Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 283 - The Chest of Chu-Chan

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THE CHEST OF CHU CHAN

by Maxwell Grant

As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," September 1944.

Mad murder! And a body in a locked chest pierced by the priceless Burmese

katar! Can a mere statue of a beautiful Siamese dancer come to life? A

pulsing,

dramatic climax gives The Shadow his startling answer.

CHAPTER I

JARED SHEBLEY leaned back in his teak-wood chair and toyed with the

Burmese

katar. His crisp smile, slicing across his parchment face, would have suited

Oriental potentate more than a New York curio collector.

Shebley's surroundings were in keeping with his appearance.

This was his curio room, the pride of his Manhattan penthouse. Its walls

were adorned with tall, narrow tapestries, woven mostly in gold and silver,

set

alternately between the glass-fronted cabinets that housed the rarities

comprising Shebley's collection.

It would have required a sizable pamphlet to describe those items. In

fact,

such a pamphlet was already in the making; the proof sheets were scattered all

over the chess table which Shebley used as a desk. The table itself, a bulky

and

elaborate affair inlaid with squares of black and white mother-of-pearl, was

one

of Shebley's chief prizes. It was supposed to be the table on which a Persian

prince had been maneuvering his men when he was captured, along with his royal

tent, by Hulagu, the Mongolian invader operating under the banner of Genghis

Khan.

As with most of Shebley's curios, the authenticity of this number was a

matter of some doubt, but not to Shebley. He believed it to be the genuine

article, and the only thing that bothered him was what Hulagu had done with

the

chessmen that belonged with it. Shebley would be very unhappy if some day that

ancient chess set showed up in the possession of another eccentric collector.

What bothered Professor Giles Frescott was the way in which Shebley toyed

with the Burmese katar.

No weapon more insidious could have been imagined, let alone fashioned,

than this royal katar or Oriental thrusting dagger. As he studied it across

the

chess table, Professor Frescott lost some of the benign expression that

usually

characterized his broad, elderly features. His eyes narrowed under his thin

gray

brows, though whether through suspicion or envy, he didn't declare.

With all his genial ways, Frescott mistrusted collectors as a whole,

perhaps because he recognized that he, too, had the basic urge to lay his

hands

upon rare items and hold them. But as curator of the Museum of Antiquities,

the

noted professor had managed to curb his secret desires.

Shebley noticed Frescott's gaze and broadened his peculiar smile.

"I was about to discuss the chest of Chu Chan," remarked Shebley, dryly,

"but I see that you are more interested in the katar of Pagan Min."

Frescott's eyes widened immediately.

"You mean Pagan Min, the Burmese king?"

"Precisely," replied Shebley. "Pagan Min, the son of Tharawaddy, ruler of

Burma, until deposed by his brother Mindon Min, who proved to be the only

humane

king in the entire line of Alompra."

Professor Frescott gave a knowing nod.

"That was the curse of Alompra," he recalled. "Beginning with a warrior

chieftain, the dynasty degenerated and finally perished through descendants

who

were the victims of a homicidal mania."

"A fratricidal mania, too," added Shebley. "One of their greatest

pastimes

was killing off their brothers - and all their families were large."

Again Frescott nodded.

"I've often wondered about Pagan Min," continued Shebley. "He must have

hated his brother Mindon, and why he let him live, I cannot understand. Why,

Mindon had ever come within Pagan's reach -"

With a sudden pause, Shebley studied Frescott's gaze as though trying to

guess what lay behind the narrowed eyes. Then, crisply, Shebley asked:

"You are interested, professor?"

"Very much," assured Frescott in a dispassionate tone. "You appear to be

versed in Oriental customs, and anything Oriental intrigues me."

It was so frankly put that Shebley decided his actions would not be

misunderstood. Rising from the table, he stepped around it, the twelve inch

dagger lying flat across his hands so that Frescott could study it more

closely.

The professor had seen many katars before, but none like this.

"Unique."

