Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 291 - Teardrops of Buddha

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TEAR-DROPS OF BUDDHA
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," May 1945.
A fantastic smuggling scheme involves The Shadow in his most dangerous
assignment - to solve the secret of twelve, glowing tears!
CHAPTER I
THE clerk at the Hotel Argonne shook his head.
"Sorry, no more rooms."
Ted Trent turned and looked at the triple line of bags that flooded the
center of the lobby. Then he took another look for Cecil Grenshaw. No matter
how much the clerk might mean it, Grenshaw was the sort who could make him
change his mind.
Fixing such matters had been Grenshaw's specialty in the Orient; he
certainly shouldn't have lost his touch in New York.
Just then Ted saw Grenshaw, turning from the hat-check room just outside
the entrance to the cafe lounge - Grenshaw, with his florid face, his
pince-nez
glasses with their gold chain, and the gray hat and coat that Ted had last
seen
him wearing in Sydney, Australia.
Grenshaw - except that his manner was hasty and nervous, which didn't fit
with Grenshaw at all. He was sliding something into an envelope, which he
sealed as he came toward Ted, and with every step, the florid man darted
quick,
furtive glances back and forth across the lobby.
In fact, Grenshaw didn't see Ted at all until he bumped right into him;
then, in response to the shoulder-clap that Ted gave him, Grenshaw almost
caved. His face took on an apoplectic expression that caused Ted to grab him
with a pair of brawny, steadying hands.
"You're all right, Mr. Grenshaw?"
Then, as the man steadied, Ted added:
"You remember me, don't you? Ted Trent, the second mate on the Bohemia?
I'm the fellow who helped get the crew together and unload that shipment, down
in Sydney."
Grenshaw's wits were coming back. He recognized Ted's broad, tanned face
with the friendly grin that made those features rugged rather than rough;
handsome in a weatherbeaten way. Ted's eyes, too, had an honest look that
Grenshaw recalled.
"Yes, I remember you," said Grenshaw. "Only you were in the merchant
marine when I saw you last. Now that you aren't in uniform -"
He hesitated, only to see Ted's smile remain.
"I'm only waiting my chance for a skipper's berth," explained Ted.
"Things
broke my way faster than I expected, including my getting back to old New
York.
Remember how I laughed when you said I'd find you at the Hotel Argonne - and I
said when, about five years from now?"
It was Grenshaw's turn to smile.
"Well, here I am," continued Ted, "all inside a couple of months. But
there's something else" - Ted's face went serious, but with a dash of pretence
- "and that's the promise you made. You said if there was anything I really
needed, I could always call on you."
Holding the letter in one hand, Grenshaw reached for his wallet with the
other. Ted smiled and shook his head.
"I have money," Ted said. "I want something it won't buy. I want a hotel
room, if your influence can get one for me."
A strangely calculating expression crept over Grenshaw's face. He began
to
chuckle in that rich, but easy style which had made Ted like him when they
first
met. Drawing Ted aside, Grenshaw gave another quick look around. Then:
"They won't let you transfer rooms," confided Grenshaw. "Not with all the
reservations they've taken. It happens, though, that I've been called out of
town. This letter" - he gestured the envelope - "is to a friend of mine,
explaining it. Now if you'd like my room -"
"Would I!"
"Only you'll have to keep it in my name," continued Grenshaw, riding over
Ted's interruption. "Don't let the hotel know the difference. Now here's the
key -"
Producing the key, Grenshaw started toward the elevator with Ted; then he
apparently decided that the subterfuge might be detected if he and his
substitute appeared too openly together. Again, those furtive glances that Ted
didn't quite understand. Then Grenshaw looked eagerly at the mail-chute which
was too conspicuously near the elevator.
Like a man making a momentous decision, Grenshaw thrust the letter into
Ted's hand with the room key, and put urgency into his tone:
"Be sure to mail this letter immediately when you get off at the fourth
floor. You'll find the mail-chute right by the elevator. It's highly
important,
so don't neglect it. By the way, I'm leaving most of my luggage in 408 but
don't
worry; I'll let you know where to send it."
