Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 141 - The Crystal Buddha

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As inscrutable as the tiny idol itself, were the ways of The Shadow as he
pierced the veil of mystery behind...
THE CRYSTAL BUDDHA
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in
The Shadow Magazine #141
January 1, 1938
CHAPTER I.
THE SHOP OF BELA SINGH.
THE East Side streets looked sinister as Barbara Brinby viewed them from the
windows of the cab. Perhaps they were darker than usual, this night, because
of the foggish drizzle that muffled the street lamps. The rain, too, could
account for the absence of people on the sidewalks.
The cab swung into an avenue. Lighted stores, though they were grimy and
tawdry, made Barbara feel more at home. There were people here, too, shambling
along with coats muffled about their necks. The rumble of an elevated train
added to Barbara's confidence.
This seemed the real New York again; but the glimpse did not last long. The
cab took a westbound street. It was rolling into a deserted district where
muggy gloom produced the illusion of menacing lurkers.
The cab was moving slowly, the driver craning from the window to notice the
house numbers. They had nearly reached their destination; and Barbara was glad
that the trip was about to end. That cabby had certainly taken a roundabout
course to get here, picking bumpy streets and avenues that Barbara had never
seen before.
She didn't like the driver's appearance, either. Perhaps that was why she had
become nervous during the ride. Barbara was seeing his face again, as he
leaned from the window. It was a ratty face, with eyes that squinted.
Usually, Barbara took a good look at a cab driver before entering his taxi;
but, to-night, there hadn't been much time for that.
She had hailed this cab in Chinatown, where taxis were few. The rain, too, had
hurried her.
The cab stopped with a screechy jolt. The driver stared at the front of a
little shop, set just below the level of the street.
The shop occupied the basement of a building that had once been a residence
but which now looked abandoned, save for that bottom floor. The shop's windows
showed a dull glow; enough for the squinty taxi driver to make out the name
that was painted above it.
" 'Bela Singh'," he read, in a growly voice. " 'Oriental Curios.' Guess this
is the joint you want, lady."
Alighting, the taxi man opened the door. As he did, he glanced up and down the
street, his rattish eyes peering hard through the drizzle. Barbara noticed it
as she stepped to the curb. She started to open her hand bag, to find her
change purse.
That hand bag was a large one, with platinum adornments. It had a large bulge
inside it. The cabby noted it; but let his eyes shift quickly. Peering along
the street again, he ignored Barbara's attempt to pay him.
"Want me to wait, don't you, lady?" The man's tone was less growly. It carried
a note of concern. Barbara was struck by the recollection that, after all,
this driver had brought her to her destination. His glances along the street
certainly showed that he would be quick to spot skulking persons. He was
husky; the sort of fellow who could handle trouble-makers.
It might not be easy to find another cab in this remote neighborhood. Barbara
did not intend to remain long at Bela Singh's. She told the cabby to wait.
"O. K., lady."
The cabby was lighting a cigarette as he made the comment. He waited until
Barbara had entered the curio shop. Flicking his match away, he dimmed the
lights in his cab and started on foot toward the next corner, where he had
noted a small cigar store, the only other shop in this block.
MEANWHILE, Barbara Brinby had forgotten all about that cab driver.
A tiny bell had tingled her entry past the portals of Bela Singh's shop. Once
inside, Barbara found herself transported into a fragment of the Orient.
Spread curtains had welcomed her farther, to a room where incense burned ;
where rare, carved furniture was in abundance.
Thick rugs spread the floor, so plentiful that they overlapped. High tables
and shelves were stocked with odd creations in brass; strange lamps, tall
vases and squatty lota bowls. Carved figures of ivory looked like pygmies
among larger statuettes of gold and silver. Those metal images of Hindu gods
had eyes of precious stones that looked alive.
There were curtains all about, their folds so heavy that Barbara could not see
where they divided, until two hands parted them. From the far wall of the
room, a tall man stepped into view.
He wore American clothes; but his darkish features proclaimed him as a Hindu.
In keeping with his native custom, he wore an ornamental turban, tastefully
decorated with gems.
