Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 198 - Masters of Death

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MASTERS OF DEATH

Maxwell Grant

http://www.blackmask.com

? CHAPTER I. THE SILVER COFFIN

? CHAPTER II. HAND OF DEATH

? CHAPTER III. THE VOICE FROM THE PAST

? CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW DEPARTS

? CHAPTER V. THE MAN WHO RETURNED

? CHAPTER VI. THE LONE THRUST

? CHAPTER VII. THE HIDDEN TRAP

? CHAPTER VIII. THE SECOND MEETING

? CHAPTER IX. NIGHT OF DOOM

? CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW'S TURN

? CHAPTER XI. THE PERFECT SNARE

? CHAPTER XII. MIND VERSUS MIND

? CHAPTER XIII. THE CORPSE THAT LIVED

? CHAPTER XIV. CROOKS LEAD THE WAY

? CHAPTER XV. THE TRAIL BELOW

? CHAPTER XVI. THE FINAL STROKE

? CHAPTER XVII. WHERE GUNS FAILED

? CHAPTER XVIII. THE CURTAIN FALLS

? CHAPTER XIX. FROM THE DEAD

? CHAPTER XX. THE WRONG CALL

? CHAPTER XXI. HOUSE OF GOLD

? CHAPTER XXII. TO THE DEATH

CHAPTER I. THE SILVER COFFIN

THE Oriental Museum looked like a morgue, inside as well as out. The customs inspector noted the

resemblance as he ascended the darkened steps of the squatty brick building and entered the gloomy

entrance hall.

Great bronze idols glowered from their pedestals; fearful things, that looked like the creations of a

Chinese pipe dream. There were effigies of mandarins in silken robes; of Japanese shoguns clad in

half-armor.

Dummy figures, those. Still, the customs man didn't like them. The Chinese mandarins did not matter

much; their glass eyes were stern, but their colorful garments made the effigies look harmless. The

shoguns, though, were a different matter. Each figure had a mailed fist, gripping an ornamental tsuba, or

handle of a long, curved sword.

The customs man gave those warriors a suspicious look, as he quickened his step. When he reached a

side passage, he let his face relax. He had reached the open door of the curator's office; he was beyond

the danger zone.

Not that the curator's office was a modern place. Contrarily, its antiquated furnishings made it something

of an exhibit in itself. Perched upon old-fashioned desks and rickety wooden filing cabinets, were Hindu

idols of various sorts and sizes; from Buddhas with glimmering gems in their foreheads, to three-headed

Siva statues, that set the visitor blinking.

As for the curator, Isaac Newboldt, he looked like something that the room had hatched. He was a

middle-aged man, but he seemed to carry the weight of centuries upon his stooped shoulders, while his

roundish face was as solemn as those of the surrounding idols.

At least, Newboldt wasn't stuffed. He arose slowly from his chair, extended his hand in methodical

fashion. Surveying the customs man in owlish fashion, Newboldt nodded and gave a dryish greeting:

"Good evening, Mr. Matthew."

The customs inspector was pleased. He had been here before, but that was five years ago, when he had

held a subordinate position. It was nice to know that Newboldt remembered him. It struck Matthew,

however, that the curator was the sort who would remember everything.

"The truck ought to be here by this time," announced Matthew, producing a batch of pacers. "If you'll

look over that casket with me, Mr. Newboldt, I think we'll be able to clear it without much bother."

"A mummy case is not a casket," corrected Newboldt, as he took the papers. "Such misnomers cause

difficulties, Mr. Matthew."

The customs inspector gave a hopeless shrug.

"We'd have labeled it a mummy case," he said, "coming in from Egypt, the way it did. Only, it's made of

metal -"

"Of metal?"

"Yes. That's why we tagged it as a casket. Maybe you'd better take a look at the thing, Mr. Newboldt."

The curator's interest was aroused. His stride became rapid, as he led the way from the office, through a

gallery of mummy cases that loomed like sentinels in the dark, to a stairway illuminated by a single light.

The steps went downward; at the bottom was an open door, where a drab man in grayish uniform stood

waiting.

The drab man was Kent, the museum's chief attendant. He announced that the truckmen were waiting in

the alley. At Newboldt's order, Kent stepped outside. There were scraping sounds from the truck; six

men appeared, lugging a burden that was actually too heavy for them.

Though the long box was crated, Newboldt could see the dull glimmer of metal, which he took for lead.

Kent was pointing the truckmen up to the mummy room, but Newboldt shook his head.