With that, Grenshaw was on his way out through the lobby, dodging the
stacked suitcases as he hurried toward the door. Puzzling over Grenshaw's
haste, Ted entered a waiting elevator and rode up to the fourth floor. There
he
remembered to mail the letter and in looking to see if Grenshaw had applied a
stamp Ted saw that the envelope was addressed to one Niles Naseby, Valdemar
Apartments, New York City.
Who Naseby was, Ted neither knew or cared. He was more interested in the
rare gift he had received, a hotel room in visitor-packed Manhattan. When he
put the key in the lock it wouldn't turn the proper direction.
It was unlocked.
So quickly did Ted open the door that he caught the girl flat-footed on
the threshold. Evidently she'd intended to hurry from the room; then hearing a
key in the lock, had turned to hide somewhere. At least that was Ted's first
impression. Then the girl smiled.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she exclaimed. Then, her eyes large and frank with
inquiry: "You're Mr. Grenshaw?"
Ted nodded slowly, so the girl wouldn't grasp the fact that he had
hesitated.
"I knocked, but no one answered," the girl continued. "So I came in,
thinking I could leave these tickets on the writing desk." Fumbling, the girl
brought a small envelope from her hand-bag. "They're for the Masked Ball down
in the Village. A friend of yours sent them."
The girl stepped back into the lights of the room. She changed the
subject
with a quick gesture.
"When I saw the room," she added, "I was afraid you might blame me. So I
just thought I'd leave -"
Ted had forgotten the room because of the girl. He found that he liked
blondes, though he hadn't known it. This one was different, because of her
eyes. Like most blondes, and like Ted himself, she had blue eyes. Probably it
was the way blondes stared that had caused Ted's prejudice against them. Blue
eyes didn't have the soulful touch that tapped Ted's responsive chord. They
needed something else - like the frankness of Ted's own gaze - and this girl's
eyes had it.
"About the room." Still gesturing, the girl was watching Ted. "It was
like
this when I found it. Who disturbed it, I don't know! Only they - well, I'd
say
they -"
"I'd say they did a good job," supplied Ted coolly, as he studied the
room
for the first time. The luggage that Grenshaw had mentioned was plentiful, and
its contents strewn everywhere. "Yes," added Ted, "a very good job."
Shirts, suits, socks and shoes weren't all that had been tossed around.
Papers were flung all over the floor; books were lying about wide open, with
no
regard for their expensive bindings. Nor had they stopped with Grenshaw's
belongings; cushions were missing from chairs; drawers had been yanked from
bureaus; sheets, blankets, pillows ripped off the bed where they belonged.
Ted looked at the girl, who had stepped between him and the door. She
placed the little ticket envelope in his hand, watching him with those same
frank eyes. With the light still on her face, Ted was liking it still more. It
was a round face, with the slightly saucy upturn of the nose discounted by the
earnest lips above the firm chin.
"Honestly, Mr. Grenshaw -"
"Honestly, I'm not Mr. Grenshaw," interposed Ted, deciding that one dash
of truth might lead to more. "I'm Ted Trent, a friend of his. And your name is
-"
Ted put a questioning rise to his tone in hope it would bring a
spontaneous result. It did, though not the sort he expected. Clutching Ted's
arm suddenly, the girl pointed past him and exclaimed:
"Look out, behind you, Mr. Trent!"
Wheeling, Ted saw a rustle of window curtains in the far corner of the
room. Though the light wasn't too strong there, he could have sworn he caught
the glint of a revolver muzzle pulling instantly from sight.
Ted circled the room, following a wall that the muzzle couldn't cover. He
picked up a light chair that the ransackers had carelessly left undisturbed
and
flipped it so the legs extended in front of him. It was an old animal tamer's
stunt, but it could be used for repelling boarders as Ted proved when he
stabbed the chair-legs through the curtain.
Any hapless gunner would have found his hands full keeping himself from
going out the open window; but there wasn't any gunner. A warm, drizzly breeze
swept Ted's face as he lurched half through the window, chair first.
Ted hauled back and looked along the outside ledge. It was very dark at
the corner, enough to have hidden anyone who might be rounding it. Only a
floor
below was a roof to which an intruder could have dropped and with a chimney
and
some ventilators forming dim but huddled objects in the gloom, Ted realized it
would be impossible to pick out a human figure.
