Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 265 - The Black Dragon

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THE BLACK DRAGON
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," March 1, 1943.
The Shadow strikes back - at a devil god that symbolizes all the hate and
menace and trickery of the Japs!
CHAPTER I
BLACK MADNESS
STEVE TRASK stared at the carved dragon that squatted in the shop window.
It was a tiny object, not more than four inches high. Carved from solid jet,
the
dragon was a glossy black, save for two dots of jade that gave it the look of
a
green-eyed monster in miniature.
It might even be Miljohn's dragon!
Singular, how Steve had scoured Manhattan's Chinatown in vain, looking
for
just such a dragon, only to find one in the window of this obscure shop which
bore no name and looked as though it was no longer doing business!
As Steve stared, something more singular happened. A saffron hand came
through the curtain that backed the show window, gripped the jet dragon in its
fist and disappeared as rapidly as it had arrived.
Springing to the door of the shop, Steve pounded with one hand, while
using
the other to grip the stubby revolver that he carried in his pocket. Shuffly
footsteps answered from within; the door opened a crack and Steve received a
minute inspection from a slanted eye.
Then the door went wide and a yellow-faced man bowed Steve to a counter.
Seeing Steve's eye upon his fist, the man inquired:
"You wantee buy dragon?"
As Steve nodded, a telephone bell rang. The shopkeeper answered, all the
while keeping a wary eye upon the door. Across the wire, Steve heard a sharp
voice that inquired:
"You, Sujan?"
The shopkeeper muttered quick words that ended the call. Turning to
Steve,
he spread his hand twice to indicate the price of the dragon as ten dollars,
absurdly low for such a rare curio. With his free hand, Steve produced the
money
and pocketed the jet ornament, but he still gripped his gun as he stepped
outdoors.
That ten-dollar price was proof that something was wrong in this shop.
But
it simply clinched an impression that Steve had gained earlier. It wasn't
until
the door slammed shut and bolts slid home that Steve put facts together.
The shopkeeper hadn't said "dlagon" as most Chinese would. He had
correctly
pronounced the word "dragon." Also, the name that had been spoken over the
wire,
Sujan, was distinctly not Chinese.
The man was a Japanese!
No wonder the shop bore no name and looked closed. It was a hideaway for
Sujan and perhaps for other Japs.
Steve started to dismiss the thought as preposterous, until he reasoned
how
shrewd the game could be. Chinatown was the one place where Japanese could
risk
being seen by Americans, because there they could be mistaken for Chinese.
Naturally, they'd have to make sure that the Chinese did not spot them,
but
Sujan's actions proved that he was following just such a policy. He'd taken a
chance when he saw that Steve was an American. But Steve had guessed the truth
and maybe Sujan knew it. If so, there could be trouble!
THIS dimmed street was sinister. Looking about, Steve saw a mass of
basement entries, so dark they looked like fox holes. The only place that
promised Steve safety was a doorway across the street. It was deep, even
though
it ended in a door of heavy bronze, so formidable that quick entrance would
prove impossible.
To the right of the house with the bronze door was an alley; on the far
side, Steve saw a higher structure that looked like an old apartment building.
Its second floor was fronted by a balcony with bulky ornamental posts.
Odd how the nearest of those posts looked like a huddled figure watching
for some prey!
Shaking off the illusion, Steve glanced elsewhere. His eyes narrowed as
they covered the cornice of the house roof above the bronze door. Even more
ominous than the apartment balcony, that cornice jutted like something carved
from blackness, yet with a clinging effect that reminded Steve of a living
creature.
Turning his gaze across the narrow alley, Steve looked higher to the
projecting caves of the apartment building, four floors up. If he'd wanted to
let his fancy get the better of him, Steve could have imagined a stir beneath
those eaves.
But Steve wasn't letting himself be deceived by shadows that looked like
things alive!
Dimmed lights were coming along this forgotten street. They marked an
arriving taxicab, its driver looking for some address. As the cab pulled in
front of the house with the bronzed door, Steve saw that it had a passenger
who
was about to get out.