Shebley voiced the word in matter-of-fact tone. It was his favorite

expression, for it applied to every item in his well stocked cases. As a

collector, Shebley valued curios only if they were quite unmatched, and he had

reason to prize this katar as such.

The silver blade was six inches long, and ran wide from the hilt,

tapering

to a dull point. Having no sharpened edges, it appeared to be a ceremonial

weapon, as was further evidenced by the hilt. In fact, the hilt was the

distinctive feature that caused a katar to differ from other styles of

daggers.

Instead of a mere handle, the hilt was shaped like a letter H so that the

cross-bar could be gripped by the fist, the knuckles resting in the

stirrup-shaped space between the cross-bar and the dagger blade. The upper

extensions of the hilt were protective wings for the hand and wrist and were

composed of gold, highly ornamented.

It was the cross-bar, however, that fascinated Frescott, as Shebley knew

would. Instead of being mere gold as was customary with the finest hand-grips,

the center of the bar was a gleaming, blood-red stone set between two

cup-shaped

holders. As large as a marble and as round, that magnificent gem seemed filled

with the blood for which the dagger's blade unquestionably thirsted.

At first glance, Frescott mistook the jewel for a genuine ruby, worth a

fortune in itself, but Shebley, catching his visitor's questioning glance,

shook

his head.

"A Balas ruby!" defined Shebley. "Merely a form of spinel, though this is

fine specimen, which I doubt that anyone could match. It probably came from

Tharawaddy's crown, so he could furnish his bloodthirsty son with a weapon

befitting a murderous prince."

Opening one button of his vest, Shebley thrust the dagger through the

space

so that the silver blade projected below and the gold hilt, with its blood-red

eye appeared above. There was something rakish in the slant of the weapon

which

brought a happy chuckle from Shebley.

"This is the way Pagan Min must have worn it," decided Shebley. "More as

ornament than a weapon, judging by its appearance. But Mindon Min must have

known its purpose, for if he had let his evil brother come close enough -"

Shebley gave another of his abrupt pauses, though he could well have

added

- "this would have happened!" Instead, he demonstrated the deed in question.

With a stride toward Frescott, as though the latter represented Mindon Min,

Shebley gripped the cross-hilt of the katar and whipped the dagger from his

improvised belt. Pulling back, his arm drove forward like a piston, stopping

halfway in its thrust.

The jab was comfortably short of Frescott and it was lucky that it was.

For

with it, Shebley illustrated the automatic action of the deadly katar.

Actuated

by the pressure of Shebley's knuckles, the silver blade opened into two

sections, scissors-fashion. Those splitting halves were like spreading flower

petals, but what they disclosed was by no means pretty.

The silver blade, as dull as it was ornamental, was nothing more than a

cunningly fitted sheath for a blade of steel concealed within. Needle-pointed,

razor-edged, the deadly prong jabbed into sight like a cobra's fang lashing

from

a widened mouth!

Professor Frescott might have been expecting something of the sort, for

didn't budge a muscle. Shebley's mock thrust could have scared his visitor

into

immobility, but Frescott's broad face revealed nothing resembling fear. Rather

casually, the professor held out his hand, silently requesting the privilege

examining the weapon. Shebley gave a reverse flip that closed the outer blade;

then handed over the katar.

"I admire your sangfroid, professor," Shebley commented. "Other visitors

have been more impressed."

"Who for example?"

"Lionel Graff," named Shebley. "Which proves that Graff does not know as

much about Oriental antiques as he claims."

"Graff is merely a speculator." There was a tone of contempt from

Frescott.

"Surely you do not take his word on anything" - the professor was tilting his

head to study Shebley's face - "or do you?"

"On speculative propositions, yes," returned Shebley, "because that is

Graff's business. There, professor!" Shebley became suddenly enthusiastic.

"You've got the hang of it already!"

Shebley was referring to the katar, which was performing its scissors

trick

under the persuasion of Frescott's knuckles. With a style that might have been

termed professional, the museum curator was causing the hidden blade to show

and

disappear by movements forward and back that were almost imperceptible.