And from the way the wind flipped the drapes as Ted drew back, he began
to
think the whole thing might have been imagination. The wind blew draftily. Ted
heard a door slam behind him and turned quickly.
The blonde, who had started Ted after an imaginary intruder, was gone. So
neat and prompt was her departure that Ted was sure she'd completely hoaxed
him.
But it was the wind, not the girl who had slammed the door, for when Ted
Trent reached the corridor, he heard the distant clang of a closing elevator.
CHAPTER II
IF Ted Trent had wanted to take up an adventurous trail, he should have
followed Cecil Grenshaw, who was unquestionably the focal factor in the whole
situation.
How far Ted could have carried such a trail was another question. Others
were already having trouble with it.
Two muffled men, dressed in turned-up raincoats and dark hats, were hard
on Grenshaw's heels as soon as he left the Hotel Argonne. All the while that
things were happening up in room 408, Grenshaw and those unwanted hangers-on
were skirting the adjacent blocks.
Grenshaw was looking for a cab, but on a night like this, they were
almost
as scarce as hotel rooms.
A cab would have been a boon to Grenshaw, for with quick work and a clean
take-off, he could have shaken his trailers.
Bundling his coat, the hunted man tightened his grip on a walking stick
and took to an alleyway. With surprising agility, he made a sharp turn to the
left and ducked into the shelter of some old-fashioned steps where he waited
with lifted cane.
The two men arrived on the quick, took a look toward the nearby corner
and
headed that direction. Out from the steps, Grenshaw reversed his course
through
the alley and reached the original street. By then his pursuers were coming
back along their street, searching without success. After a brief conference
held in low, guttural tones, they took a route leading to a building in back
of
the Hotel Argonne.
There, a figure dropped suddenly to meet them. He was a man in a dark
jersey, a cap pulled down over his eyes; a type of character who many years
ago
was the reason why people never went to the Bowery. But from his talk, it was
plain that far from being a throw-back to the bad old days, this individual's
appearance was purely coincidental.
His garb, in a sense, had more of the Alpine touch, considering that he
had just completed a descent from a hotel ledge to a roof and thence downward
by windows. His accent, too, was European, though its exact nationality was
smothered.
"Grenshaw is gone," the man reported. "He has given the room to a friend
named Trent."
"You searched the room?"
"I did not have to. A girl was there - she did not name herself and I
watched her look all."
The other men took it that she hadn't found anything. They muttered some
unkind words about Grenshaw, then separated and went their way, after the man
in the jersey slipped a revolver to one of his less suspicious-looking
friends.
That gun muzzle at the window curtain hadn't been a product of Ted
Trent's
imagination!
A few blocks away, Cecil Grenshaw had luckily found a cab. Riding to
another part of town, he alighted in front of a small restaurant that included
a dozen tables, a bar, and a large back room where Grenshaw didn't go.
This place, called The Cave, was a front for a horse parlor which
occupied
the back room. Nodding to the bartender, he casually ordered a drink and
glanced
around as though he knew the place quite well.
There were very few customers, so few that the one waiter took time out
to
make a phone call from a booth at the rear. After the booth was vacated,
Grenshaw went there and pondered a few moments; then he let his florid face
relax into a smile.
Grenshaw's own experience with Ted; the chance meeting with a former
acquaintance who had looked him up, gave him the idea that he could do the
same.
Dialing the number of the exclusive Cobalt Club, Grenshaw asked for a
member named Lamont Cranston and soon had him on the phone.
"Hello, Mr. Cranston," drawled Grenshaw. "I don't suppose you'd remember
Cecil Grenshaw, from Calcutta... What's that? You recognize my voice? Well,
well..."
Going off into his most affable chuckle, Grenshaw finally rallied and
became serious.
"I'm finding a bit of trouble, you know," Grenshaw confided. "A silly
notion, perhaps, but I fancy I'm being followed... What's that? No, no... I've
gotten all over those jitters I had at the time of the Calcutta riots...
"Been through worse things since... Burma... Singapore... What's that?"
In
the peculiar light of the phone booth, Grenshaw's face became a distinct
purple.
Then, forced through his teeth, came that indulgent chuckle of his: "Did you
say
Bildapore? No, I've been staying quite away from those troublesome native
states...