This was real opportunity. All Steve had to do was get into the vacated
cab
and ride from this weird neighborhood. Once away, he could examine the black
dragon and figure out what it meant. Probably owners of black dragons were
regarded as members of a secret fraternity, something that Miljohn hadn't
known.
Those thoughts were flashing to Steve as he crossed the street, wisely going
in
back of the cab so that its dimmed headlights would not disclose him. But as
he
rounded the rear of the cab, Steve stopped short, face to face with the
passenger who had just stepped to the sidewalk.
Fierce eyes met Steve's, ugly eyes that flared narrowly beneath bushy
brows. He saw a sharp nose; beneath it yellow teeth that gritted from the
sudden
thrust of a heavy jaw that poked from a muffling overcoat collar. The man was
an
American, of tawny visage, but he wasn't welcoming Steve as a compatriot. An
instant's glance at Steve, then those narrowed eyes tilted upward. With a half
snarl, the tawny man swung his arm wide, as if in a signal. Steve didn't
lunge,
because the man was springing back into the cab. What Steve did was swing
about,
following the direction of the tawny man's gaze.
Shadows had come to life!
THE balcony post across the alley was lunging into human shape, if its
grotesque lurch could be called human. Steve saw a saffron Japanese face push
forward from the rail; with it came a clawed hand that furnished a downward
whip. From those fingers came the glint of a knife that the creature was
releasing - with Steve as the only target in its path!
Nothing could stop that hand of death, for its fling was complete. The
intervention that saved Steve was of a more amazing sort.
A gun tongued from the cornice on Steve's side of the alley. Straight as
the knife-fling and far swifter was the bullet that intercepted the blade of
death. Literally, that leaden slug plucked the knife from the hand that hurled
it. Steve heard the sharp ping and saw the knife go flying out into the
street,
while the clawing hand whipped back as though stung by the force that shivered
the deadly dirk!
Steve's rescuer was the black shape that he had mistaken for a segment of
the cornice. Timed to the recoil of its gun, that figure was rising to reveal
itself as a cloaked form. Shadows had truly came to life.
This one was The Shadow!
Cloaked fighter who battled men of crime, The Shadow wasn't stopping with
his first endeavor. He was swinging from the cornice to take another gun stab
at
the foiled assassin on the balcony across the alley. And Steve, knowing that
this cloaked being must be a friend, was wheeling about to handle the glaring
man who had sprung back into the cab.
That man was gone; so was the cab. Steve's hearty lunge carried him out
into the street, where he sprawled. He heard the staccato punches of The
Shadow's gun, saw the knifeless assassin scrambling along the balcony to avoid
the fire. Then, rolling on both elbows, Steve was staring straight up, to
witness something truly amazing.
Both sides could boast rescuers in this combat!
TWO floors above The Shadow's head, a mere dozen feet across the alley,
the
eaves were disgorging another Japanese assassin who traveled along with the
murderous stroke he hoped to deliver. This creature was swinging a weapon
shaped
like a cleaver, and the drive of the chopping blade was carrying it to its
mark!
Before Steve could aim his gun, the cleaver man landed.
Weird was the laugh from the cornice. Steve's revolver was talking into
the
darkness. The Shadow had heard the clatter of the eaves and had literally
rolled
across the edge of the cornice to avoid the cleaver stroke. By a quick clutch
back across the brink, The Shadow was hauling himself back to solid footing by
seizing the scrawny opponent whose cleaver slash had gone wide!
His shots not being needed, Steve sprang across the street to see what
happened next. As he reached the front of Sujan's shop, guns jabbed from all
about. The basement doorways on this side of the street were alive with
marksmen
shooting at The Shadow!
On the cornice, The Shadow twisted his scrawny opponent as a shield
against
the gunfire. They twirled back across the roof, where the scrawny man wrenched
free and scrambled to a higher ledge. Another defiant laugh resounded as The
Shadow sprang after his slippery enemy, to regain him as a shield.