There was something about the Hindu's calm face that marked him as a man more
important than an ordinary curio dealer. What impressed Barbara most was the
contour of those features. Their perfect mold made the man look more European
than Oriental. But the darkness of his skin was deep.
He was certainly a Hindu. That was why Barbara asked: "You are Bela Singh?"
"That is my name." Bela Singh's tone was musical; his bow was graceful. "I am
at your service, mem-sahib."
Bela Singh watched Barbara look around the shop. He had evidently seen others
lost in rapture at the lavishness of this Oriental room, for his face showed
no surprise. But the steadiness of his gaze evidenced that he had gained an
interest in his visitor, and with good reason.
Barbara Brinby was a girl with rare charm. She looked at her best in fine
surroundings. Though her street attire was plain and somewhat rain-soaked, it
detracted in no way from her beauty.
Light-skinned, with hair of a perfect brown that matched her eyes, Barbara
always gained attention. But there was something deeper than her facial
attraction. Barbara had the poise and confidence of a modern business woman.
Keen men had recognized that this alluring brunette could be their equal when
it came to wits. Bela Singh was one such man.
Perhaps it was to test Barbara's nerve that the Hindu stepped past her and
calmly closed the curtains through which the girl had entered. When he faced
the girl again, Bela Singh observed no concern on her part.
The qualms that Barbara had felt during that lone taxi ride had vanished when
she entered the curio shop. Once sure of her surroundings, Barbara never knew
fear.
The girl's open gaze brought another bow from Bela Singh. His salaam was a
tribute of admiration. In his calm-toned way, the Hindu became a man of
business. He moved one hand to indicate the room and all it contained, as he
spoke:
"There is much of Oriental art to choose from. All that you see here is for
sale."
"I haven't come to buy anything," returned Barbara. "Instead, I have brought
something--"
She paused. Bela Singh's eyes were on the hand bag. His head was shaking, very
slowly.
"We buy nothing here, mem-sahib. All of our goods are imported from India."
Barbara smiled.
"I know that," she said. "I learned it in Chinatown, where they told me about
you. They said that your shop was the only one where real items of Hindu art
could be appraised. So I brought this--"
BARBARA finished her statement by opening the hand bag. From it, she produced
a squatty statuette, five inches high. It was the image of a seated Buddha;
but it differed from any of the statuettes that Bela Singh had on display.
The Buddha that Barbara had brought was the workmanship of a jewel-cutter, not
of a goldsmith. It was carved from a single piece of flawless crystal.
Bela Singh's deep-hued eyes centered upon the transparent Buddha. His gaze was
mystical, as though it sought some vision in the crystal. His expression did
not change. Only his complete motionlessness indicated that sight of that
Buddha of crystal had produced an effect upon him.
Had Barbara Brinby ever met the man before, she would have recognized that
Bela Singh was swayed by the Crystal Buddha. But this was her first meeting
with the Hindu. His eyes deceived her when they raised. Bela Singh's tone was
almost indifferent, when he asked:
"Does this Buddha belong to you?"
"No," replied Barbara. "It belongs--or did belong--to a friend of mine. In a
way, it still belongs to a friend."
Barbara watched Bela Singh as she spoke. She wasn't sure why he had asked the
question. In his turn, Bela Singh caught the first flash of suspicion that had
come to Barbara's brown eyes. The Hindu met that situation.
"The owner does not interest me," said Bela Singh. His melodious tone was a
convincing one. "I did not wish to disappoint you, that was all. I cannot buy
the Buddha."
"But if you can tell me its value--"
"You have spoken to Chinese merchants. They would know its worth."
"They named prices; but they weren't sure of them. All insisted that this was
a Hindu Buddha, not a Chinese. Every one advised me to bring the Buddha to
you."
Bela Singh reached for the statuette. It glistened as it lay upon his hand.
His darkish palm showed clearly through the crystal. Steadily, Bela Singh
studied the object for a full minute; then gave his verdict.