"Yes, quite a mess, the death of the ex-rajah... If he could be called
the
rajah at all... No, I was down in Ceylon when it happened... Gem-trading?"
Again
that chuckle, but less forced. "Impossible in these times, old chap..."
With that dismissal, Grenshaw again lowered his voice in confidential
style, reverting to his original theme:
"About this bit of trouble... I'm in a little pub called The Cave... Hate
to leave here alone, you know" - Grenshaw gave a tap with his heavy-headed
walking stick - "even though I'm carrying my Penang Lawyer... The police?
Well,
yes, I might inform them, only -"
Halting with a trace of reticence over what might merely be a false
alarm,
Grenshaw immediately registered pleasure. His old acquaintance Cranston was
announcing in calm style, that he would drop by at The Cave within the next
quarter hour. Ebullient with thanks, Grenshaw finished the call and hung up.
Scarcely out of the phone booth, Grenshaw became a changed man. Swelling
with fresh bombast, he gazed contemptuously at the few seedy customers, rapped
the bar with his big-headed cane, and called for another double brandy.
Immediately after swallowing the drink, Grenshaw's expression became shrewd,
and he revealed his full mood with an artful glance toward the phone booth.
Grenshaw was wondering now why be had told so much to Cranston; or
rather,
why he had let Cranston put those leading questions to which answers would be
expected in return for coming favors.
Grenshaw was cunning at playing a game two ways. He'd demonstrated it
with
Ted Trent; he could do the same with Lamont Cranston, more conservatively of
course. Things looked safe here at The Cave, with no followers in sight. Since
he expected Cranston shortly, why couldn't he use this obliging friend as a
sort of rear guard against possible trouble?
Such was the question obviously in Grenshaw's mind when he scrawled
something on a slip of paper, summoned the sad looking waiter and gave him the
message along with a dollar bill.
"If somebody asks for Mr. Grenshaw, give him this," ordered Grenshaw.
"Only first make sure his name is Mr. Cranston. Keep an eye for him."
The waiter nodded as he watched Grenshaw stride pompously from the little
cafe. He kept watching in case the man came hurrying back. But Grenshaw
evidently found the drizzle to his liking, for he didn't return and when a few
minutes had passed, the waiter sidled into the phone booth, as he had when
Grenshaw first arrived.
From his pocket the waiter drew two slips of paper; one bore the phone
number that he had called before; he was using the slip for reference again.
By
the time a gruff voice answered, the waiter had Grenshaw's slip open and
ready.
"It's Johnny," the waiter informed, "Over at The Cave. The guy just went
out."
"Yeah?" The gruff voice became sharp. "Where?"
"To the Black Star Pier," informed Johnny, reading from Grenshaw's slip.
"Entrance D."
"He told you?"
"Gave me a note for a friend who's coming here -"
"How soon?"
"In about ten minutes."
A laugh as confident as it was ugly, was the only response to Johnny's
words. It terminated the conversation for there was a sharp click of the other
receiver. Johnny's sad eyes went blank; then turned troubled. He resolved to
say nothing further, as his tight lips indicated.
Johnny the waiter hadn't yet seen the man who was going to make him talk.
At ten minutes to the dot, a tall stranger sauntered into The Cave and
glanced casually about. Johnny guessed that this was Mr. Cranston and
immediately busied himself at clearing off a corner table, hoping the arrival
would sit down elsewhere or patronize the bar.
It happened that Grenshaw's absence was something demanding immediate
explanation where Cranston was concerned. Though placid in their gaze,
Cranston's eyes were the sort that looked for clues automatically and Johnny's
turn-away was therefore comparable to the hiding tactics of an ostrich.
Before the waiter could sidle toward the kitchen, a hand tapped his
shoulder; turning, Johnny was face to face with the impassive features of
Cranston.
Those masklike features accentuated the steady eyes that covered the
waiter with a hypnotic punch. As calm as Cranston's face was the even tone
that
came from his straight lips:
"You have a message for me -"
Gulping, Johnny fished for it, found the wrong pocket, and made a quick
shift to give Cranston Grenshaw's paper. Unfolding the sheet with one hand,
lifting it to eye level, Cranston read it without apparently taking his eyes
from Johnny. Then:
"The other paper."