Then, closing the katar, Frescott took it by the harmless outer blade and

held it so he could examine the large Balas ruby that showed a deepening tint

the glow of sunset that was streaming in from Shebley's well-barred window.

"A magnificent specimen," mused Frescott, half aloud, without specifying

whether he meant the katar or the gem which ornamented it. "Yes, I believe

that

I would class it as unique."

Shebley was quick to take advantage of those words. Eager-eyed, he

demanded:

"Unique? Like the chest of Chu Chan?"

Momentarily, Frescott's eyes matched the ruby's glitter. Then, relaxing

his

gaze, he slid the katar among the proof sheets on the chess table and leaned

back, folding his hands across his vest. Frescott's laugh was pleasant, but

the

elderly professor had a habit of covering his real sentiments with opposite

tones.

"You invited me here to discuss the chest of Chu Chan," declared Frescott

blandly, "so tell me what you already know about it and I shall supply the

rest.

We may as well come directly to the point instead of trying to conceal it."

A subtle listener might have suspected that Frescott's final sentence

referred to the Burmese katar rather than the chest of Chu Chan, but Shebley

was

not inclined to be subtle. Seating himself, he began to pour the facts that

Frescott wanted.

All the while, the ruby handle of the Burmese katar kept deepening its

glow

in the dying sunset, like the watchful eye of some evil monster awaiting the

chance to deliver a fatal thrust!

CHAPTER II

IT was an interesting tale that Jared Shebley told while Giles Frescott

listened with half closed eyes.

The chest of Chu Chan had belonged to a Chinese of the same name who

resided in Hanoi, capital of Tonkin, in the north of French Indo-China. For

many

years Chu Chan had lived there undisturbed until the Japanese began to move

into

Indo-China, taking whatever they wanted, particularly from Chinese nationals.

Chu Chan had managed, however, to keep a few jumps ahead of the wily

Japs,

where his treasures were concerned.

First, Chu Chan's belongings had been shipped southwest across the Mekong

River to Bangkok, the capital of Siam. By the time the Nipponese arrived

there,

the shipment was on its way to Singapore, where it cleared again for India

before the Japs controlled the Malayan Straits.

At last the goods had arrived in America, there to be auctioned to raise

funds for the cause of China, in keeping with instructions given by Chu Chan,

when last heard from.

"Dariel Talcott bought the antique chest," concluded Shebley. "You must

know him, professor. He owns the Talcott Antique Galleries."

Frescott nodded as though half asleep.

"A very reliable dealer, Talcott."

"So reliable," assured Shebley, "that he wouldn't guarantee that the

chest

of Chu Chan was unique, as he did with the katar of Pagan Min. Talcott said

that

I would do well to check its history personally."

"Quite wise of Talcott."

"He has always been more than fair," affirmed Shebley. "For instance, he

wouldn't even think of selling me the Bangkok dancer statue."

Frescott's eyes opened.

"What statue was that?"

"One that came with the chest of Chu Chan," explained Shebley. "It was

inside the chest, so the two were sold as a lot. Only I doubt that it even

belonged to Chu Chan. Probably it was put into the chest to get it away from

Siam before the Japs arrived there."

"A logical theory, but why didn't you want the dancer statue?"

"Because Talcott says there are dozens like it in Siam, all life-sized

figures in a seated pose. As I said before, Talcott only sells me items that

knows are unique."

Frescott began to nod in understanding fashion, then paused as though

puzzled.

"This chest of Chu Chan," he remarked. "It must be quite large to hold so

sizable a statue."

"That's right," returned Shebley. "It is a large chest. Built much like a

cabinet."

Frescott gave a disparaging shrug.

"Then it isn't unique," he declared. "It may be antique, but not unique."

Chuckling at his play on words, the professor added: "There is a difference,

Shebley, as you should know."

"Only I don't know." Shebley stroked his chin. "Simon Benisette bought

the

dancer statue and now he is interested in the chest. He's a sharp buyer,

Benisette."