"If your friend should decide to sell this Buddha," spoke Bela Singh, "he
should ask a price of one thousand dollars. As a fine-cut crystal, it is worth
that amount; no more."
He returned the Buddha to Barbara. The girl smiled as she replaced it in her
hand bag.
"Thank you, Bela Singh," she said, gratefully. "If there is a charge for the
appraisal--"
"There is no charge."
Bowing, Bela Singh turned to the outer curtains. He lifted them for Barbara to
pass through. He watched the girl as she walked to the shop door. Just as she
turned the knob, Bela Singh let the curtain fall.
FROM that instant, Bela Singh's slow motion ceased. With hurried strides, the
Hindu crossed the room; whipping aside the far curtain, he sped through a
second room that was stocked with curios like the first.
He clapped his hands as he neared an obscure door. Two darkish faces popped
into view.
The men were Hindus, like Bela Singh, but of a lesser caste. Their faces were
ugly; their pose showed none of the dignity that marked their master. The pair
evidently understood little English, for Bela Singh babbled rapidly in their
native tongue, gesticulating as he spoke. His graphic expressions referred to
Barbara Brinby.
Bela Singh had spied the dim lights of the taxi waiting on the front street.
It was headed westward, the proper direction on the one-way street; and that
natural situation brought prompt nods from the two Hindus.
They scrambled toward a rear door; Bela Singh watched them take a passage that
led to the rear street.
Listening, Bela Singh heard a motor start from the street in back. A car was
being turned about, as Bela Singh had ordered. His followers were going to
buck traffic on the east-bound street, in order to reach the next avenue as
soon as Barbara's cab.
Calmly, the Hindu paced to the front room of his curio shop. His eyes gleamed
as they studied the curtains through which Barbara had gone. His gaze lowered
to his hand which closed, half-cupped. His hand moved up and down, as though
weighing an imaginary Buddha.
For the first time, Bela Singh's lips formed a smile. Though the price that
the Hindu had named might be the value of the curio that Barbara had shown
him, that Crystal Buddha meant much more than one thousand dollars, to Bela
Singh.
CHAPTER II.
IN CENTRAL PARK.
WHILE Bela Singh was ordering his Hindu servants upon a hurried chase, Barbara
Brinby was meeting with delay. The cab was waiting for her; but when she
opened the door, she noticed that the driver was absent.
Wondering where the cabby had gone, Barbara looked about. She saw the fellow
come shuffling toward her, flicking away a cigarette. He gave an ugly grimace
that was his attempt at a smile.
"Sorry, lady," said the cabby. "I was just down at the corner, getting
cigarettes."
He displayed a pack of cigarettes as he spoke. That proof of his story was
superfluous to Barbara, for she hadn't doubted the man's statement. It made
her wonder about the cab driver's reliability.
Giving an address, Barbara settled back in the rear seat. During that first
block, she studied the driver's photograph, which was displayed in the frame
that held his cab license. His name was Luke Malkett, and his picture looked
like a rogues' gallery photo.
Peering toward the front of the cab, Barbara could see beady eyes staring in
the mirror. Malkett was watching her in ratty fashion; his manner was another
test for Barbara's nerve. She met the situation with a firm smile. Barbara
decided that she had the explanation for her past qualms. Outside dangers had
been imaginary. The real threat was this sneaky cab driver.
Malkett had spotted the hand bag. He didn't know what was in it, but he wanted
the contents. Maybe he would try to get the Crystal Buddha, along with
whatever else the bag held. Barbara would be ready when he tried it. There was
something in the bag that the fellow wouldn't like.
Waiting until the cab was on the avenue, Barbara opened the bag and cautiously
pulled out a tiny pearl-handled revolver.
Barbara had a permit for that gun; she always carried the weapon when occasion
demanded. Tucking the revolver in a fold of her dress, she began to look from
the window. At times, she managed a sidelong glance to the driver's mirror.
During the previous ride, Barbara had looked frequently through the rear
window. She avoided that policy, at present, because she figured that trouble
could come from Malkett only. That was why she failed to notice the dark coupe
that trailed the cab. That car had come in from the street in back of Bela
Singh's.
