Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 216 - The Chinese Primrose

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THE CHINESE PRIMROSE
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. FRISCO MYSTERY
? CHAPTER II. CROSSED TRAILS
? CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW'S THEORY
? CHAPTER IV. ANOTHER VISITOR
? CHAPTER V. THE HIDDEN MASTER
? CHAPTER VI. ALLIES OF JUSTICE
? CHAPTER VII. HARRY TAKES OVER
? CHAPTER VIII. AT THE HONG KONG SHOP
? CHAPTER IX. BATTLE OF DARKNESS
? CHAPTER X. THE WAY OF THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XI. CREATURES BY NIGHT
? CHAPTER XII. WEIRD FLIGHT
? CHAPTER XIII. THE WAY OF LI HUSANG
? CHAPTER XIV. CRIME'S OTHER CAMP
? CHAPTER XV. FRIEND MEETS FRIEND
? CHAPTER XVI. THE DOUBLE DEAL
? CHAPTER XVII. THE PRICE OF LIFE
? CHAPTER XVIII. PARTNERS OF EVIL
? CHAPTER XIX. PATHS OF PERIL
? CHAPTER XX. THE CLOSED TRAP
? CHAPTER XXI. CRIME REVOKED
CHAPTER I. FRISCO MYSTERY
THE man behind the desk was very bland, his face so smugly serene that it registered a definite
expression. It told that its owner was an adept at keeping certain matters to himself; a fact of which his
visitor was quite aware, and showed it.
For the visitor formed quite a contrast to the man behind the desk. Pale, peak-faced, and twitchy of lips,
the visitor was nervous.
Elredge Brend, the man behind the desk, was always serene, whereas the caller, Mark Trobin, was
generally worried. It took a lot of nerve in their particular racket, and Brend apparently had full control of
himself, while Trobin did not.
The door of Brend's office bore the title: "Pacific Prune Producers." All about the office were pictures of
prune groves: colored tints of trees laden with purplish, plumlike fruit. Aptly enough, the office was
located in San Francisco, as a view from its windows disclosed.
Gazing from the window which he faced, Brend could see the Ferry Tower and the great bridge to
Oakland, beyond. But Trobin, who was looking toward Brend's desk, viewed the scene that a different
window afforded, and did not like it.
Trobin's view showed him the squatty, low-lying buildings of Frisco's Chinatown, already spotted with
varicolored lights beneath the gathering dusk. The sight was sinister to Trobin.
"Well, Trobin," spoke Brend in a dry tone. "How did you make out on your last trip, selling—prune
groves?"
Trobin didn't like Brend's pause before the term "prune groves," nor the artful accent that he gave the
words. His lips tightening, Trobin pulled a wallet from his pocket. From it, he extracted a sheaf of bank
notes, all of high denominations, and counted them on Brend's desk.
The money totaled thirty-five thousand dollars. Taking the cash in his turn, Brend counted off thirty-five
hundred and handed that amount back to Trobin.
"Ten percent," said Brend, his tone still dry. "A good-enough commission, Trobin, for an easy sale."
"The sale was easy enough," blurted Trobin. "If I hadn't got rid of it quick, to that customer in Chicago, I
could have gotten a lot more for the bracelet -"
"For the item," corrected Brend, his interruption stern. "Remember, Trobin, that we sell items—which
can mean prune groves, instead of -"
He paused, his lips half smiling, but Trobin did not take the hint. He wanted to talk, to have his full say,
now that he was alone with Brend.
"Instead of Chinese jewelry!" snapped Trobin. "That's our racket, Brend— getting rid of antique jewelry
smuggled in from China. Why try to deny it, between ourselves?"
Brend merely shrugged. He retained his half smile, as though interested in Trobin's sudden mood and
therefore quite willing that the nerve-racked salesman should continue with his theme.
"I want to know what's behind it!" exclaimed Trobin suddenly. "I know you're peddling the stuff, Brend,
using fellows like myself to take the jewels all over the country. But who brought it into the country, to
begin with?"