With a howl of indescribable glee, the wiry Jap jabbed his hands to The
Shadow's throat. They twisted like a windmill painted black and yellow. Amid
the
kaleidoscopic spin, the human whirligig disappeared over the rear of the
higher
roof. Clutched by a tenacious strangler, The Shadow was bound on a three-story
plunge to a solid courtyard behind the house with the bronze door!
Black madness gripped Steve Trask. He wanted the quickest route to reach
The Shadow and wreak vengeance on the strangler who had gained the upper hand
in
the fatal plunge.
Steve's dash stopped as suddenly as it began. It stopped when he drove
through the opposite doorway and met the bronze barrier shoulder-first.
Grabbing
the big door latch, Steve found it wouldn't yield. There wasn't any chance to
pound the door; others were doing it for him.
They were pounding it with bullets, those marksmen from the basement fox
holes. Having settled The Shadow, they were giving Steve their attention.
Escaping the first wild shots, Steve at least had sense enough to respond with
his own gun, but to even less avail than his enemies.
Steve's bullets might as well have been blanks, considering the way his
adversaries ducked to shelter. Besides, his fire was rapidly exhausted. Steve
was simply clicking a hammer on empty chambers. Why he kept tugging the
useless
revolver trigger, Steve didn't know, any more than why he should be keeping
his
other hand in his pocket, clutching the black dragon as a lucky token, but
this
was one spot where luck looked sure to fail.
Back against the bronze door, Steve braced as he saw revolvers thrust.
Then
came the jabs of flame accompanied by a unanimous roar. With it Steve caved;
but
he was pitching backward, not forward, a thing that he couldn't understand
until
he saw that the bronze door was swinging shut above him, echoing from the
clang
of bullets.
The barrier had yielded at the crucial instant, gulping the victim whose
death had seemed so imminent. But Steve wasn't stopping just across the
threshold; he was going down through a space where there wasn't any floor,
into
an abyss of engulfing blackness!
The bronze door slammed with a mighty clangor. Tuned to that strident
clash, Steve struck the bottom of the pit below. He saw sunbursts outmatching
the gun spurts that he had so luckily escaped. Then, as though jarred into
oblivion by the brazen echoes, Steve's senses vanished.
Black madness had overwhelmed Steve Trask, just as it had taken his
rescuer, The Shadow!
CHAPTER II
THE HOUSE OF LI HUANG
THE sound was sharp. Click! So close that it seemed to snap exactly in
Steve's ear.
Coming to one elbow, he took his head between his hands. While his brain
still swam, he realized that it wasn't the clicking sound that had roused him.
There were other sounds, very distant - the shrills of police whistles,
the
wails of sirens. They came from the street, a place Steve couldn't reach, for
there was more than a brass door barring his exit from this pit. When Steve
came
to his feet and struck a match, he saw that a solid floor had closed above his
head.
The match flame wavered along with Steve. It reached his fingers and he
opened them suddenly. The match struck a stone floor and went out. Sagging to
his knees, Steve struck another match and looked along the floor.
Something glittered in the corner; it was Steve's revolver. Clutching the
gun with his left hand, Steve shook out the match flame with his right.
The moment he gripped the revolver, Steve remembered the click that he
had
heard. The walls about him seemed solid, like the floor; still it was from one
of those walls that the sound had come. Steve didn't light another match.
Instead, he swung to his feet again, shoved his back against the wall and
found
the nearest corner. He was forgetting that his gun was empty as he gestured it
in the pitch darkness. At least he preferred darkness, since it enabled him to
stay from sight.
Then, in a hoarse whisper, Steve demanded:
"Who's there?"
The question came back, hollow, like a sneer. Its repetition marked it as
an echo, but Steve wasn't sure. It certainly didn't resemble his own voice.
Still, the confines of this narrow pit could probably produce vocal illusions.
After listening for several seconds, Steve began to creep along the wall.
