Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 333 - Night Of The Shadow

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MAN-EATER
Cranston had gone nearly a full mile through the thick jungle
growth when he tripped on the thick vine that lay across the
faint path. A vine thick as a man's arm suddenly whipped up
from the jungle floor and wrapped itself around Cranston's
waist. The vine that had tripped him was wound tight around
his ankle. Another vine seemed to strike like a snake and fasten
itself on Cranston's wrist as he struggled to release the vine
around his ankle.
The vines began to pull at him, began to draw him to the left
of the trail. The vines ended fifty feet away in a thick, enormous
flowerlike growth in the shape of a cup--a cup that was wide
open, revealing a lining as red as blood. The cup opened and
closed like a mouth--a hungry mouth!
The powerful vines drew Lamont Cranston, THE
SHADOW, steadily toward the gaping mouth of the meat-
eating plant.
2
The Night of the
Shadow
MAXWELL GRANT
NIGHT OR THE SHADOW
A BELMONT BOOK--November 1966
3
1
THE MAN staggered as he walked.
A tall and slender man, dark haired. The man half-ran, leaning forward from the waist, as if
someone had given him a push and he was unable to stop, could only stagger on like a weary
creature about to fall. He swayed, almost fell many times, but somehow held on and moved
steadily forward in his half-run, half-stagger. His arms dangled like sticks on a string. He crossed
the side streets without looking right or left as if unaware that there were cars. Drivers cursed at
him. He did not hear them.
From time to time he looked up to see where he was going. To see where he was. His eyes
were glazed. Eyes of a certain pain, and of more. Drugged eyes. Eyes that had seen horror, felt
pain, and known no sleep for many hours. In the eyes there was a hopeless hope--as if the man
knew that he would never reach his goal, but would never stop trying to reach the goal. Eyes that
told that the man knew that if he ever stopped moving he would not move again.
Park Avenue in New York City is a wide avenue with two lanes of traffic on either side of a
center strip that is planted in grass and fenced. At Christmas there are Christmas trees with lights
stretching its entire length until it ends as the New York Central Tracks come up from beneath it
at 96th Street. It is never deserted. There is always traffic; the taxicabs like to use Park Avenue.
Now, near midnight, the cars streamed past without stop while the green lights stretched on into
the distance.
The tall man, staggering, raising his head only to look ahead toward his goal, did not notice
the dark green car that came out of a cross street and turned north behind him. The car could not
drive too fast in the traffic. But it tried to move ahead, and drove in the lane closest to the curb.
Once it almost reached the staggering man, only to be thwarted by a red light.
The light turned green and the car moved ahead again. The staggering man, swaying, did not
notice. The car gained, came close--and the man turned into a tall office building. He neither
paused nor hesitated. He turned at the same half-run and entered the lobby. Outside, the car was
caught by surprise and could not stop in the flow of traffic. It went on looking for a place to park.
Inside the bright night lobby of the tall office building the uniformed night guard looked up
from where he sat at a desk with the time sheet on a clipboard in front of him. He started to smile
at the tall thin man to indicate that he wanted the man to sign the time sheet. Then he stopped
smiling. He had seen the wild eyes of the dark-haired man, the sway and stagger as the man
approached him. The guard stood, but hesitated. He was a simple guard in an office building, he
had not drawn his pistol in twelve years.
The guard had not dealt with trouble in his life. He went for his pistol. He was too late. The
long hesitation had cost him his chance. The staggering man was on him. There was a pistol in
the hand of the tall man. With what was nearly his last strength the man raised the pistol and
brought it down on the head of the guard. The surprised guard dropped like a stone.
The tall man swayed, almost fell, recovered himself and staggered on past the fallen guard
and into the single night elevator. The elevator doors closed. The elevator began its ascent.
Below in the lobby three men walked in. They were small, dark-skinned men. They looked at the
guard and at each other.
4
The low buzzing sound filled the room of blue light. A formless room without windows or
walls or ceiling or doors. A space of blue light, no more, the light itself seeming to come from
nowhere. In the room there was only a series of long electronic consoles, and a solitary man who
sat at the largest of the instruments. The room itself was silent except for the now sudden
buzzing.
A room that did not exist.