"Would you like to guess, Trobin?"
"I think I can guess!" emphasized Trobin bluntly. "There's a lot of junk jewelry, cheap stuff, being
imported and sold by a man named Felix Mandore -"
A SUDDEN blaze of Brend's usually cold eyes forced Trobin to interrupt himself. As Brend arose from
the desk, Trobin shrank back nervously in his chair. Then Brend was cool again, speaking crisply.
"Forget Mandore," he said. "All you need to know is that items of real value are being sold along with the
imitation junk. When chaps like you go to the right places and do the right thing, you get the real stuff,
and can sell it. That ought to be satisfactory, Trobin."
"It would be," admitted Trobin, "if the right places were outside of Chinatown; maybe out of Frisco
altogether."
"Which they can't be," returned Brend decisively, "because only Chinese shops carry a large line of junk
jewelry; and as long as the racket stays in Frisco, I can make sure that there is no leak in the game."
Brend's reference to himself merely emphasized in Trobin's mind the fact that someone else—quite
logically, Felix Mandore—was the man higher up. Brend was glancing at his watch, noting that the
afternoon was late. From his actions, he was going to close the office. But as he passed Trobin, the bland
man suddenly stopped and clapped his hand on the nervous salesman's shoulder.
"You did well with the last item, Trobin," complimented Brend. "I'm going to let you pick up another
tonight, one that your Boston customer will pay sixty grand for, after one look. Stop at the Acme Florists,
as usual, then go to the Hong Kong Shop."
"In Chinatown," gulped Trobin. "Always in Chinatown. It's giving me the jitters, Brend!"
"Because of the Chinese?"
Trobin nodded a reply to Brend's question. The bland man chuckled dryly.
"There are Chinese who might make trouble," he admitted, "but not when I'm handling matters.
Everything will be under control, Trobin, particularly in Chinatown."
The way in which Brend emphasized his statement carried weight with Trobin. His eyes showed
eagerness, at thought of a quick sale that would net him six thousand dollars in commission. Rising,
Trobin reached out to shake hands with Brend.
"I'm all set, Brend," Trobin decided. "I'll pick up the item, and take an early plane East tomorrow. I'll see
you again early next week."
LEAVING Brend's office, Trobin hailed a taxicab and rode to the Acme Florists, a little flower shop not
far from the outskirts of Frisco's Chinatown. The flower store was important for three reasons: it was
near Chinatown; it stayed open evenings; and it carried a particular type of flower favored by Trobin and
certain other persons.
That flower was a red primrose, and could easily be recognized by anyone who had ever seen a
specimen before. The Acme Florists were the only ones who carried those primroses, which were
shipped from a hothouse in Sausalito, across the Bay.
When Trobin entered the little flower shop, the lone clerk gave a smile, stepped to an obscure corner and
brought the customer a red primrose.
There was a girl in the flower shop, buying daffodils. She was an attractive girl, with brown hair and
friendly, inquiring eyes. She looked at the red primrose, and Trobin glanced at the girl, somewhat
suspiciously, until he observed that she was attracted solely by the flower's beauty.
But when Trobin had paid for the primrose and placed it in his lapel, he gave another suspicious glance as
he sidled out to the street.
The girl, by then, had stepped to the deep corner of the flower shop.
"What lovely roses!" she exclaimed. "I don't believe I ever saw any others like them."
"They're a special variety," explained the clerk. "We happened to get them, and it seems that some
customers always want them, so we keep a supply. About the daffodils"—he gestured to the flowers that
the girl had bought— "where shall I send them?"
"To my apartment," said the girl, her eyes still on the tiny roses. "My name is Paula Rayle, and the
address is Apartment 3C, the Corinthian Arms."
Outside the flower shop, Mark Trobin was watching from across the street. He saw Paula Rayle come
out and walk away, taking the opposite direction from Chinatown. Trobin's lips gave a wince of relief, as
he fingered the red flower in his buttonhole. He turned, to start toward Chinatown.