Barbara smiled when they swung into the next avenue. The cab had been going
slowly, almost uncertainly; but it hadn't stopped. Probably, Malkett had given
up his half-baked plan. When Barbara saw him peer nervously from his window,
she decided that he was looking for policemen, glad that he had tried nothing
lawless.
Instead, the cabby was looking for another car; and he saw it. The machine was
a touring car, that had just stopped at the curb beyond an elevated station.
Malkett let his left hand stick out as he took another corner. His hand
wigwagged a signal.
The touring car started. It followed close behind the cab, coming in ahead of
the coupe that was keeping a discreet distance to the rear.
THE cab had reached a crosstown street in the Sixties. It rolled westward
across Fifth Avenue and entered Central Park. Barbara had given a West Side
address; hence the trip through the parka was a logical one.
Malkett, however, seemed to have his own pet way of getting to the West Side.
He took odd turns that veered the cab from the course that Barbara expected.
That made the girl look back. They were on a curving slope; despite the
drizzle, she could see other cars behind them. There were several; and sight
of the procession gave Barbara confidence.
Among the automobiles, she saw a long, decrepit touring car that didn't look
presentable; but behind it was a sleek limousine that certainly belonged to a
wealthy owner. The rest of the cars looked good, including a coupe that was
well in the rear.
With all these cars in line, the scene seemed safe. The cab's speed was
increasing, as if Malkett had given up all intentions of rough stuff. He was
passing other cars; ahead, Barbara could see the high lights of big apartment
houses banked on the west side of the park. They'd be out of this maze in a
few more minutes, she thought.
Then came a jounce that warned her of immediate danger.
The cab had veered into a poorly paved drive. It took a sharp downward turn.
From the side window, Barbara glimpsed the drive that they had left. She saw
cars that they had passed; all were keeping straight ahead.
The lights vanished, blocked by trees. Brakes screeched, as Malkett brought
the cab to a jerky stop.
"Sorry, lady." The cabby was peering through the windshield. "Guess I missed
my way in the rain. 'Wait'll I turn around."
Before he could reach for the gear lever, Barbara stopped him. She pressed the
revolver muzzle against Malkett's ear. The cabby winced as he recognized the
touch of cold metal. Firmly, Barbara told him:
"Yes, you will turn around! Exactly as I order it! You can explain your
mistake afterward, when we meet an officer!"
A flood of light made Barbara turn about. Another car had arrived on this
isolated drive; it was the touring car that had cut in to trail the taxi.
Barbara couldn't make out the car's shape, but she recognized that its arrival
meant new menace.
She gave a little gasp. That served as a signal for Malkett. With a shifty
twist, the cabby shoved open the door on the left and did a dive for the mud.
As he came up in the light, he tugged a revolver of his own. His voice was a
hoarse screech:
"The moll's got a gat!"
Malkett was aiming as he shouted. Bravely, Barbara jabbed shots before he
could fire at the window. She didn't score a hit; but the cabby ducked.
Immediately, guns roared a barrage, to cover him. Half a dozen thugs had
alighted from the touring car, to fire at the cab. Instinctively, Barbara
dropped to the floor, while bullets riddled the rear window above her.
Backed by guns, Malkett staged a prompt move. The cabby jumped for the door;
yanked it open and made a lucky grab for Barbara. The girl came rolling out,
clutching the tiny gun in her right hand, clinging to the hand bag with her
left.
Outspread thugs waited, while Malkett raised his arm to slug his gun for the
girl's head.
A gun spoke from the blanketing drizzle. The shot came from a spot just past
the touring car. It was a tongue of flame from total darkness; as timely as it
was perfect.
That sizzling bullet whistled two inches wide of Barbara's neck, to find
Malkett's body as its target. It withered the crooked cabby instantly. His gun
hand dropped as his body sagged.
AMAZED, Barbara watched the fellow slump; next, she looked in the direction
from which the shot had come.