The blue room would not be found on any floor plan of any building. It was not listed on any
directory. It had no known entrance or exit. One of a series of blue-lighted rooms that did not
exist to the knowledge of anyone but a few. And yet the rooms were there, hidden high in the
office building on Park Avenue, where, at this moment, the tall thin man was staggering out of
the elevator on the floor occupied by Lamont Cranston Enterprises, Inc. The man swayed, held
to the wall, moved along the corridor.
The solitary man in the blue room sat alert as the buzzer sounded. He touched a button on the
console in front of him. A television screen showed an immediate picture.
It was a picture of the corridor and the tall, dark-haired man who now held to the wall as he
staggered toward the dark doors of the offices of Lamont Cranston Enterprises, Inc. The man fell
to his knees as the silent man in the blue room watched. The tall man struggled again to his feet,
lurched forward.
Behind the staggering man the elevator door opened again. The three small, dark men stepped
out. Each carried a large, peculiar-looking pistol.
The solitary man in the blue room bent forward to a speaking grid.
"Burbank alert! Burbank alerting to strangers in corridor. One appears injured. Three pursuers
are armed."
There was an instant of silence. Then a deep, yet soft voice answered from the console.
"Report acknowledged. Continue surveillance."
In the corridor the lurching man had turned now to face the three small dark men. The three
moved forward cautiously. The tall man held his pistol on them. They watched the pistol. They
inched toward the tall man. They spoke, the three dark little men, in some strange language.
The tall man tried to hold his pistol steady. The man tried to pull the trigger.
He could not. He swayed, lurched against the wall, fell forward onto his knees.
The three small men moved closer. The lead man took careful aim with his odd pistol and
squeezed the trigger. There was a sharp spitting sound, a pfffttt like the crack of a whip. The man
on his knees jerked convulsively, slid sideways, fell over and lay crumbled on his side. The small
man who had shot his strange gun aimed again.
"No!"
The command came like a sharp blow in the dim night corridor of the office building. The
command of an unseen voice. The small dark-skinned man who had been about to shoot again
jerked his head up. His pistol came up. His black eyes searched the empty corridor for the source
of the sudden command.
"You cannot see me!"
Again the voice sounded. A strong voice, and yet low. A voice of command that had no need
to shout to hold the three small men in check in the silent corridor. The three men- all looked at
each other, and then up and down the deserted corridor. Their eyes showed a sudden terror. The
leader, the one who had shot the tall man, tried to show power.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
5
The small man spoke good English, clear English and yet with a peculiar accent. The other
two held their odd pistols and continued to watch the empty corridor. The leader barked an order
in some strange language. They nodded, and began to spread out in the corridor.
An eerie laugh echoed up and down the corridor.
"Fools! No man can defeat The Shadow! Lay down your weapons! Now!"
The three small men said nothing. They only looked wildly around them for the unseen
source of the mocking voice. At this moment, the tall man who lay on the floor suddenly
groaned, moved, struggled to rise. The leader of the three attackers whirled, aimed his ugly pistol
again at the tall, thin man.
He never fired.
The secret door in the side wall of the corridor opened and closed so swiftly none of the three
men saw it. What they saw was the great black-shrouded shape that seemed to rise up out of the
floor of the silent corridor, to appear before them in its wide blackness as if by magic. They saw
the bright, burning eyes beneath the brim of a black slouch hat. They saw the hawk nose that
jutted above the high collar of the black cloak that blended into the dim shadows of the late night
corridor. They saw the long, accusing finger with the red fire-opal ring glowing like some
flaming beacon.
One of them screamed.
A hoarse, broken scream of terror. The leader turned again--too late.
The giant black shape moved soundlessly like a bird of prey through the corridor and seemed
to flow over the leader with his strange gun. A black shape that floated to and over the man and
left him lying on the floor, his pistol clattering away across the dim corridor.
The two other attackers tried to escape. The black-shrouded figure bounded through the
corridor, the black cloak streaming out like great wings. The second of the small, dark men fell
with a choked scream as The Shadow reached him, as the hand of The Shadow slashed out and
down across his neck. The man lay on the floor of the dim corridor and did not move again.
The third man almost reached the elevator, heard The Shadow behind him, and turned to try
to defend himself. His odd-looking pistol came up, shot once; and missed in his fear and haste.
The laugh of The Shadow reverberated through the dim corridor. His long fingers reached out
like claws of steel, held the small man by the throat. The small man squirmed. Held high with his
feet dangling in empty air he tried to fire again. Then he slumped unconscious in the hand of The
Shadow as the steel fingers squeezed.