"Have them put it in the little exhibit room," ordered the curator. "The one we are reserving for the

Polynesian collection. This is not a mummy case, Kent."

Then, turning to Matthew, Newboldt added:

"There is a mystery about this matter. I expected a mummy case, not a leaden casket."

"Maybe the mummy case is inside," suggested Matthew. "The lead box may be a" - he hesitated - "a sar

- a sar what do you call the thing?"

"A sarcophagus," replied Newboldt. "No. An Egyptian sarcophagus would be made of stone, not of

metal. Besides, this casket is longer than would be required for a mummy case, and too flat to contain

one. It may be a wrong shipment."

"Then I'd better keep the truck around?"

"Yes," decided Newboldt. "Until we have solved the riddle."

THEY went up to the little exhibit room, where the truckers had set the crated casket on the floor.

Newboldt ordered the men to remove the crating, which they did, except for the cross braces on which

the casket rested.

All the while, Newboldt's eyes were becoming wider, rounder. Plucking at Matthew's sleeve, the curator

whispered tensely:

"Send them downstairs."

The customs man dismissed the truckers, telling them to wait out back. Turning about, he saw Newboldt

making the rounds of the room, testing its barred windows. Newboldt's actions seemed jerky; his hand

trembled as he pointed to the door; his voice was hoarse as he ordered Kent to stand guard there.

Then, stepping to the low, flattish casket, Newboldt shakily drew a handkerchief from his pocket and

massaged the dark metal. Under the rubbing process, the metal took on a luster which brought a

surprised exclamation from Matthew:

"Silver!"

"Silver," repeated Newboldt. Then, in an awed tone: "A silver coffin. The coffin of Temujin!"

Matthew didn't understand.

"Temujin!" repeated Newboldt, with a shudder. "The true name of Genghis Khan, the great war lord of

the Middle Ages, who ruled half the world with his powerful Mongol hordes!"

The reference struck home to Matthew.

"Say!" exclaimed the customs inspector. "If you're right, Mr. Newboldt, this thing should have come from

Asia, not from Africa."

"It did come from Asia," insisted Newboldt, as he polished the decorations on the coffin's lid. "Observe

these engraved designs; the curve of the coffin's lid. They match the description given by the Belgian

missionaries who saw the coffin of Temujin in the region of the Ordos Desert, half a century ago."

Matthew had stooped to examine fastenings of the coffin, which reminded him of a low, elongated trunk.

The casket appeared to be hermetically sealed.

"What's in the thing?" he inquired. "Bones?"

"The remains of Temujin," replied Newboldt, solemnly. "Whether they are bones, or ashes, inspection

alone can prove. When last reported, the coffin of Temujin was on the move. Its guardians, descendants

of Mongols appointed centuries ago, were anxious to prevent its capture by invading Japanese."

"Why so?"

"Because they feared that ownership of the coffin would allow the Japanese to appoint a puppet emperor

for Mongolia; a man who could claim himself the legitimate successor of Temujin, the Kha Khan, or great

ruler -"

Newboldt stopped himself with a gulp. His stooped frame shivered. Gripping Matthew by the shoulders,

he drew the astonished fellow to the door, where Kent stepped back, inspired with the same alarm.

"This is beyond us, Matthew!" voiced Newboldt, in tremolo. "I have just remembered that there is a man

who calls himself Kha Khan. His name is Shiwan Khan; he seeks to rule all the world."

"You mean he must have grabbed this coffin?" queried Matthew. "That he shipped it here by way of

Egypt?"

"Undoubtedly," quavered Newboldt. "From his hidden kingdom of Xanadu, somewhere in Sinkiang,

which is west of Mongolia, and therefore on the route that the coffin must have followed."

Pointing to the door of the exhibit room, Newboldt told Kent to lock it and bring the keys to the office.

Gripping Matthew by the arm, Newboldt started for the office, dragging the customs inspector along.

As they went through the mummy room, the curator was babbling incoherently; tiled walls echoed his

words, voicing them back, as though the dried tongues of long-dead mummies were joining in the

chatter.

By the time they reached the office, Matthew was convinced that Newboldt was crazy, but he wasn't

sure enough of his own sanity to do anything about it. Then, Newboldt was fumbling with the telephone

dial, saying that if he could reach a man named Lamont Cranston, everything would be all right. Matthew

decided to let him go ahead.

Both had forgotten Kent.

BACK at the door of the little exhibit room, the drab attendant was locking up, as Newboldt had

ordered. But Kent's hand was shaky. He couldn't find the right key on his ring.