He could hear other footfalls, timed to his own. Again, they seemed echoes,
but
of a distorted sort. Steve halted his caged pacing. When he did, the other
sounds stopped, too.
The click hadn't been an echo. So Steve waited, hoping it would sound
again. If it did, it would mean that his unseen companion was going out. So
Steve was reasoning - when the sharp sound came straight across the pit. Gun
ahead of him, Steve lunged.
There wasn't any wall when Steve arrived. He went right through, swinging
his gun, hoping to overtake the person who was darting out ahead of him. Only
nobody was going out, except Steve, and he didn't travel far.
What Steve met were men coming in. They stopped his gun swing, along with
his surge, hurled him back and pinned him helpless against the far wall that
he
had left. A flashlight suddenly appeared and Steve found himself confronted by
a
yellow-brown face, flanked by two others belonging to the men who clutched
him.
All three belonged to the group that stopped Steve's drive. Except for
them, the pit was empty. Completely flabbergasted by the way his imagination
had
tricked him, Steve subsided without further resistance. His captors took his
gun
away and marched him out through the open wall, clicking it shut behind them.
THE brief parade ended in an upstairs room, where a thin-faced Chinaman
was
seated behind a teakwood desk. Though shrewd, the eyes that greeted Steve were
somewhat friendly. The man, himself, looked Chinese, though the three servants
did not.
They seemed more Mongolian, those three, when Steve gave them side
glances.
However, he wasn't well enough versed in Oriental nationalities to be sure of
anything, except that the trio looked ugly and dumb - two points that did not
apply to their thin-faced master.
The man behind the desk spoke first. "I am Li Huang," he declared in
precise English. "This is my house. I am glad to receive you" - the lips gave
a
twitch which Steve decided was a smile - "but I regret the sudden method that
necessity impelled. Perhaps Ming Dwan should explain the situation, since she
was the person responsible."
Li Huang gestured toward the door of a room and Steve turned to see a
Chinese girl enter. She was dark-haired, petite, more typically a native of
Cathay than Li Huang himself. In what seemed a correct Chinese fashion, Ming
Dwan looked straight past Steve and answered Li Huang directly.
"It was right that I should allow a friend to enter," declared Ming Dwan.
"But it would have been wrong to let an enemy reach you, Li Huang. Not knowing
which was outside our portal, I treated this stranger as both.
"I opened the door as to a friend. I pressed the switch that let the
floor
fall, that I might trap a foe." Li Huang actually smiled as Ming Dwan bowed.
Crossing the room, the Chinese girl stopped beside the desk, folded her arms
and
turned toward Steve. Words of gratitude stopped on Steve's lips as his eyes
met
Ming Dwan's.
This Chinese girl was utterly impersonal. Her expression showed no
interest
in the man whose life she had saved. Rather, Ming Dwan regarded Steve coldly,
as
though no thanks on his part could make amends for the inconvenience he had
caused.
At least Li Huang proved more affable.
"I have introduced myself," stated Li Huang blandly, "because I have
nothing to conceal. My doorway was a trap, yes, but it is lawful for a man to
protect his own premises, particularly when he is a retired merchant known to
possess wealth.
"Your situation may be different." Li Huang fixed his eyes steadily, on
Steve. "Therefore, I do not ask you to declare your name. It is but fair,
however, that you should detail the events that occurred outdoors and give me
some token of your circumstance."
Fairly spoken, those words of Li Huang. They stirred Steve's mind to a
logical chain of thoughts. He remembered the events that brought him here.
THE chain began with the death of Steve's friend, Rufus Miljohn, once the
owner of a black dragon carved from jet - a death that the police termed
suicide, but which Steve classified as murder for the Black Dragon. It was on
Miljohn's account that Steve had scoured Chinatown for a jet dragon like
Miljohn's, and had finally found one in the shop of Sujan.