A peal of uncanny mirth quivered the foggy air. Barbara saw the outspread
attackers turn in consternation. She heard the savage oaths that their lips
uttered. She viewed the reason for their sudden swing.
They had recognized the mocking challenge of a superfoe; a being whose form
was suddenly outlined by the touring car's lights. He was clad in a cloak of
black; his head was topped by a slouch hat.
For the instant, Barbara thought that this incredible rescuer had materialized
from space. A moment later, she spied the means of his arrival.
He had come from the magnificent limousine that she had seen on the paved
driveway. That big car had slithered up behind the touring car. The chauffeur
had doused the lights as he arrived. The cloaked fighter had fired that first
shot from the running board.
With Malkett finished, this strange challenger had dropped his hidden tactics.
With his fierce, taunting laugh, he had sprung forward, that enemies might
recognize him by sight as well as sound.
There wasn't any question of identity in the mind of thugs. Barbara heard
their whiny voices utter the avenger's name:
"The Shadow!"
Hard with that cry came the blast of guns. Pumping with one automatic, The
Shadow drew another, to open double fire. Answering shots were puny. Scattered
crooks were trying to dive as they fired.
It seemed to Barbara that her rescuer must bear a charm against those leaden
missiles, until she saw the scene about the touring car. The Shadow was
clipping gunmen as rapidly as they aimed. That was the secret of his immunity.
A few went staggering wildly into the darkness. The others, after they
sprawled, came to hands and knees, making limping efforts to regain the
touring car.
One thug was at the wheel. He jerked the car forward, as the others piled in.
The car veered wide of the abandoned taxi, swinging to the side away from
Barbara. The girl expected The Shadow to wing the driver; instead, he simply
blasted shots that spurred the fleeing crooks to greater haste.
The tail-light of the touring car twinkled out of sight, jouncing as it look a
bend in the bumpy road.
More swiftness from The Shadow. On her feet, Barbara hadn't time to turn
around before The Shadow was beside her. So was the limousine.
Guns away, The Shadow swung open the door with one hand, enveloped Barbara
with his other cloaked arm. Still holding her revolver and her hand bag, the
girl was drawn into the car, to find herself beside The Shadow.
A whispered voice spoke through a speaking tube. The limousine started slowly
forward. Then, from lips that Barbara could not see, came a tone that carried
command, rather than question: The Shadow was inquiring the details of
Barbara's adventure.
The girl gave them, spasmodically; but her words were incomplete. She said
that she had gone to Bela Singh's; but did not state her purpose there. That
wasn't deceit on Barbara's part. She thought the Crystal Buddha unimportant.
Her summary was that Malkett thought she carried money; that he must have
called the crooks to stage a stick-up.
BARBARA'S story ended abruptly, before the limousine had gone more than a few
hundred yards. As the big car jogged from the rough road, Barbara began to
express her thanks, speaking to the darkness where she had heard The Shadow's
voice.
"I owe you a lot," said Barbara, her tone expressing complete understanding.
"I wondered why you risked coming into the light. I realize that it was to
divert the attack. You let those gunmen go, too, because chance shots might
have reached me--"
Barbara stopped short. The limousine had reached the broad, straight stretch
of Central Park West, where the massive apartments flanked one side, the park
the other. Despite the mist, the lights were sufficient to show the interior
of the car.
The seat beside Barbara was empty. Somehow, The Shadow had mysteriously
vanished, after Barbara's brief story was told. As the girl gaped, she noticed
that the car had stopped. The chauffeur was waiting, attentively, for new
orders.
Through the speaking, tube, Barbara gave the address where she wanted to go.
The huge car started forward. Deep in the cushions, Barbara tried to recall
those brief minutes when The Shadow had traveled with her.
She remembered that when she finished her brief details, he had spoken a
request for future silence. That was wise, Barbara agreed. It would be better
to keep this story from others, who would not believe it. The adventure was
ended; she was safe. After all, she had told all the facts that might have
interested The Shadow.
So Barbara thought; and she doubted that she would see her mysterious rescuer
again. There, Barbara was wrong. The future was to bring The Shadow into new
affairs that would concern her greatly.