The corridor became silent.
The three men lay where they had fallen. One was dead, his neck broken. The Shadow stood
alone with his fiery eyes blazing in the dim light and the silence. He listened for a moment.
There was no sound. Then he glided like a phantom to the tall thin man who was weakly
crawling on the floor of the corridor. His black-garbed figure bent down over the man.
The man was dying, would soon be dead--but was not yet dead. The Shadow removed the
thick air-gun dart the leader of the three small attackers had shot into the neck of the dying man.
The Shadow touched the man, spoke softly.
"Who are you?"
The man moved his head from side to side like an insect trying to find the light. He opened
his eyes. The man's eyes stared upward--but they did not see! The Shadow bent low, looked into
the eyes. The tall man was all but blind, what was left of his sight fading rapidly even as The
Shadow watched.
"Why were you coming to Lamont Cranston?"
6
The man blinked as if to try to see the soft-voiced figure above him in the dim corridor. Then
he seemed to nod, shake his head as if he had been expecting to be blind. The man licked his lips
that were dry now. His voice was a croak.
"Ah . . . wha . . . Ahhh taaggh . . ."
The man waited. The Shadow stared at him. The man was waiting for an answer--an answer
to some question the man thought he had asked. The man could not see The Shadow above him,
and lay there waiting for some answer to some question that his dying mind told him he had
asked.
The Shadow guessed. "Yes, I am Lamont Cranston. You were coming to my offices."
The dying man nodded weakly, licked his dry lips again, spoke in his hoarse croak.
"Ahhhhhggggg . . . gggaaaaabbbbb . . . mmmmmuhhhhuuhh . . ."
The man's weak hand reached up, touched The Shadow, held onto The Shadow's cloak as if
urging the importance, the urgency of his message. But there was no message that even The
Shadow could understand. Only gibberish. A babbling gibberish from the blind and dying man
that made no sense.
"Ahhhhh . . . uuuuggghhhh!"
The Shadow tried to hear, to understand, but there was no way. The man was frantic with the
importance of his words, but there were no words. The dry lips of the man moved, and the voice
croaked with a sound that had in it all the urgency of fear and terror, of the heroic effort the man
had made to reach Lamont Cranston. None of it could help. The words, the sounds that came
from the dying man, were gibberish. Whatever the man wanted so urgently to say could not be
said. How far he had come, where he had come from, why he had come to Lamont Cranston,
could not be told by the man who croaked out his frantic gibberish.
As if, suddenly, he knew this, the man gave a moan. A low, hopeless moan of fear and
despair. It was the last sound that came. The tall, thin man moaned in his despair, his eyes
glazed, he shuddered once, and fell back on the hard floor of the silent corridors.
The man was dead.
7
2
THERE was no more sound in the dim corridor of the tall office building above Park Avenue in
New York. The man lay dead. He was now beyond hope or pain. The Shadow looked down at
his dead face.
His fiery eyes studied the face of the dead man who had been trying so hard to reach Lamont
Cranston. It was not a face he knew. He had never seen the face before. Not as The Shadow, and
not as any of the many alter-egoes the dark Avenger presented to the world to hide his true
identity. His photographic memory was perfect. Once he had seen a man he never forgot. This
was not a face he had ever seen before, dead or alive.
Yet the man had given his life in a desperate attempt to reach Lamont Cranston with a
message. A message, a report, some story that had been worth the risk of his life, worth the effort
to reach Cranston despite his condition--because The Shadow knew as he studied the body that
the tall man had not died from the air-gun wound alone--he had been dying before he was shot.
The Shadow could not surmise the real cause of death. What strange evil had killed him, and
had first rendered him blind and unable to speak intelligibly?
Was that the message the dead man had wanted so desperately to tell Lamont Cranston? And
why Cranston? How did the man know Lamont Cranston when Cranston did not know him? A
dying man on his last strength tried to reach a man he had never known? How and why? The
Shadow could not tell. His burning eyes studied the man's body, every detail, every mark on the
dead face. He studied the man's clothes--an ordinary business suit, a white shirt, a simple striped
tie, dark shoes, dark socks. Nothing! But not quite nothing. The Shadow peered down at the
body. The suit was an ordinary suit, but it was not of American cut. The vast data that filled the
mind of The Shadow said that the suit had been made not in the United States but in South
America. In Brazil! The Shadow was sure--the man had come from Brazil. His eyes blazed, and
then he saw the ring.