Kent remembered Shiwan Khan, the being who styled himself the Golden Master, and the recollection

was not a pleasing one. To Kent, the name of Shiwan Khan meant murder.

He was thinking of Shiwan Khan in terms of the silver coffin; and had Kent been gifted with the ability to

see through a door, he would have known that his thought was more than coincidence.

Inside the barred room there was motion. Slowly, the lid of the sealed coffin had begun to rise!

Up from the strange casket came a gold-clad form. Above the collar of the decorated robe was a saffron

face, the exact hue of the room lights. From its wide forehead the face tapered to a pointed chin. Green,

catlike eyes glistened from beneath thin, wide-curved brows. Long mustaches drooped beside lips that

were streaks of brown. A dab of beard gave Shiwan Khan an expression that was truly satanic.

Green eyes stared at the glowing lights; their fixed gaze took on a gleam. Brown lips dripped the single

word:

"Return!"

Though subdued, the word was heard. It came, like a mental command, to Kent just as the attendant

was inserting the right key in the lock. Kent did not connect the thought with Shiwan Khan. The drab

man merely recalled that he had forgotten to turn off the lights.

Opening the door, Kent stepped in to press the light switch. Centered on that action, he didn't look

toward the silver coffin until he had started pressure. In the last, brief instant that the light remained, Kent

saw the gold robed figure, met the demoniac gaze of Shiwan Khan.

Then, darkness, as Kent's hand finished its downward tug. Similarly, the hand of Shiwan Khan had

completed a fling from the end of its gold-sleeved arm. Kent did not shriek; his lips were petrified. The

sound that disturbed the darkness was a whir.

Silence hovered; it ended with the thud of a body that sagged heavily against the door, shutting it with a

sharp click. Through the totally thickened blackness came the fiendish chortle of the Golden Master,

Shiwan Khan!

CHAPTER II. HAND OF DEATH

ISAAC NEWBOLDT was pacing his office, wringing his hands with every stride. The curator was in

such dither that he gave Matthew the jitters. Observing a half-filled whiskey bottle on a corner shelf, the

customs man reached for it.

"What you need is a drink," he told Newboldt. Then, when the curator made no reply: "Mind if I take

one?"

Newboldt offered no objection. Matthew found a glass and poured himself a brace. Hearing the trickle,

Newboldt stopped his pacing, made a wild grab for bottle and glass.

"Don't drink that!" he exclaimed. "It's a sample of an Egyptian embalming fluid!"

Then, as Matthew recoiled, Newboldt calmed himself and stated:

"We shall not have long to wait. I have called the Cobalt Club and talked with Police Commissioner

Weston. He is a friend of Lamont Cranston, and is sure that he can find him."

Matthew couldn't understand why Cranston was so important in the matter. The curator explained that

Cranston was a world-wide traveler, acquainted with the mystic doctrines of Tibet. Shiwan Khan was

also a master of those doctrines; it took a mind like Cranston's to fathom the deep purposes that marked

the moves of Shiwan Khan.

In putting it that way, Newboldt was trying to control his own alarm. Actually, the museum curator knew

full well the menace of Shiwan Khan. Three times, the Golden Master had come to America, each visit

the result of insidious plans for conquest. Unquestionably, Shiwan Khan still termed himself invincible,

though on each of those occasions, he had met with defeat. (Note: See "The Golden Master," Vol.

XXXI, No. 2; "Shiwan Khan Returns," Vol. XXXII, No. 1; "The Invincible Shiwan Khan," Vol.

XXXIII, No. 1.)

Shiwan Khan had met his match in The Shadow.

To Newboldt, The Shadow was quite as much a mystery as Shiwan Khan. A black-cloaked fighter, who

seemed to dwell in night itself. The Shadow had uncanny abilities that enabled him to combat the most

formidable of foes. In some fashion - Newboldt did not know just how - Lamont Cranston was linked to

The Shadow.

It had never occurred to Newboldt that the guise of Cranston might be one that The Shadow, himself,

had adopted.

Such an idea would be ridiculous; as preposterous as supposing that Shiwan Khan had come to America

again, in the silver coffin of Temujin!

Dismissing such absurd notions, Newboldt tried to impress Matthew with his new-gained calm.

"The police commissioner is sending a man here from headquarters," Newboldt recalled. "Why don't you

go out front and meet him, Mr. Matthew? His name is Cardona - Inspector Cardona."