The reason for those coming events was in Barbara's own possession. The
Crystal Buddha was to lead The Shadow on strange and devious trails.
CHAPTER III.
MEN OF THE DARK.
A TINY light was flickering along the muddy road that the limousine had left.
This unpaved stretch in Central Park was forming The Shadow's return path to
Malkett's abandoned cab. The Shadow had a definite purpose for going back to
the battleground. He wanted to dispose of any evidence revealing that Barbara
Brinby had been there.
The simple story that the girl had given fitted with facts that The Shadow
knew. A relentless foe to men of crime, The Shadow kept careful check on
events in the underworld. Frequently, when criminals moved out on foray, The
Shadow was prompt to frustrate them.
The Shadow had many agents. Some of them were located in underworld haunts,
where they kept tabs on crooked doings. Their reports were promptly forwarded
to The Shadow, through a contact man named Burbank. Such communication had
brought The Shadow into action to-night.
Scummy crooks who had headquarters at an old garage, had received a tip-off to
a stick-up. That call had come from Malkett--although The Shadow hadn't known
its source until he witnessed Barbara's plight. He had learned where the mob
was to await the tipster; so his limousine had been on hand when the touring
car picked up the taxi's trail.
Barbara had mentioned Bela Singh's. The Shadow knew the Hindu art dealer's
good repute. That made it plain that the trouble was sponsored entirely by
Malkett, who had obviously made his phone call while Barbara was at Bela
Singh's.
All was quiet at Malkett's cab, when The Shadow reached it. The rat-faced
cabby lay dead, as he deserved; for the blow that he had started for Barbara's
head had been a murderous one.
There had been a hard-pitched battle on this spot, with plenty of gunshots;
but, as yet, the police had not located it. The road curved through a little
dell; that explained why the reports of guns might not have been heard. The
Shadow, however, had the theory that the battle in Central Park could not pass
unreported.
The likely answer was that persons had given vague accounts of muffled
gunfire. That would produce investigation. It would not be long before the law
uncovered the abandoned taxicab.
The police could form their own theories regarding all that had occurred. If
they needed facts, The Shadow would supply them; but he would reserve any that
included the name of Barbara Brinby.
The Shadow had not asked the girl her name. One of his agents was acting as
the limousine's chauffeur, and would learn all that was necessary. When he
flashed his tiny light on the floor of the cab, The Shadow learned part of
Barbara's name, at least. There was a calling card lying there, its printed
side up.
The Shadow read the card:
ROBERT BRINBY
ATTORNEY AT LAW
Selgrade Building New York
THE SHADOW had never heard of Robert Brinby, which was not surprising, for
many attorneys remain obscure in New York. The card, however, was a link to
the girl that The Shadow had rescued. It happened that Robert Brinby was
Barbara's father, as The Shadow was to learn, later. For the present, he was
interested solely in disposing of the card, in order to protect Barbara.
The card had obviously dropped from Barbara's bag when she drew out her
revolver. Since the girl was an innocent factor in all that had occurred, this
evidence, if found by the police, would merely subject her to unnecessary
annoyance.
That was why The Shadow reached one hand to pluck the calling card from the
cab floor. Something else caused him to stop before his fingers found the
object they wanted.
There was a creepy slosh in the darkness. It came from the rear of the cab,
near the side where The Shadow had opened the door. Instantly, The Shadow's
light went out. He let the card lie where it was, while he retired in the
darkness.
The Shadow reached a spot almost beside the driver's door. Completely
obscured, he waited there, to learn more of the soft-footed prowler who was
moving so stealthily through the muck.
The sounds stopped completely. There was a slender chance that the approacher
had caught the glimmer of The Shadow's light; another chance, less likely,
that he had heard the cloaked investigator move away. Whatever the case, the
fellow must have suspicioned something; for he remained motionless.
The Shadow weighed the possibilities. Either the man had stopped near the back
of the cab and was waiting there, almost in reach; or he had managed to sneak
from that position. The latter possibility was plausible; for it was only a
chance slosh that had given The Shadow an inkling of the fellow's approach.