"But he doesn't specialize in the unique."

"He specializes in anything that promises a profit," argued Shebley.

"That's why I'm beginning to believe what Graff said. You see, Graff told me"

Shebley halted, then decided to out with it - "well, he told me that there

might

be a fortune in the chest of Chu Chan. So I'm of a mind to let Graff bid for

against Benisette."

Though Shebley didn't notice it, Professor Frescott had become suddenly

alert. His eyes by their very sharpness, could have been likened to the hidden

blade in Shebley's katar, but they, too, were concealed as Frescott promptly

closed his eyelids over them like folding sheaths.

Tilting his head back, Frescott gave a mild, though significant chuckle

that puzzled Shebley just enough to take him totally off guard.

"Nobody will bid on that chest," laughed Frescott, "at least not at

Talcott's Antique Galleries."

"And why not?"

"Because Talcott has already sold it," informed Frescott. "It went to a

dealer in Washington."

There was something of savagery in Shebley's gesture as he reached for

the

telephone. Frescott waved his hand.

"Don't call Talcott," warned Frescott. "You won't have time. You'd better

phone the airport for a reservation on the next plane to Washington. You'll

just

have time to make it."

Taking Frescott's advice, Shebley dialed the airport, but his gaze

carried

a query which Frescott answered with a question of his own.

"Did you ever hear of Lamont Cranston?"

Shebley nodded.

"I happen to know that Cranston will be taking that plane to Washington,"

assured Frescott. "Like yourself, he is interested in the chest of Chu Chan."

Shebley had the number. Finding that plane seats were still available, he

ordered one. As Shebley hung up, Frescott reached for the telephone.

"May I call the museum?" asked Frescott. "They may be wondering where I

am."

"Of course," replied Shebley. "Only I'll have to say good-bye right now,

I want to catch the plane. If you want, you can wait and talk to Graff,

because

he's due here shortly. But it won't matter. I'll have my servant tell Graff

I've

gone out of town."

Nodding toward Shebley, Frescott fumbled the dial in what seemed

accidental

fashion. Repeating the process slowly, the professor took pains to keep from

getting his number before Shebley went, which wasn't difficult, because

Shebley

was already starting from the room, calling for his valet.

With a smile that marked him capable of conniving practices, Frescott

completed the connection. Alone in Shebley's curio room, Frescott asked to be

connected with his own office in the Museum of Antiquities. There were a few

rings from the line; then came a voice that Frescott recognized.

"Hello, Cranston." Frescott's tone was both affable and confidential.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, but I have some last minute news. You know Jared

Shebley, of course?"

Apparently Lamont Cranston did, and said so. From then on, Professor

Frescott was very precise.

"Shebley has heard on what he regards as good authority," stated

Frescott,

"that the chest of Chu Chan has gone to a Washington dealer. So Shebley is

taking the next plane to Washington. You will just about have time to do the

same."

The abrupt click of the receiver at the other end told that Cranston

wasn't

losing a moment in acting on Frescott's advice. With a subdued chuckle, the

old

professor arose from his chair and rustled the proof sheets on the chess table

as he fumbled for his hat that was lying there.

Leaving the dusk-shrouded room, Frescott went out through the hallway;

his

hat still in hand, he bowed to Shebley's servant as he left. Taking the

elevator

down to the ground floor, the professor went out to the street.

There was something crablike in Frescott's rapid gait toward the nearest

corner. Over his shoulder, the benign-faced man looked back with a conniving

smile. Someone was entering the rather modest apartment house that was

noteworthy only because of Shebley's lavish penthouse; somebody whose face

Frescott recognized.

The arrival, sallow of face and worried, was Lionel Graff, the speculator

who had come to convince Jared Shebley that he ought to buy the chest of Chu

Chan. Graff would be sadly disappointed when he learned of Shebley's sudden

departure, and that fact gladdened Professor Frescott.

If he hadn't been watching Graff, Frescott might have noticed something

that happened on the far side of the street. There, a figure stirred from a

dusk-fronted building and kept pace with Frescott as he turned the corner.