Welcoming the opportunity to leave the spooky confines of the museum, Matthew went out. Seating

himself at the desk, Newboldt rested his roundish face in both hands.

Staring at the door, he began to wonder what was keeping Kent. He couldn't go to find out, because

there would be no one in the office to answer the telephone, should the commissioner call. His

nervousness returning, Newboldt decided to call the Cobalt Club again.

He had just dialed the number and was getting a response, when an odd thing occurred. Newboldt felt a

shock that seemed to pass from the hand that touched the dial, to the other, which as holding the

receiver. He managed to jerk his hand from the dial; the sharpness ended, but a numbing sensation

remained.

Then, as the curator was managing to gasp a hello, something clanked on the desk beside him. While he

was listening to a voice on the telephone, he heard another tone, close to his numbed elbow. It was

Kent's voice:

"You wanted the keys. Here they are, sir."

"Very well, Kent." began Newboldt. Then, speaking into the telephone: "No, no. I wasn't asking for a

Mr. Kent. I would like to speak to Commissioner Weston... Gone out, you say?... Did he leave a

message?"

Learning that the commissioner had left no message, Newboldt inquired if he had gone out with Mr.

Cranston. The man at the Cobalt Club did not know. Ending the phone call, Newboldt looked at his

numbed right hand, found that the fingers worked.

"That was odd, Kent," he said. "I received a shock from the telephone. It reminds me of -"

HALTING, the curator looked for Kent. The attendant was gone. Picking up the keys, Newboldt jingled

them, while his face showed a troubled expression.

He had been about to say that the shock had reminded him of an Oriental superstition relating to

naljorpas, strange mystics from Tibet, who had the reputed power of numbing persons who approached

them.

But Newboldt wasn't in a mood to talk about naljorpas; they were too closely associated with Shiwan

Khan who had all their powers, and more.

In fact, Newboldt was becoming quite nervous. He decided that he needed fresh air, like Matthew.

Figuring that Weston had started for the museum, Newboldt saw no reason to wait further for a call. He

left the office and went out through the entrance hall. As he neared the front steps, a man sprang in to

meet him.

It was Matthew. The customs officer gave a gratified gulp at seeing Newboldt. He made a worried

gesture toward an armored dummy representing a Japanese shogun.

"I thought one of those guys was creeping up on me," confided Matthew. "Only about five minutes ago,

when I was sitting on the steps, I got to feeling woozy -"

The screech of brakes interrupted. A police car had pulled up outside; from it came a stocky man, whose

face was swarthy and stolid of expression. Newboldt introduced Inspector Joe Cardona, of the New

York police.

As soon as the curator began to talk in terms of Shiwan Khan, Cardona beckoned for a pair of

detectives to come from the police car.

As they started toward the locked exhibit room, Cardona voiced what he considered to be a profound

opinion.

"If this has got anything to do with Shiwan Khan," he declared grimly, "it's poison! Bones or ashes, I'm

going to see what's inside that silver coffin."

"We'd better wait for Mr. Cranston," advised Newboldt. "We had trouble here once before, inspector."

Cardona remembered the time. He had made a mistake, on that occasion, when he unwarily handled a

dagger called a phurba, which had a mystic spell attached to it. But that was different from a silver coffin

that had been shipped, tightly shut and crated, from Egypt or somewhere farther.

When Newboldt unlocked the door and turned on the light, Cardona saw the closed coffin in the center

of the little room. He approached and examined it; then nodded, when Newboldt repeated his advice to

wait. The curator went out to call Kent; they could hear his shouts echo through the museum. Finally,

Newboldt returned.

"I can't find Kent anywhere," he declared, soberly. "He didn't go out by the front door, and the truckmen

have not seen him. He came to my office and left the keys there; but I can't imagine where he went

afterward."

A sudden idea struck Cardona. He pointed to the silver coffin.

"Do you think Kent took a look inside this thing?" inquired Joe. "You left him here, didn't you?"

"Yes," admitted Newboldt, "but I told him to lock up, and he did so."

"But he could have opened the coffin first," argued the police inspector. "You didn't say anything to the

contrary."

"No. I didn't. But I don't see why Kent -"

Cardona didn't listen to the rest of it. His hunch was that Kent had opened the coffin and found

something valuable inside. If Kent had slipped away with all that he could carry, there still would be come

contents left. The way to test that double theory was to look in the coffin.

Stationing a detective at each end of the long silver box, Cardona took a central position in front and

gripped two curved ornamentations that served as handles for the lid. As he started to lift, he found that

the lid wasn't clamped at all, which bore out his opinion that Kent had pried it loose.