The dead man wore a ring on his left hand. A strange ring. A special and grotesque ring
formed of solid gold, carved into the shape of a great twined snake. A primitive ring made of a
single gold nugget hollowed out into a ring by hand and carved into the shape of a thick snake--
an Anaconda! The Shadow bent down and took the ring from the dead hand. He examined it, and
his fiery eyes glowed. He recognized this ring. It was one of the sacred gold Anaconda rings of
the Jarro Indians of the upper Amazon Basin. The man had come from Brazil, and had been at
some time in the land of the Jarro--a fierce tribe of headhunters who gave their rings only to
those who could share their bloody and secret rites. Which meant that the dead man had lived
long in the far back country, up the small tributary rivers of the Amazon where the Jarro ruled.
There was no other explanation--the Jarro admitted a man to their rites only by blood ritual after
many, many years of watching him prove he was a man. Not more than ten outsiders in history
had been admitted to the rites of the Jarro and lived. One was Kent Allard.
The ring in his hand, The Shadow's eyes glowed with an understanding that was coming
clear. The dead man had been looking for Kent Allard, not Lamont Cranston! That . . .
The low groan came from behind The Shadow. The black-garbed figure turned in the dim
corridor. The leader of the three small attackers was regaining consciousness. The Shadow
glided to the man, bent down, squeezed the pressure points on the man's neck. The dark-skinned
attacker slumped unconscious again. Now The Shadow checked the other two. One was dead, his
8
neck broken by the blow of The Shadow. The third was still alive but unconscious. The Shadow
turned his fiery eyes on the glowing red fire-opal girasol ring. Almost at once another man
appeared in the dim corridor. A man dressed in the uniform of a chauffeur, but with the swift,
catlike movements of the trained agent in the war for justice. He carried an automatic, but, seeing
there was no danger, he replaced the weapon in the hidden holster inside his chauffeur's uniform
and looked at The Shadow.
"Take this one into the small room, Stanley," The Shadow commanded, and indicated the
unconscious leader of the attackers.
Stanley bent, picked up the fallen man as if he were no larger than a child.
"We will leave the others here," The Shadow said. "It is possible that the police can trace the
murdered man."
"Won't they want to know what he was doing here, Chief?" Stanley said, the unconscious
attacker held easily in his arms.
"We don't know what he was doing here, Stanley," The Shadow said. "Commissioner Weston
will not press Lamont Cranston. When you have imprisoned that man, call the police
anonymously and report the killings. Then meet in Lamont Cranston's private office. Alert
Margo to be there."
Stanley nodded, turned, and seemed to vanish through the wall of the corridor with his
burden. The Shadow let his fiery eyes survey the silent corridor once more. He looked at the
dead men and the one who was still alive. There was nothing more to be learned in the dim
corridor. The Shadow moved and faded from the corridor.
In the corridor now there was only death.
The blue room was silent, unmoving. A hazy blue light without walls or ceiling. In the blue
light, The Shadow appeared. For a moment he stood there looking down at the unconscious form
of the leader of the three attackers, his fiery eyes stabbing into the supine form. The man stirred,
groaned. The eyes of The Shadow bored into the brain of the man. The man stopped moving,
was silent, lay now with a peaceful smile on his sleeping face. The Shadow turned and melted
into the hazy blue light.
The blue room was empty of all but the peaceful man.
The Shadow reappeared.
But it was not The Shadow who now stood there. It was a stranger with different clothes and a
different face.
He was smaller than The Shadow, shorter and stockier. The man seemed this different, but
actually he was none of these things. In place of the piercing eyes of The Shadow, the new man's
eyes were hooded and quiet. His broader face was impassive. The face of a man accustomed to
authority and power, but who was basically quiet and thoughtful. A man of deliberation rather
than action. His immobile face and half-closed eyes were softened, passive, with none of the
alert and steely power that marked the face of The Shadow. Yet none of these things were true.
The man who now stood where The Shadow had stood was an illusion, a creation of the power,
skill, training and controlled mind of The Shadow. Behind the facade the man presented to the
world were all the powers of The Shadow, all the endless years of training and contemplation in
the Orient that had made him The Shadow--except one power.