While The Shadow waited for some new token of a lurker, a betraying sound
came. It was from the other side of the cab. Some one in the darkness was
opening the far door. That supported The Shadow's theory that the fellow had
shifted to a new position. Gradually, The Shadow eased toward the door on his
own side.
He was there when a flashlight gleamed from the other side. It gave a view of
the entire floor. A hissed intake of breath told that the man had spotted the
card that bore the name of Robert Brinby. A moment later, a free hand crept
into the light.
That hand was dark; but its color seemed blended deep into the skin. That,
with the shape of the hand and its nails, gave The Shadow the news that the
man was a Hindu.
THE hand picked up the card and started to withdraw from the light. Before the
white pasteboard disappeared, The Shadow provided silent action.
His left hand drove forward, its gloved fingers clamped the Hindu's right
wrist. With a simultaneous twist, The Shadow bent the man's hand upward. The
spreading glare of the light showed the Hindu's face. Its expression was one
of ugly surprise.
Fingers still clutched the calling card; they started to release it, but
became motionless. The Shadow's right hand was responsible for that. From his
cloak, he had drawn an automatic, to thrust the muzzle into the light.
Amazed, the Hindu heard sinister whispered tones that voiced a language which
he knew. For a moment, he looked less ugly; then suspicion tinged his
jet-black eyes. White teeth gritted between his open lips. The Hindu did not
intend to talk. His eyes were scornful as they glared into the looming gun.
The Shadow's left hand tightened. Its finger pressure brought a wince; even
the stoical Hindu could not stand that expert taste of torture. He started to
babble, breathlessly; but his teeth chattered, rendering his first words
incoherent. He didn't get far enough with his talk to tell The Shadow
anything.
The interruption came from behind The Shadow; it was supplied so stealthily
that it almost caught the cloaked avenger unawares. The Shadow had missed a
guess. There were two Hindus; not one.
The fellow that he gripped was not the prowler that he had first heard. The
other had waited at the back of the car. Guessing that his teammate was in
trouble, the reserve Hindu was on the job.
He had crept up in back of The Shadow. His eager fingers had moved for a
knife; then he had changed his mind. He had seen the threat of The Shadow's
gun; had known that a stab might not stop a spontaneous shot. The Hindu was
grabbing for the automatic. That shift of tactics was all that saved The
Shadow.
In coming inward, the Hindu jarred the open door. The Shadow gave an instant
twist, just as hands grabbed to wrench his gun away.
The Hindus were treated to a double lesson in quick defense. Dropping his gun
before the Hindu could get it, The Shadow shot his hand upward and backward,
to clamp the neck above the gripping hands. At the same instant, he hauled the
other Hindu in from the door. Flattening, The Shadow somersaulted one man
forward while he pinned the other beneath him.
The cramped space of the cab favored the Hindus. In the open, The Shadow's
method would have worked to full effect. Inside the cab, it succeeded with the
man underneath; but not with the Hindu that The Shadow tried to fling.
The pitch ended abruptly. The tumbling Hindu spiraled on the backseat,
twisting from The Shadow's hold.
This time, he yanked his knife. Before The Shadow could stop his thrust, the
blade was on its way. The light from the floor gave the Hindu the visibility
he needed; but it was gone before he could complete the stroke.
The Shadow simply twisted, releasing at the same time the cramped hand of the
lower Hindu. The light flopped. In the sudden darkness, the man with the knife
lost the opportunity to guide the finish of his thrust.
The blade sliced the folds of The Shadow's cloak; it struck the front wall of
the cab and was sprung from the hand that drove it.
WEAPONLESS, The Shadow grappled with the unarmed Hindus. To put the struggle
on an even basis, The Shadow lunged for an open door. He bowled one Hindu
ahead of him; the other, clutching tightly, came along with them.
A gun threat was the way to quell the Hindus. The Shadow had another automatic
under his cloak; and he knew that the dark men would respect it if they saw
it. That was why The Shadow broke away; took a long dive from the side of the
road.