The lid started heavily at first, but under Cardona's increasing heave it shifted back on its crude hinges.

Straining upward, Joe twisted his hands to push from beneath. Half crouched, he lunged into a hard

shove. As he did, the room echoed to a chorus of yells.

BOTH Newboldt and Matthew had seen something; so had the detectives at the ends of the coffin. But

none of those four had time to act. The person who came to Cardona's immediate rescue was a new

arrival, a tall man with hawkish, masklike face, who had just entered the exhibit room.

The newcomer was Lamont Cranston; though noted for his leisurely manner, on this occasion he showed

a remarkable speed.

As the big lid lurched backward on its hinges, Cranston reached Cardona with a single bound, caught

him around the neck and yanked his stocky form sideways.

The two were twisting as the lid jounced wide; from within the coffin came a flashing blade of steel that

whizzed straight for the spot where Cardona's head had been!

Skimming the police inspector's dropping shoulder, the knife zimmed between Newboldt and Matthew.

It reached the wall beside the door and buried itself there with a quiver.

As the whole blade seemed to whine, another man side-stepped from the doorway, to get as far from the

weapon as possible. The second arrival was Commissioner Weston.

The knife thrust wasn't all. With the skimming blade came a hand that flung across the edge of the coffin.

Its gray-sleeved arm seemed to relax with the hurl it made. The man's gray figure dropped back into the

coffin, as though seeking refuge after making the murderous thrust.

Yanking their guns, the detectives aimed for the coiling assassin. But the shots they fired were wide.

Disentangled from Cardona, Cranston made a grab for the first detective and hauled his gun hand to one

side. Seeing his friend's move, Commissioner Weston grabbed the second detective and disturbed his

fire, also.

It was Cardona who came to his feet and pointed a revolver into the coffin, yelling for the thwarted killer

to surrender. Newboldt, drawing close, recognized the gray uniform and exclaimed:

"It's Kent!"

The huddled attendant did not stir. Reaching into the coffin, Cardona clamped him by the shoulder and

tried to haul him out. He could scarcely budge the fellow, until Cranston rendered assistance. Together,

they pulled Kent upward, over the front edge of the coffin, where the form slipped from their grasp and

logged weightily upon the floor.

Amazed eyes saw the reason for Kent's inert behavior. The front of the attendant's uniform was covered

with blood from a gory wound. Kent had taken a knife thrust previously; a stroke exactly like the one

that Cardona had escaped through Cranston's intervention!

Strange, indeed, was the murderous attack that had come from within the silver coffin: so strange, as to

be incredible, even to those who had witnessed it.

For the hand of death that came with that stroke belonged not to a living man but to a dead one!

CHAPTER III. THE VOICE FROM THE PAST

KEEN eyes were viewing the figure on the floor: burning eyes that peered from the maskish face of

Cranston. The Shadow was analyzing the motive behind strange crimes: the death of Kent; the

mysterious attack upon Cardona.

He heard the excited voices of those about him. Newboldt was telling how Kent had placed the keys

upon his desk; instead of clearing the mystery, the testimony added to it. Then came a calm, even-toned

interruption: the voice of Cranston, spoken by The Shadow.

"You saw Kent when he left those keys?"

"Why, no," admitted Newboldt. "I was speaking on the telephone at the time. But I heard Kent -"

"It was not Kent," interposed The Shadow, calmly. "It was Shiwan Khan."

Newboldt's roundish face became a starchy-white. Remembering the numbing sensation, he realized the

truth of Cranston's statement. It was plain that Shiwan Khan had murdered Kent, and taken crafty

measures to cover up the crime. Matthew was putting in excited testimony; he was sure that someone

must have gone past him on the outer steps.

It was Weston who asked a pointed question.

"Why should Shiwan Khan attempt to cover up?" demanded the commissioner. "He has always been

ruthless in his crimes."

"He is quite as ruthless as ever," assured The Shadow. "Shiwan Khan merely preferred to keep his

presence in America unknown."

Stepping to the wall beside the door, The Shadow pulled the knife from the woodwork. In Cranston's

leisurely style, he moved back to the coffin. Cardona was looking at the interior, puzzled because he

found it entirely empty. There wasn't a visible explanation of how the knife had been hurled.

Cardona saw the knife, as Cranston weighed it. It was a long, light-bladed dagger, with an ornamental

handle of carved ivory.