This man was Lamont Cranston, wealthy socialite, international businessman, friend of Police
Commissioner Weston of New York and fellow member of the powerful and exclusive Cobalt
Club with the Commissioner. And behind the self-created illusion of Cranston, behind the
physical changes actually performed by the infinite muscular control of The Shadow, were all
9
the powers--the super hearing, the ultra-keen sight, the secret powers learned in the Orient, the
trained and skilled muscles that could break a log or a neck in a single blow--except the one
power. The ultimate power of The Shadow to cloud the minds of men and render them helpless
to resist him, to invade their minds with the mist of power that placed all their will in his hands,
belonged to The Shadow, only to The Shadow, and only when he was The Shadow. The power,
given to The Shadow so long ago in the Orient by the great Master Chen T'a Tze himself, was of
the mind but required the great black cloak, the black slouch hat, the fire-opal girasol ring to be
brought into play. The source of the strange and potent power was unknown even to Chen T'a
Tze, but it was in the trained concentration of The Shadow's mind, as it had been in the mind of
the Master himself until passed on. It could not be learned, it could be used by only one man in
each generation, and it had come to The Shadow with the cloak, the dark hat, and the burning red
ring from the dying hands of Chen T'a Tze on a bright dawn long ago in a hidden monastery in
the Orient when the Master had smiled and breathed his last. Now it belonged to only The
Shadow, this strange and ultimate power, and The Shadow had used it well.
Beyond this single power, the man who stood now in the blue room was The Shadow in his
major alter-ego--Lamont Cranston. His face calm and impassive, Cranston looked down at the
sleeping prisoner, turned and faded into the blue light of the room. The light seemed to part, a
wall opened, and he stood in a dark and narrow passageway. Cranston moved silently along the
passageway until he reached a smooth and dim wall. He touched the wall. There was a faint
sound, but nothing appeared to happen. Then Cranston walked into the wall and through it. There
was no wall, only the electronic illusion of a wall. Cranston disappeared.
On the other side of the optical illusion wall he stood in a tiny cubicle. This time when he
touched the wall of the cubicle there was a whirring sound and the wall swung out. Cranston
stepped through.
Margo Lane and the chauffeur, Stanley, looked up from where they were seated to watch
Lamont Cranston step out of the opening behind the bookcase. The bookcase closed behind him
leaving no trace of the opening behind it, or of the passageways and hidden blue rooms so
cleverly integrated into the offices of Lamont Cranston Enterprises, Inc. that no one had ever
detected their existence, or guessed that the bright and efficient business offices were no more
than a facade to cover the hidden rooms that were the central headquarters of The Shadow's far-
flung organization. Cranston walked quietly to his elegant desk and sat down to face his two
primary agents. His secretary and Number One Agent, Margo Lane; and his chauffeur-
bodyguard--and Number Two agent, Stanley.
"I think the murdered man was looking for Kent Allard," Cranston said quietly.
Margo Lane listened intently, her slim legs crossed, her dark hair framing her intelligent face.
She was a striking woman, the type of woman who made the heads of men turn as they passed.
She was beautiful, but it was more than that. Not tall, the poise of her lithe body made her seem
taller than she was. There was a power in her eyes, in the carriage of her slim body. An inner
power that was clear even as she sat quietly now in the richly decorated private office of Lamont
Cranston. Part of her quiet efficiency, as both private secretary and principal assistant to The
Shadow, was natural, a force she had been born with, and part was from her years of work and
training with The Shadow. Margo had come a long way from her home in Denver, Colorado, to
be the right hand of The Shadow. On the way she had learned much, had worked at many things,
including the brief career on the stage that had given her both her poise and her uncanny ability
with disguise--an ability that stood her in good stead with the organization of The Shadow.
10
She was a woman who never seemed to tire, was never surprised by a sudden midnight
summons from her Chief.
"But you don't know him, Lamont?" Margo said.
Cranston shook his head. "No, I never saw him before. Not as Cranston, and not as Kent
Allard. But there is no doubt that he was trying to reach someone with a message, and I think
that someone would have to be Allard. You know, Margo, as Kent Allard I have often been up
the Amazon."
Margo smiled. "I don't think we'll forget that Jarro country very soon, Lamont."
Stanley laughed. "Some of those Jarro men took a big fancy to you, Margo. That sub-chief
had you all but married to him. What they want, they take. Lucky for you they don't think as fast
as they act."
"A strong people," Margo said.