Men of evil had sought to murder Steve. Therefore, the little black
dragon
could only represent a clan that favored justice. Looming in Steve's memory
was
the picture of a black-clad fighter who had saved him from doom, only to
receive
death's burden. The Shadow, cloaked master of justice, somehow symbolized the
black-dragon token that Steve himself had acquired.
Li Huang was a just man, too. More than that, he understood. His words
proved it, those final words that were still chiming through Steve's brain. He
could almost hear those words again:
"Give me some token of your circumstance -" Steve saw the bland face of
Li
Huang, awaiting his reply. A friendly face, with sympathetic eyes that formed
a
counterpart of Li Huang's patient smile.
All Li Huang wanted was to hear the truth.
Steve opened his lips to speak the facts. It wasn't the gaze of Li Huang
that stopped him. The stare that caught Steve's attention came from Dwan.
No longer did the girl's face lack expression. She was putting contempt
and
more into the glare that accompanied the twist of her lips. It wasn't that
Ming
Dwan would doubt whatever Steve might say. It went deeper than that; she
wanted
to hear his story. Behind that wish was nothing friendly, judging from the
girl's expression. She was in a different camp than Li Huang; her very purpose
in this house was to betray the placid Chinaman who owned it! That Ming Dwan
represented the wrong people seemed clear enough to Steve from the girl's
expectant gloat. That was Ming Dwan's one mistake; she'd given herself away
too
soon. It was up to Steve to play the smarter hand, in a way that would satisfy
his friend, Li Huang, yet keep Ming Dwan totally at sea.
There was a perfect way to do it.
Silence was the answer; absolute silence, so far as Steve's name and
mission were concerned. Yet with such silence he could declare himself. All he
had to do was show Li Huang the dragon token, thus proving that he, Steve
Trask,
was a worthy guest, so worthy that there would be no need to know his name.
That was what Li Huang expected, and Ming Dwan, too. But the girl wanted
the embellishments that Li Huang would not demand. So, in one stroke, Steve
could handle both situations, winning the confidence of the honorable Li Huang
and keeping the treacherous Ming Dwan baffled.
With a smile of his own, Steve Trask slid his hand into his coat pocket,
intending to produce the jet dragon and place it on the desk in front of Li
Huang. But Steve wasn't watching Li Huang; he was looking at Ming Dwan.
Steve's triumph never came. Astonishment swept him as his hand reappeared
as of its own accord, bringing the lining of the pocket with it. Steve's hand
was empty, and the pocket - turned inside out - was obviously empty too!
Somehow, somewhere, the jet dragon, token of security, had gone from
Steve
Trask's possession!
CHAPTER III
DEN OF DISASTER
LEANING forward on his desk, Li Huang lifted his eyes inquiringly toward
Steve Trask. Though his lips were moving, Steve couldn't stammer the things he
wanted to say. He was trying to tell Li Huang that he was a friend and could
prove it, but he didn't want to commit himself to facts that would have to
remain unsubstantiated.
To claim that he carried a black dragon then fail to produce one, would
be
the worst step Steve could take. It was the sort of trick that an impostor
would
try. A name sprang to Steve's mind.
The Shadow!
It was a term that fitted the cloaked fighter on the roof, the rescuer
whose efforts had plunged him to an undue disaster. But should Steve mention
the
friend whom he classified by that appropriate name, The Shadow?
It might help him with Li Huang. Steve felt sure as he studied the
friendly, patient eyes across the desk. Li Huang, in his green, gold-braided
robe, looked the part of a retired Oriental merchant, who had won his wealth
through honesty.
But the eyes of Ming Dwan were different.
Stiff, prim, in a high-collared jacket of black and silver, the girl's
poise resembled the poker-faced expression that she had renewed. But her eyes
were eager with their narrowed gloat; they were watching for any betrayal on
Steve's part. It struck Steve that such betrayal might apply to others than
himself. For instance, The Shadow, who if not dead, was certainly lying
helpless
- a fatal thing if enemies should find him!