Possibly the professor wouldn't have seen the shape that trailed him, for its

manner was decidedly furtive.

Though its height was uncertain, the figure was lithe, if not slender.

Gliding from one dusk-patch to another, it gave the effect of being clad in a

dark cape. It dwindled into gloom near the corner, thus adding a mysterious

aftermath to the canny game that Frescott had played.

In manner, at least, the mystery figure resembled The Shadow, the famous

personage who roved Manhattan's streets at dusk in search of crime to conquer.

But there were two good reasons why The Shadow could not be hereabouts this

evening.

First, The Shadow had been too far from Shebley's apartment house to

reach

there before Frescott left; again, The Shadow had decided upon another

destination. Whether wittingly or otherwise, Professor Frescott had personally

tricked The Shadow with a neat but simple ruse.

The Shadow, in the person of Lamont Cranston, had left for Washington on

blind quest. He and Jared Shebley would be watching each other with mutual

suspicion concerning an antique Chinese chest which Professor Frescott wanted

neither of them to buy!

CHAPTER III

MARGO LANE hurried from the cab as it stopped in front of the Talcott

Antique Galleries. With the delay of rush hour traffic, Margo had hardly hoped

to arrive before the place closed, but it was still open.

This trip was the result of a call from Lamont Cranston. He'd phoned from

the airport, saying he was leaving for Washington and wanted Margo to visit

the

Galleries for him. Still, the trip didn't seem very important.

All Margo needed to do was learn the name of the Washington dealer who

had

bought the chest of Chu Chan from Talcott. That learned, she was to call a

Washington hotel by long distance and leave word for Cranston. The reason it

wasn't very important was because Cranston had blandly said that he would

probably have that information by the time he reached the capital.

Nevertheless,

he wanted Margo to check the New York end.

There was no reason for Margo to keep the cab, so she dismissed it.

Entering the lighted doorway of the Antique Galleries, Margo went up a broad

flight of stairs to the second floor which constituted the Galleries proper.

The place was really something to take one's breath away, without

assistance from the stairs. Though Margo had been to Talcott's before, the

Galleries never failed to intrigue her.

You came into a row of rooms that could have been called an indoor

esplanade. The whole second floor, from front to back, a distance of nearly

half

a block, was a succession of wonders. Only in Talcott's could a person gain a

proper appreciation of the ingenuity displayed by the human race during

centuries past.

Paintings, pottery, statues, musical instruments, tapestries, furniture -

the list ran like the spiel of a department store elevator operator. Only

Talcott's items differed from any that you would see in a modern department

store. The things he sold were products of forgotten imagination and

handicraft.

Literally wading through a mass of antiques, Margo reached a niche that

Talcott called his office only to find it empty. Continuing further back, she

passed a side stairway and came to the sliding door of the final room, which

was

the longest of the lot. There Margo saw Dariel Talcott, a tall,

stoop-shouldered

man with a drab, tired face. Beside the antique dealer was a burly, bearded

man

whom Margo remembered as Simon Benisette.

Indeed, once seen, Simon Benisette was nearly impossible to forget.

Benisette's face was so long that it had a horsey look. People must have

marked on that resemblance, otherwise Benisette had no excuse for growing the

red beard that adorned his equine countenance. His style of beard was badly

chosen, however, for he had nurtured the old fashioned kind that spread around

from ear to ear, mostly under the chin. If anything, the beard gave him

further

claim to his nickname of "Horse Face."

More than "Horse Face" the term "friends" was a stretch of the

imagination.

Technically speaking, Benisette had no friends; merely an assortment of

passing

acquaintances. Being a man who lived much to himself, Benisette had come to be

all for himself, especially when purchasing antiques. He delighted in making

"finds" before other buyers discovered them, and the bearded man was doing

that

right now.

Simon Benisette was inspecting the chest of Chu Chan!