"A good people," Cranston said evenly. "And this dead man had some relation to them. He
must have known the name of Kent Allard, and have known that as Cranston I often back
Allard's expeditions."
Margo nodded. "That seems logical, Lamont."
"Some message for Allard," Cranston said. "Important enough to have him risk his life, to get
killed. Important enough to someone else for them to send three killers--even though the man
was already dying!"
"You don't know what was wrong with him?" Margo said.
"No, some obscure malady it seems. Perhaps a drug, fatal but relatively slow acting."
Cranston leaned across his desk. "He came here, Margo, on his last legs and knowing that killers
were after him. Almost as if he had escaped from them and was making a desperate effort to
reach the only man he could think of. You will note that he did not go to the police."
"Which implies that his story either would not impress the police, would not involve them, or
perhaps would not be believed by them," Margo said.
"It was impressive and believable to someone, Margo," Cranston said grimly. "They sent
those three killers."
Stanley seemed puzzled. The chauffeur-bodyguard-agent rubbed his chin and narrowed his
eyes as he listened to his Boss. Now he burst out.
"Those killers weren't Jarro's, Boss. They're not even South American from the look of them."
Cranston agreed. "No, they're not, Stanley, and that brings up another problem. Those three
men were Malaysian. I recognized the dialect and the accent. They are Malaysians from up the
peninsula, but they've been around Singapore quite some time, the accent of their English gives
them away."
Margo thought for a moment. "There aren't many Malaysians in New York, Lamont, or even
in the country."
"No," Cranston said. "I had the same thought. They were imported, Margo, sent here for one
purpose and one purpose only--to stop that man from reaching us! Or from reaching anyone. I
don't think they knew who he was trying to reach or they would more likely have been waiting
here for him rather than following him. So we have a mystery that involves both Brazil and the
Malay Peninsula, probably Singapore."
Margo was silent for a moment. Stanley watched her and his impassive Boss. Cranston waited
for whatever was on Margo's mind. Over the years he had learned to trust the judgment, the
mind, of his number one agent and close associate and friend. When Margo looked up at him her
eyes were firm as if she had made a decision.
11
"Lamont, is this for us? We don't know who the man was, or why he was coming here. We
cannot waste our power on things that may have little importance."
Cranston nodded slowly, his hooded eyes almost hidden as he thought. "Yes, Margo you may
be right. And yet I feel that there is something behind this that smells of evil. But I agree that we
cannot be ruled by our desire to help everyone, it must be something that needs The Shadow."
"That was what I meant, Lamont," Margo said quietly.
Cranston nodded. "I know, Margo. But the man came here, he came for our help. The Shadow
cannot turn his back on such an appeal. He risked everything, and lost everything, Margo, and at
least we owe him an attempt to learn just what is involved."
Margo smiled. "Of course, Lamont, I wasn't thinking clearly. We must try."
"Yes, Margo, we must try. There is some evil here, an evil that can make a man blind, render
him unable to speak anything but meaningless gibberish."
"What do you want us to do, Boss?" Stanley said.
Cranston's hooded eyes were thoughtful. "I think, Stanley, I want you to contact Shrevvy and
the other of our agents here in New York. I want you all to spread out -and see if you can trace
either the dead man or his attackers. Who are they exactly, where did they come from, how did
they get to the city? All of that."
"Right," Stanley said. "I've taken pictures of them, I'll get copies made."
Cranston turned to Margo. "You, Margo, had better stay with the police. Explain that I am
away on business, you were here. You had the trouble reported. Weston will give us no trouble,
of course, but I'd like you to stay with the police for a time just to see if they learn anything,
especially the identity of the dead man. Keep your ears and eyes open for any connection to
Brazil or Malaysia."
"I will, Lamont," Margo said.
Cranston turned again to Stanley. "I think you can safely make a start with the same thing--
any connections to Brazil or Malaysia. Ships that have come from either country. The airlines.
Private planes. You know what to do, Stanley."
Stanley nodded. Cranston's hooded eyes became grim in his impassive face. The wealthy
socialite and businessman was silent for a long minute.
"I will try to learn all I can from our prisoner. I have grave doubts that he will reveal much,
the three men are unlikely to be more than hired assassins."
"They may know more than they think," Margo said.
"That one is the leader," Stanley said.