Johnny gave. He'd betrayed himself by that fumble. An odd burn came to
Cranston's eyes as he read the phone number. He spoke again, his words
accusing, even though they showed no change of tone.
"You called this number -"
"Yeah." Johnny gave a nervous nod. "They said the guy owed money, that
was
all. He'd been here and I was to pass the word if he showed again. They didn't
say nothing more -"
Wrenching his eyes from the terrifying gaze, Johnny spilled dishes with
his nervous hands. Trying to gather his wits as he fumbled with the tableware,
the waiter protested hoarsely:
"I wouldn't have told them where Grenshaw was going if I'd figured it
meant trouble for him. I said he'd left a message, only I didn't say who for.
The guy at the other end hung up on me and I didn't like the way he did it. I
won't say no more, not to nobody -"
The few patrons in the place were staring at Johnny, wondering why the
waiter was talking to himself. Johnny looked up, met their stares with
blinking
eyes. It wasn't that Johnny was talking to himself; he was simply talking to
thin air. Johnny's listener had gone.
Outside The Cave, Lamont Cranston slid his arms into a black cloak; then
he pulled a flexible slouch hat on his head and merged with the darkness of
the
drizzle.
Lamont Cranston had become his other self, The Shadow!
CHAPTER III
IF that old feeling of confidence hadn't so stirred Cecil Grenshaw, he
wouldn't have walked head on into disaster.
Picking the Black Star Pier as a place for a meeting that he didn't
intend
to keep, was Grenshaw's notion of an inspiration. Fundamentally, Grenshaw
shouldn't even have heard of the Black Star Pier, let alone know where it was
located.
It happened, however, that Grenshaw did know about this pier; that he'd
seen it from a cab while riding the express highway. He'd also noted its
dilapidated condition, the deserted status of the neighborhood, which wasn't
surprising since only a few ships had used this pier in the last half-dozen
years.
One ship in particular that wasn't named the Bohemia, a fact that brought
another short laugh from Grenshaw's scoffing lips.
It was just another example of this man's liking for the double twist;
never just a single arrow for the bow, nor a lone wing for the bird.
Here, in sheltering darkness, Grenshaw could watch the patchy, gray, pier
front. If figures appeared there, which was totally unlikely, he'd simply stay
where he was and let Cranston walk into trouble.
Not too much trouble, of course, because Grenshaw wasn't entirely the
cad.
He'd just love to strike about with the big head of his cane, provided the
opposition wasn't too formidable. Memories of places like Rangoon, Macao and
Madras were sweeping Grenshaw's mind as he weighed the big stick that he'd
bought in Penang where it was termed a 'lawyer' because it was used for
settling all arguments.
Yes, Grenshaw had been in tougher spots than any New York could furnish -
or so he thought.
Ten minutes more and Grenshaw would drift away from this forlorn pier,
letting Cranston arrive to survey so vacant a scene that he'd think he had
been
hoaxed. That would be all the better, because it would cover up Grenshaw's
brief
indiscretion in mentioning certain facts over the telephone.
Fear could loose men's tongues, and Grenshaw, egotist though he was,
reluctantly admitted that he was no exception. Fear, he assured himself, was
the twin of caution, and with that bit of philosophy, Grenshaw stepped back
deeper into the sheltering doorway he had chosen as a temporary observation
post.
There, Grenshaw's terrors were realized beyond his imagination.
An arm crooked savagely around his neck; hands snatched the Penang lawyer
from his grip. He was pulled roughly through a creaking door and planted in a
chair so hard that it cracked under him. The door slammed sharply, a rusted
bolt grated, and Grenshaw was isolated in an office of the old pier, under the
control of three captors who meant business.
They were the same three who had lost Grenshaw's trail before he headed
for The Cave!
From behind the flashlight that locked Grenshaw's face and showed every
detail that registered there, there came a raspy voice that summarized the
prisoner's plight.
"You walked into it, Grenshaw," the voice said. "You couldn't have picked
a better spot. The boss gets two calls and we check in right after the second.
We were nearer to this pier than you were. Get it?"
Grenshaw got it and nodded as far as the choking arm would allow him.
"They aren't in your hotel room," the voice continued. "So either you've
got them or you gave them to somebody. Which?"