"A phurba," he heard Cranston say. "An enchanted blade, that can supposedly fling itself from any hand -

even a dead one. But we can find a simpler explanation."

He thrust the knife blade between the hinged lid and the solid back of the coffin. It remained there,

clamped in the narrow space. Carefully, The Shadow drew the heavy lid upward and forward, finally

bringing it down to a shut position.

Pointing to the back, he showed that the tip of the dagger projected through the crack. Moving everyone

from in front of the coffin, The Shadow told Cardona to grip one end of the cover, while he took the

other.

Then, while the witnesses watched tensely, The Shadow spoke the quiet order:

"Lift."

Together he and Cardona flung the lid up and over, as Cardona had handled it before: but on this

occasion, no one was lifting from the front. As the lid went wide, its clang muffled the click of the pliable

knife blade.

Levered by the great weight of the shifting lid, the deadly dagger snapped from its place; flashing, it

flipped point first and drove like a winged arrow, straight for the opposite wall. Its whir was evidence of

the speed that the levering poundage gave it; so was the force with which the phurba burrowed into the

wall.

Cardona pointed to Kent's body.

"Then Shiwan Khan must have got him first!" exclaimed the police inspector. "He propped him in the

coffin, and stuck the knife between the hinges. So it would look like Kent had chucked the knife -"

"Exactly," took up The Shadow as Cardona paused. "In addition, Shiwan Khan expected gunshots to

riddle Kent's body, making death appear to be a matter of bullets."

"Then Shiwan Khan must have guessed a lot," decided Cardona. "He must have figured that I would

bring a couple of men with me."

"Not necessarily, inspector," was Cranston's calm reply. "He expected you to fire the shots, when I

opened the coffin."

WITH those words, The Shadow cleared the remnants of the mystery. Once before, Shiwan Khan had

tried to dispose of Lamont Cranston by means of a dagger thrust.

Weston and Newboldt were recalling the occasion; they agreed that Cranston, with his knowledge of

Tibetan ways, was a natural obstacle to the plans of Shiwan Khan.

In itself, that was a logical reason. But there was a deeper motive behind the attempted murder that

Shiwan Khan had tried to pin upon a dead man. Shiwan Khan knew the real identity of the person who

posed as Lamont Cranston.

The death thrust had been meant for The Shadow!

Such a detail was one that The Shadow naturally reserved for himself. Still playing the part of Cranston,

he questioned Newboldt about the silver coffin; learned how it had been shipped to New York instead of

an expected mummy case.

Obviously, the substitution must have taken place in Egypt, a few weeks before. But it was quite as

apparent that Shiwan Khan had used the coffin as a unique means of not only entering the United States,

but reaching the man whose life he wanted. As a means of entry, the system had worked; as a scheme of

assassination, it had failed.

Kent's death, incidental to the general purpose, had neither enabled Shiwan Khan to conceal his own

presence in New York, nor to eliminate his superfoe, The Shadow. It was simply another heinous deed

to be charged to the evil account of the monstrous Golden Master.

But the return of Shiwan Khan was, in itself, a menace. It meant that every law enforcement agency in the

country would have to prepare for a relentless struggle.

Behind the inflexible calm of Cranston, The Shadow listened to Weston's summary of former outrages

committed by Shiwan Khan. The Golden Master had made three previous trips to America.

First, he had sought planes and munitions for use in world-wide conquest. Again, he had tried to acquire

important inventions, useful in warfare. Thwarted in such efforts, Shiwan Khan had influenced persons of

genius to return with him to Xanadu, there to form the nucleus of a future race that would dominate the

world through sheer intelligence.

Until tonight, nothing had been heard of Shiwan Khan since that experiment began. But The Shadow had

evidence to prove that the great dream of the future had not worked as the Golden Master anticipated.

Again in America, Shiwan Khan was to be dreaded more than ever before. His arrival could mean but

one thing: that he meant this visit to be permanent.

The attempt upon The Shadow's life was proof. In seeking to rid the scene of his archfoe, Shiwan Khan

unquestionably had schemes of supercrime within his golden sleeve. Knowing The Shadow to be crime's

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MASTERSOFDEATHMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THESILVERCOFFIN?CHAPTERII.HANDOFDEATH?CHAPTERIII.THEVOICEFROMTHEPAST?CHAPTERIV.THESHADOWDEPARTS?CHAPTERV.THEMANWHORETURNED?CHAPTERVI.THELONETHRUST?CHAPTERVII.THEHIDDENTRAP?CHAPTERVIII.THESECONDMEETING?C...

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