Li Huang was placidly watching Steve, glancing at the empty pocket as
though wondering why his visitor had turned it inside out. Steve shot a
defiant
glare at Ming Dwan, then gave the first excuse that popped to mind.
"It's about my gun." Steve gestured toward the desk, where one of Li
Huang's servants had laid the revolver. "I thought I had the permit with me."
Pausing, Steve flipped his empty pocket and pushed it back where it belonged.
"But I guess I forgot it."
Picking up Steve's revolver, Li Huang toyed with it. All the while a
smile
kept creeping to the Oriental lips, only to dwindle before it was half formed.
"Ah, yes, this gun," spoke Li Huang. "It is most embarrassing for both of
us. It would not be wise for you to carry it without your permit." Li Huang's
slow head-shake was a tribute to Steve's honesty as well as his own. The
merchant was taking the attitude that Steve would be honor bound to truthfully
answer any questions that the police might put. Stroking his chin, Li Huang
found the answer for the dilemma. Rising, he approached Steve, placed a
friendly hand on his shoulder and said:
"Come!"
INSTEAD of going to the front door, they arrived at a side portal, which
was equally well-barred. One of the servants unbolted the door and Li Huang
gestured through a passage, which ended in a gate.
"My servants will conduct you to a house on the next street," explained
Li
Huang. "I advise you to remain there about half an hour. You will have no
trouble leaving if you are discreet."
The arrangement suited Steve as well as Li Huang. Shaking hands, Steve
then
turned and followed the two servants, who led the way. Hearing footsteps
behind
him, Steve looked about and gave an annoyed glare.
Those footsteps were Ming Dwan's.
Why the Chinese girl was trailing along, seemed much too obvious to
Steve.
Ming Dwan wasn't interested in merely speeding the departing guest, as was Li
Huang. But if she thought she could keep further tabs on Steve, she'd be
mistaken. Steve felt he could personally attend to that when the time came.
Then the grating of the iron gate jarred Steve's thoughts to a case more
pressing than his own. The gates that the servants were swinging, opened into
a
courtyard, the very space where The Shadow had made that farewell dive in the
clutch of a merciless strangler!
Without ado, Steve pushed right through, as though anxious to reach his
own
destination, wherever it might be. Actually, he was taking this chance to scan
the courtyard, and what he saw stiffened him.
At the very spot where he expected, Steve saw the crumpled figure of The
Shadow heaped beneath its outspread cloak. The twist of the black-covered body
was a worse token than its lack of motion. The Shadow wasn't merely stunned;
he
was practically mangled. If life still remained in that hulk of an intrepid
fighter, it could be no more than a feeble spark.
What little Steve could do, he did. Turning, he caught the attention of
Li
Huang's servants before they looked toward The Shadow's body. It wasn't that
the
servants mattered; Steve was particularly anxious that Ming Dwan wouldn't spot
the obscured huddle of immobile blackness. She'd be the sort to tell the wrong
people of The Shadow's plight, the kind who would come here to destroy the
cloaked fighter's last glimmer of survival.
Blocking Ming Dwan, Steve gave a shrug as though asking where he was to
go
next. The girl pointed to another gate across the courtyard, fortunately away
from The Shadow's direction.
Past the gate were other passages that led, at length, to a basement
stairs. Underground, Li Huang's servants seemed to be conducting a
house-to-house canvass by the cellar route, until they stopped at a door they
recognized. Opening it, they ushered Steve up a few stone steps into a narrow
bunk-room, with curtained booths on both sides.
THE place was smoke-filled, and one whiff of the sweetish aroma told
Steve
that he had arrived in an opium den. One servant found an empty bunk for
Steve;
the other provided him with a lighted pipe, at the same time informing him
that
it was free of opium.
As they left, the first Mongol paused to whisper that Steve was to go out
the front way, when he finished the half-hour spell that no one would disturb.
With that, the flap of the bunk fell, cutting off outer world completely. It
was
then that Steve Trask remembered Ming Dwan.