As he rolled down a slippery slope, he was reaching for his gun and his
flashlight, intending to cover the Hindus and let them realize it.
By springing in The Shadow's direction, they would be coming into trouble; and
The Shadow expected them to make that false move. All that deterred them was
the distant wail of a police siren, coming up from a road below.
Instead of driving toward The Shadow's waiting gun muzzle, the Hindus bolted
through the darkness. They were tearing along the road, away from the siren's
sound. A bushy embankment took them from The Shadow's range. As he came to his
feet, The Shadow heard the grind of an automobile starter. The Hindus had
reached their car.
Springing to the cab, The Shadow looked for the calling card. It was gone; the
Hindu must have managed to shove it in a pocket as he struggled. From the cab
floor, The Shadow took the other Hindu's knife, and reclaimed his own
automatic. Just as he started from the side of the cab, a patrol car hit the
bend below.
Bright lights gave an evasive view of The Shadow as he headed for the darkness
beside the road. There were shouts; guns began to talk. A siren shrieked from
a lower road; flashlights glimmered from below, in response to those above.
Cutting in another direction, The Shadow heard more shouts.
Police had arrived in plenty; they were already beating the ground, even
before the patrol car had spotted the cab with Malkett's body beside it. The
Shadow had been sighted, although unrecognized. Seeking a path that offered an
outlet, The Shadow ran into an obstacle that would have permanently halted any
other venturer.
A huge rock blocked his course; its surface was a sheer, rough wall, ten feet
high. The Shadow could hear the calls of searchers on the other side. Behind
him, he spied the flickering of lights, heading toward him through the trees.
Digging his fingers into the crevices, The Shadow gained a toe-hold with his
soft-tipped shoes. He moved upward against the rock's surface with the skill
of a beetle, using speed to offset the chances of a fall. His hands came over
the top of the rock; he rolled flat upon its broad summit.
Lying there, The Shadow remained unsuspected when the police arrived. None of
the officers supposed that a fugitive could have scaled that rock in the few
seconds that had been available. The hunt continued on the ground below, while
The Shadow waited. He was in no hurry to depart.
A trail would be waiting later. Barbara had told The Shadow that she had
visited Bela Singh. The meeting with Hindu prowlers made it obvious who had
sent them on the girl's trail.
Before this night ended, The Shadow would make a visit of his own, to the
abode of Bela Singh.
CHAPTER IV.
DIVIDED WEALTH.
THERE was a reason why that calling card had dropped from Barbara's hand bag.
To-night, the girl had gone on business that concerned her father; she had
carried the card in readiness, in case she chose to introduce herself.
Barbara's present destination was one where her father awaited her.
The attorney was an elderly man; stoop-shouldered. Seated at a table, his head
was bowed from habit, so that viewers saw more of his baldish pate than his
withery face. The room where Brinby sat seemed suited to him; for it was the
living room of an old, almost-forgotten mansion that belonged to the years
when Brinby had been in his prime.
The place, however, was not the lawyer's own home. It was the one-time
residence of a deceased client, James Plaistead, who had been Brinby's closest
friend.
Seated about the table were three men, who meant little to Brinby. They were
the only living relatives of James Plaistead. They had come to claim their
shares of the estate; and all three, in Brinby's estimation, were persons who
deserved none of the wealth that would soon be theirs.
Eldest of the three was Lester Kurnz, a man in his middle forties. He was the
only one for whom Brinby felt a slight liking. Lester had come into some money
when young; and had always done well in business. He had remained a bachelor.
Lester Kurnz was successful, and knew it. His square-set face, with steady
eyes and the straight nose between, was evidence of his determination. Lester
摘要：

Asinscrutableasthetinyidolitself,werethewaysofTheShadowashepiercedtheveilofmysterybehind...THECRYSTALBUDDHAbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedinTheShadowMagazine#141January1,1938CHAPTERI.THESHOPOFBELASINGH.THEEastSidestreetslookedsinisterasBarbaraBrinbyviewedthemfromthewindowsofthecab.Perhapstheywer...

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