springing forward, wielding the taboret by one leg. Margo grabbed up the coffer, thinking it
would do as a missile to back up Royce's bludgeon. Walstead was lifting a screen, not to serve as an
item of attack but as a shelter behind which he could hide.
None could see the Chinese out in the well-lighted hall, because the two killers had jumped apart to
avoid the plunge of Dayland's body.
Then, in from the hallway, darted a yellow hand, followed by a jacketed arm and shoulder. It was a left
hand, and it didn't have a gun.
Royce made a great swing with the taboret, hoping to sledge the Chinaman before he could pull from his
huddle and bring his gun into play. If the Chinaman had tried just that, Royce would have felled him.
Instead, the crouching Celestial staged a different trick. He yanked the door shut, to block off pursuit. He
guessed, of course, that it would latch, thus giving Royce trouble with the bolt. Royce smashed the
taboret against the door, and Margo scored a flying hit with the coffer.
Both cudgel and missile were too late to reach the dodging Chinaman, and, by rights, they should have
served him by helping slam the door. Instead, the door bounced back.
摘要：

THEJADEDRAGONMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI?CHAPTERII.NINEOCLOCK?CHAPTERIII.MENOFMURDER?CHAPTERIV.VANISHEDBATTLERS?CHAPTERV.DR.TAMEXPLAINS?CHAPTERVI.BEYONDTHEDOOR?CHAPTERVII.DOUBLESTRATEGY?CHAPTERVIII.OUTOFCHINATOWN?CHAPTERIX.THEDRAGONSMEET?CHAPTE...

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