After a few more puffs at the pipe, Steve poked back a corner of the
curtain to see if the girl had left with the servants. His glance was timely.
It
gave him a flash of Ming Dwan in her silver-decorated costume. She was turning
to follow others out through the rear door, but as the girl went, something
flapped behind her.
It was the curtain of the last bunk in the row. Ming Dwan had tarried to
speak to someone lurking in that booth, without the knowledge of Li Huang's
servants!
This opium den had become a trap!
Not a trap of Li Huang's making, but of Ming Dwan's device. Back in his
own
bunk, savagely puffing the harmless pipe, Steve wondered how he'd make his
safe
exit now. The den was gloomy, but its two ceiling lights, spaced well apart,
were sufficient to reveal the corridor between the rows of bunks.
To start out through the front, Steve would have to make himself an open
target for a watcher from the rear booth. The thought was disconcerting, until
it suddenly became an inspiration.
The front way wasn't the route that Steve should take.
This was his opportunity to go back to the courtyard, to give aid to his
friend, The Shadow - or what was left of him. Provided, of course, that Ming
Dwan hadn't seen the huddled shape in the court and passed the word along.
Even
if she had, so much the better. Such was the final thought that drilled home
to
Steve.
For if Ming Dwan had passed the word along to anyone, the receiver must
be
the lurker in the rear booth, the very man who was posted to stop Steve's
departure first!
A fighting spirit swept Steve. Here was his chance to deal a double blow.
He'd crack that lurker in the other bunk and thereby clear a route to aid The
Shadow. Even while the idea gripped him, Steve found himself acting upon it.
He
was out of his own bunk, letting the curtain flap behind him, and moving with
long, loping paces toward the booth at the rear.
It was odd how those motions blended, how fast Steve was moving and yet
so
slow. The sickly opium odor no longer tanged his nostrils, but Steve didn't
connect that fact with his dreamlike locomotion. He was feeling the effect of
the drug that filled the atmosphere of this bunk-lined den, but it was giving
him a false sense of energy, rather than producing stupor.
As Steve reached the curtain, its flap stirred before his hands could
touch
it. While Steve puzzled over that curious occurrence, a jarring clatter
crashed
through to his inner senses, causing him to turn so suddenly that he surprised
himself.
The commotion was coming from the front of the opium den. There, Steve
saw
an arriving figure who stopped beyond the pair of low ceiling lights and
darted
a look between the rows of dingy bunks. Steve recognized the newcomer like a
hideout monstrosity left over from a nightmare.
The den's new customer was Sujan!
OBVIOUSLY, the Japanese shopkeeper had come here by some underground
route.
That Sujan recognized Steve was evident by the shout the Jap gave. Like an
"Open
Sesame," it spread wide the mouths of caverns as represented by the bunks
between Steve and the front door.
They were like things from under stones, these slimy Nipponese whose
faces
matched Sujan's. No mistaking their race when they arrived in a group. This
opium den was a nest of Japanese, probably their chief lair.
These were the assassins that Steve had eluded by his precipitous trip
into
the house of Li Huang. The denizens of this place had returned to make it a
den
of disaster, with Steve as their victim. They had waited only for Sujan to
identify the man they wanted!
In this new swirl of madness, Steve groped for the nearest refuge - the
curtained bunk beside his shoulder. He was forgetting that it had an occupant,
an unknown person who already rated as an enemy. It was simply that Steve's
whirling senses were turning everything about, even to the mad belief that he
could conjure up a rescuer from nowhere.
The rescuer arrived. Amazingly, he sprang from the very bunk that Steve
摘要：

THEBLACKDRAGONbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"March1,1943.TheShadowstrikesback-atadevilgodthatsymbolizesallthehateandmenaceandtrickeryoftheJaps!CHAPTERIBLACKMADNESSSTEVETRASKstaredatthecarveddragonthatsquattedintheshopwindow.Itwasatinyobject,notmorethanfourincheshigh.Carvedf...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：73 页 大小：178.96KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-22

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