"Yes, there may he a chance," Cranston agreed, and his eyes suddenly flashed with the hidden
power of The Shadow. "But if not, I have a plan that may work for us--or for The Shadow."
A disguised light began to blink on Cranston's desk. There was a faint but insistent buzzing
sound. Cranston nodded to his two agents. The light and the buzzing were the alarms that said
someone was in the corridor. Cranston flipped a concealed switch. The cold, crisp voice of the
man at the communications console in the hidden blue room came into the elegant office of
Cranston.
"Burbank alert. Police arriving in the corridor."
Cranston bent to a speaker. "Very good. Remain at post to coordinate work of agents in New
York. Stanley will give details. In the meantime, search files for any recent trouble, or unusual
events in Malaysia and Brazil. Contact our man in Singapore to be alert."
"Acknowledge," Burbank's crisp voice said.
The office became silent. Cranston nodded to Margo Lane.
12
"You better go out and delay the police. Be- cooperative, Margo, but tell them nothing just
yet."
Margo left. Cranston listened to her voice out in the corridor for a few moments. Then he
nodded to Stanley. The chauffeur-bodyguard-agent walked from the private office of his Boss
into a small side office where he would start his work. Lamont Cranston sat behind his desk for a
few more minutes listening to the police in the corridor. Then he stood and walked to the wall
and the bookcase. He touched the bookcase. It swung open. Cranston vanished through the wall
and the bookcase closed.
The private office was empty. In the corridor, Margo Lane agreed to go with the police to
make her statement.
13
3
DAI ABDUL CHINNAH had killed many men. When ordered, or for the proper price. It had not
surprised him to be asked to kill again. That the man who was to be killed was so great a distance
from Singapore as the city of New York was, for Dai, a pleasant bonus. He admitted to Comrade
Kyoto that there was in him a weakness to see the great city so many talked about. That had been
what made his pulse swift as Comrade Kyoto placed the three of them aboard the jet. The killing
would be as nothing. It was so ordered by Comrade Kyoto, and, in addition, the price was quite
proper.
Dai had marveled at the great city. It was, indeed, a thing of magnificence. Ah, there was now
no wonder that its inhabitants walked so tall, with such arrogance, when they chanced to be in
Singapore. It was unfortunate that so fine a city should be doomed by the logic and necessity of
history, as Dai knew it to be from the many speeches he had heard. The city had pleased Dai
beyond his weakest dreams. There only remained for him to be blessed to see Moscow and
Peking, and then he would be a great man, more even than Hadji. He scorned the old men with
their green turbans, the great Hadji who had been to the holy city, and yet, as he admitted to
Comrade Kyoto, there was an envy in it, an envy that would be relieved once he had been to
these greater cities than ever Mecca could be. The Hadji had never been to New York! And Dai
was well pleased with the city.
He was less pleased with the kill. First there had been the difficulty in locating the man. The
fool who was to hold the man had inexcusably allowed him to escape. For such an offense the
fool should have died; would have died if Dai had not been under strict orders that the fool was
not to be interfered with. Then, of course, there had been the trouble of locating the man in such
a great and strange city. His fellow assassins had been of little help, fools that they were--country
men, unversed in learning of any kind, unimpressed by the great city. But, with the help of Allah,
(a tale for children though Allah was, of course) he had located the tall man. There had been the
difficulty of parking the car, the time lost waiting for the elevator. But in the end the kill had
been done. Dai was quite sure of that. He recalled clearly that he had shot the man with a dart.
There could be no doubt. Still . . .
Where he sat, Dai recalled that he had meant to shoot again. He had been stopped. Yes. He
looked around him at the blue light. A poor room, without silks or teak. An empty room with
nothing that a man could see and know, nothing but this poor blue light that was of no value. For
what purpose was a room with blue light so poor a man could see nothing? Yes, wait, there had
been a man, something, that had stopped him from firing again. A giant, all black. Some black
demon, the country men would say and quake with fear, but he, Dai Abdul Chinnah, knew there
摘要：

MAN-EATERCranstonhadgonenearlyafullmilethroughthethickjunglegrowthwhenhetrippedonthethickvinethatlayacrossthefaintpath.Avinethickasaman'sarmsuddenlywhippedupfromthejunglefloorandwrappeditselfaroundCranston'swaist.Thevinethathadtrippedhimwaswoundtightaroundhisankle.Anothervineseemedtostrikelikeasnake...

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