The arm relaxed so that Grenshaw could answer. His words came in gulps:
"Gave - what?"
A snarl accompanied the arm that tightened cruelly at Grenshaw's efforts
to stall. Then other hands were digging into Grenshaw's pockets, probing the
lining of his coat, tapping the heels of his shoes to see if they were solid.
One hand came into the light, carrying Grenshaw's thick, old-fashioned watch.
A
smash and the time-piece broke apart, scattering its works. Grenshaw's purple
face paled. These fellows knew what they were after.
"Big enough to hold the jewels," a voice sneered, referring to the watch
case. "Only they aren't in it. Who has them, Grenshaw?"
"Has - what?"
This time the stall didn't even bring a laugh. A finger moved forward in
the light, reached Grenshaw's forehead and began to flick away the beads of
sweat that were swelling on Grenshaw's brow.
"Kind of like tear-drops, Grenshaw," scoffed the voice. "That's what
we're
looking for: tear-drops, twelve of them. That's all. We're not hurting
anybody,
provided that we get them."
So pointed was the statement that Grenshaw took it at face value. He
glanced shrewdly at his captors. If they'd known his proclivity for playing a
game within a game, these men might have doubted Grenshaw's spontaneous
response. Instead, they took him at his word.
"Naseby has them," Grenshaw gulped. "Niles Naseby has the teardrops. If
you don't know who Naseby is -"
"We know, all right," came the sharp interruption, "and if you didn't
mean
it, you wouldn't have mentioned Naseby. Or would you?"
Before Grenshaw could reply, he was interrupted. At a gesture of one
man's
hand, another swung Grenshaw's own cane against the base of the prisoner's
skull. The power of the Penang Lawyer demonstrated itself with that impact.
Prosecutor, judge, jury, all in one, it decreed death and executed the
sentence
simultaneously.
Forward, backward, then Grenshaw's head was flopping from side to side as
the three men gathered their lifeless burden and lugged it out through another
door, leading to the pier itself.
Nor did they stop when they reached the pier end.
Three men of murder shoved off in a clumsy row-boat that was waiting
there, taking their victim with them. There were muffled, clanky sounds of
lead
and iron weights, as they were hitched to Grenshaw's body. Then, from
somewhere
past the pier end came a splash that was barely louder than that of an oar.
Silence after that. The boat was drifting, not down stream but up, for
the
tide was coming in from the bay. Out in the drizzly blackness, the boat and
its
load of killers was blotted as effectively as the corpse that they had
consigned to the Hudson.
It was fortunate for that ghoulish crew that the night was pitch-black
and
that the tide was carrying them. Grenshaw's time limit had passed, the
difference that he had allotted for Cranston's arrival at the pier. If
Grenshaw
had either stalled longer or doubted the word of the men who claimed they were
seeking twelve mysterious tear-drops, but without intent to kill!
Neither by sight nor sound could a cloaked arrival called The Shadow gain
an immediate clue to those departing slayers, but his technique at picking up
leads was rapid. Smudges on a grimy pane indicated that someone had used the
office door as a peephole; a flashlight, which The Shadow pointed through the
glass, produced a glitter from the scattered works of Grenshaw's smashed
watch.
The door on the far side, unbolted, gave the route by which Grenshaw's
assassins had left the office. By simply breaking the grimy pane of the near
door, The Shadow could have drawn the bolt and found a clear course through;
but that wasn't necessary. Gliding away, the cloaked figure made a rapid
detour
around the bulky building and out on the pier itself.
It was The Shadow's foresight that caused him to leave certain evidence
as
it was, on the chance that such evidence would be proper for the police to
investigate. His foresight was proved when The Shadow reached the pier end.
There, the slap-slap from the incoming tide was broken only by a rattly
scrape,
so slight that it would have escaped ears less tuned to trifling sounds.
Licking downward, The Shadow's flashlight found the offending object that
was clattering against the pilings. It was the very object that The Shadow
expected to see and from his unseen lips came a solemn, whispered laugh;
mirthless in its regret for a man whose death was his own fault, yet whose
life
The Shadow had hoped to save: Cecil Grenshaw.
The thing that was bobbing in the water was a bulbous-headed cane, the
type termed a Penang Lawyer.