The fact bordered on the incredible, where Margo Lane was concerned. She

couldn't imagine how Cranston had managed to let this prize slip, if he really

wanted it. Yet this was the chest all right, for Margo had seen pictures of

it.

Judging from Benisette's manner, he already classed himself as its owner.

Standing nearly six feet high, the chest of Chu Chan looked like an

old-fashioned wardrobe cabinet, or more correctly, it looked like the thing

that

wardrobe cabinets had been patterned after. It was mounted on six bulky legs,

which might better have been termed feet, since they were shaped like dragon's

claws.

The bottom of the chest was very thick, finely carved and ornamented with

brass work. About four feet in width and three in depth, it had a fairly thick

top, decorated like the bottom. Brass fittings predominated, particularly

where

the doors were concerned. When closed, as they were at present, they made the

chest a veritable strong box.

Nodding curtly to Margo as she approached, Benisette paused suddenly to

note the girl's expression. Apparently Benisette didn't know that Margo

expected

the chest to be elsewhere; as a result, he mistook her puzzlement for

admiration

of the chest itself.

"Your friend Cranston was too late," boomed Benisette, ending with a

chuckle muffled deep in his beard. Then, with eyes widening suspiciously,

Benisette added: "Unless he sent you here to bid against me, Miss Lane."

"Sorry, but he didn't," returned Margo. "Or maybe I'm not so sorry. If

this

is the famous chest of Chu Chan, it's better that Lamont didn't buy it."

Benisette's wide eyes glared. His brawny hands moved upward, tightening

into fists, as though he resented this slur against the antique that he

admired.

Rapidly, Talcott moved into the situation. His bent shoulders loomed

between Benisette and Margo, his hands came upward to spread with pleading

gesture. His tired face wrinkling with worry, Talcott wheedled:

"Please, please do not dispute about the chest. I'm sure that Miss Lane

did

not intend to disparage its merits -"

"Not at all," interrupted Margo. Then, tactfully: "I was thinking only of

its size. Why, Lamont has cluttered his house with so many curios, you can

scarcely move around. I don't mean" - Margo turned hastily to Talcott - "that

is, I'm not criticizing these Galleries, just because they're so packed with

antiques. But Lamont is a collector -"

"I understand, quite," interposed Talcott, his worried wrinkles fading

with

his smile. "A dealer like myself is forced to display all his wares."

"That's right," nodded Margo. "As for the chest of Chu Chan" - she turned

to Benisette - "I must compliment you on your choice, Mr. Benisette. I only

hope

that you have room for it."

Begrudgingly, Benisette relaxed. It struck Margo then and there that

Red-Beard liked arguments and could become violent in the heat of them.

Certainly she could understand why Benisette lacked friends, if a mere quip

could rouse his anger. Just when she thought that she had humored Benisette

with

a winsome smile, his violent mood returned. Under the glare of the man's mad

eyes, Margo shrank back, only to realize that his attention was directed

beyond

her.

A sallow, slinky man had suddenly arrived within Benisette's range of

vision. Turning, Margo recognized the newcomer as Lionel Graff. She couldn't

exactly blame Benisette for disliking Graff, since the fellow was notorious as

an antique buyer, always trying to forestall other bids, often with promises

that he later repudiated. Still, the rage that Benisette exhibited was more

than

this meeting warranted.

"More of your tricky dealing!" stormed Benisette, shoving his hands

toward

Graff's throat. "I've warned you to stay out of my business and this time I

mean

it!"

Considering that Benisette's face had reddened to a point that made his

beard look pale, he showed admirable self-control at the last moment. His

fingers lost their clutching itch as his hand suddenly drew apart and clamped,

not on Graff's neck, but on his shoulders. Then, roughly, Benisette tried to

spin Graff about and shove him from the gallery.

With a snarl, Graff twisted free. Coming around he struck Benisette's

hands

aside and bounded back against a squatly Buddha that was seated on a taboret

against the far wall. Beside the calm faced Buddha was a bowl from which

extended an incense ladle. Clutching the latter, Graff started to raise it in

pose of self defense.