CHAPTER IV
TED TRENT signed his name to the fancy guest card that bore the title
"Casino Monaco" and decided it would do. The card was about the only thing
that
Ted had found that might prove a lead to Cecil Grenshaw, the man who hadn't
returned.
Not that Ted expected Grenshaw to return - as yet.
It was only about twenty-four hours since Grenshaw had invited Ted to
take
over his room and the man from Sydney and other points East had specified that
he might not be back for a while. But considering how Grenshaw's room had been
ransacked and adding to that the presence - and departure - of the very
mysterious blonde, Ted felt definitely that he ought to have some sort of a
report for his benefactor.
Besides, Ted hadn't forgotten the waving curtain and the distinct
impression of a gun muzzle sliding behind it. If enemies were gunning for
Grenshaw, it might be Ted's general business to find out who they were.
So the blank card, all numbered but lacking a name, seemed like a good
bet
for Ted's initial quest. If it didn't work out, he could use the tickets to
the
Masked Ball. Ted still had the envelope that the girl had given him and on it
was a printed advertisement of the Kit-Kat Costume Shop, offering suitable
outfits for the Bal Masque, with the added information that the shop stayed
open until eight o'clock.
And besides, there was that letter that Ted had mailed. He remembered the
name of the addressee: Niles Naseby, Valdemar Apartments. If it became too
tough, pinch-hitting for Grenshaw, Ted could take up the matter with Mr.
Naseby.
At the present, which was six o'clock, a trip to the Casino Monaco was in
order.
Finding the Casino Monaco proved easy. The place was simply another joint
along Night Club Row, but apparently something of a newcomer. From the moment
that he entered its rococo preserves, Ted sensed that the place was aptly
named. It reminded him of a place he'd visited while in the merchant marine:
the casino at Monte Carlo.
Not that the Casino Monaco looked like a gambling hall, but neither had
the preserves at Monte Carlo, until you entered the gaming room. They looked
like a "front" and so did this, with a peculiar and almost nostalgic
similarity.
The people helped the analogy, not just in the polite way that they bowed
around the bar, but by their foreign appearance. The waiters were really too
polite, giving that hush-hush effect of something upstairs that everyone was
supposed to know about and visit before departure.
Here, however, people didn't chat about their wins and losses, whereas at
Monte Carlo, they did.
There was a little talk, though, about a certain gentleman known as Count
Zurich. At intervals, Ted caught the first name 'Bela' and took it to be the
Count's. Not that Ted was any master at the art of deduction; he was simply
checking the signature on his guest card, a very imposing scrawl with
elaborately exaggerated letters that under repeated study and the aid of a few
brandies, writhed themselves into something that could be spelled 'Bela
Zurich'.
Meeting Count Bela Zurich was the next step. How to manage it was the
problem.
Ted's guest card had stood the test so far, but it might not do to strain
it. If you rendered yourself too conspicuous about the gaudy Casino Monaco,
with its gilt walls and lavish dining rooms, you might get bounced without
benefit of meeting the proprietor.
Count Zurich was probably on the second floor, somewhere past the doorway
that barred the top of the imposing marble stairs that Ted kept watching until
he began to fear that he might be attracting notice by that very process.
Ted went to a table and ordered dinner, forgetting the stairway except at
those occasional intervals when somebody went up or down.
Ted would have profited by looking elsewhere.
Straight across from Ted's table was a man with a calm, steady face that
scarcely flickered a change of expression. He happened to be an acquaintance
of
Grenshaw, but one who knew far more than Ted, regarding what might have
happened
to their mutual friend.
The man at the other table was Lamont Cranston.
Somehow, Cranston had a way of not being noticed when he so chose. This
was one of those times; for in gazing at Cranston, Ted practically looked
right
through him.
Of course, Ted had other matters on his mind. But when they dispelled, it
wasn't Cranston who scattered them.
摘要：

TEAR-DROPSOFBUDDHAbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"May1945.AfantasticsmugglingschemeinvolvesTheShadowinhismostdangerousassignment-tosolvethesecretoftwelve,glowingtears!CHAPTERITHEclerkattheHotelArgonneshookhishead."Sorry,nomorerooms."TedTrentturnedandlookedatthetriplelineofba...

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