Benisette quieted with a sneer. Brushing his sleeves as though the touch

Graff's hands had contaminated them, Benisette turned to Talcott.

"Excuse my temper," apologized Benisette in his booming way. "I forgot

that

you were keeping open until Graff arrived. Very well, if he wants to bid, let

him."

Graff gave his lips an eager lick. Like Benisette, he spoke only to

Talcott.

"How much did Benisette bid for the chest?"

"Five thousand dollars," replied Talcott. "It is a low price, I know, but

"Low!" exclaimed Graff. "It's ridiculous! Why, it's absolute robbery!"

Talcott spread his hands pleadingly, as though fearing that Graff's term

would enrage Benisette, but the latter had lost his fever pitch. He was

standing

now with folded arms, a contemptuous curve upon his bearded lips. The flush

was

gone from Benisette's face, but somehow Margo felt that his color now

represented white heat instead of red.

"It's a fair price," began Talcott, addressing Graff, "because after all,

Mr. Benisette purchased the Bangkok dancer statue -"

"Which has nothing to do with it," interrupted Graff. "One sale does not

govern another. You have said that yourself, Talcott."

Before Talcott could reply, Benisette stepped forward, striding slowly as

though in haughty self-restraint. His tone was hard, icy, as he queried:

"Just how much can you offer for the chest, Graff?"

"More than five thousand," retorted Graff. "In fact, I'll double the bid.

I'll make it ten thousand dollars -"

"In cash?"

"Yes, in cash!"

"You have it with you?"

"Of course not. Why should I carry so much money?"

"I do." From his coat pocket, Benisette produced a roll too thick to

carry

in his trousers. "This is the way I clinch my deals, Graff."

Benisette's hand tightened on the money, but there was too much of it to

encircle, even though his muscles strained themselves. Ignoring Benisette,

Graff

turned to Talcott.

"I've just come from Shebley's," declared Graff. "He'll buy that chest.

really wants it."

"You'd better get Shebley's word for it," taunted Benisette. "Why not

phone

him, Talcott?"

"Shebley isn't home," admitted Graff. "He left town unexpectedly and his

servant doesn't know where he went."

Slowly, Talcott shook his head.

"No money, no sale," stated Talcott. "Sorry, Graff, but it's my rule - in

your case."

"But by tomorrow -"

"I told Benisette I would close the bids tonight."

"You must give me time!" Graff was very earnest. "It - well, it might be

matter of life and death to me."

Benisette provided another sneer.

"Are your creditors that close on your heels, Graff?"

Margo expected Graff to challenge Benisette's taunt. Instead, Graff

nearly

wilted. He darted looks across his shoulders as though expecting some of those

very creditors to appear. Then, anxiously, Graff pleaded:

"Let me use your phone, Talcott. If I can't reach Shebley, I'll try other

people. Maybe they'll believe me when I tell them this deal is worth their

while."

"Worth your while, you mean," scoffed Benisette. "Like all the deals on

which other people lose."

The sudden flush that came to Graff's face was like a reflection of

Benisette's earlier mood. Margo wondered, almost fearfully, what reaction it

would bring from Benisette, so she turned to look.

If there was hatred in Graff's glare, Benisette certainly returned it in

full measure, but with the same control that had become his policy. Round,

livid

balls, in centers of white, Benisette's eyes had a cold ferocity that said:

"Beware!"

Talcott was nodding in Graff's direction. Plucking the sallow man's arm,

Talcott gestured him toward the little office. Turning suddenly, Graff started

there to make his phone calls, his fists clenched tightly at his sides.

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THECHESTOFCHUCHANbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"September1944.Madmurder!AndabodyinalockedchestpiercedbythepricelessBurmesekatar!CanamerestatueofabeautifulSiamesedancercometolife?Apulsing,dramaticclimaxgivesTheShadowhisstartlinganswer.CHAPTERIJAREDSHEBLEYleanedbackinhisteak-...

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 283 - The Chest of Chu-Chan

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