At that moment, the flicker of a large electric sign caught Trobin's eye. It came from another angle, a few
blocks away, and its gleaming letters read:
HOTEL ESPLANADE
After a few moments of hesitation, he turned about, deciding to go to the hotel before he visited
Chinatown. His decision was logical enough; he intended to leave on an early plane, and wanted to be
packed.
The Esplanade was Trobin's hotel; he always stayed there when he came to San Francisco. That last
point, in itself, was good reason for his return to the hotel before visiting Chinatown and picking up the
"item" that Brend had mentioned.
For Mark Trobin was none too sure of matters at the Hotel Esplanade. His jittery mood was partly
inspired by the fact that he had seen too many slant-eyed Chinese in that vicinity, since his return to
Frisco. It would be better to be packed when he came back from Chinatown; in that case, he could
move out, bags and all, without delay.
One block from the Esplanade, Trobin stopped in a drugstore. He remembered that he needed razor
blades, and when he entered the store, he saw a bargain combination on the counter. It included a new
razor, blades, and a tube of shaving cream for sixty nine cents, so Trobin bought the combination. The
clerk wrapped the package and Trobin stuffed it in the side pocket of his coat, where it formed a very
noticeable bulge.
Trobin was trying to be nonchalant, as he reached the hotel. As he entered the glittering doorway of the
building, he had a real shock.
His last glance gave him a chance glimpse of a face above the steering wheel of a parked car. The face
was yellow. It was gone, as Trobin blinked, but he couldn't attribute the sight to his imagination. Instead,
he was sure that he saw huddly forms in the rear of that same car.
Chinese!
SHAKILY, Trobin entered the hotel. All the way across the lobby, his knees were ready to buckle
under him. Chinese, set here to watch him! Such was Trobin's thought, and his brain teemed with the
recollections that Brend had scoffed at.
Why, now, should Trobin trust Brend?
Brend was safe, a hidden factor in the peddling of the smuggled gems; not quite as safe as Mandore, the
man higher up, but safe enough. Vengeful Chinese, who might object to the secret drain of their national
wealth, would start hammering at the bottom, beginning with men like Trobin, who actually sold the
jewels.
Mechanically, Trobin entered the elevator. His lips were too twitchy to utter the word "Sixth," which
happened to be his floor. The operator glanced in Trobin's direction, recognized him and gave a nod.
He'd noticed Trobin's curious moods before. Reaching the fifth floor, the operator stopped the elevator,
plucked Trobin's sleeve and spoke:
"Your floor, Mr. Trobin. The fifth."
The last word echoed in Trobin's ears after he had stepped from the car. He was repeating "fifth" aloud,
as he heard the door clang behind him. Then, Trobin's lips tightened into an actual smile; his eyes took on
a shrewd glisten. The operator had made a mistake, letting him off at the fifth instead of the sixth floor. It
was a mistake that pleased Mark Trobin.
He was picturing his corner room, on the floor above; how he could reach it secretly and do his packing,
unnoticed by any lurkers who might be watching. After that, he could leave the room in the same manner,
and simply send up for his luggage.
No one would ever know that he, Mark Trobin, had gone in and out. Pleased with his smartness, Trobin
was sure that he could outfox any vigilant Chinese who might be on his trail.
Just what results Trobin's smart idea was to bring him, the next ten minutes were destined to tell!
CHAPTER II. CROSSED TRAILS
EYES were watching the hallway outside of Trobin's sixth-floor room, at the Hotel Esplanade.
They were eyes that burned from darkness; the eyes of a shrouded, unseen observer, black-cloaked and
hatted, whose own post was within the room next to Trobin's, on the left. Those eyes were peering
through the crack of the door, so slightly opened that the space was almost imperceptible.
The watcher was The Shadow.
Talk of a mysterious stir in San Francisco's Chinatown, confined to certain Chinese of whom but little
was known, had been enough to bring The Shadow to this city of the Golden Gate. Coupled to that, he
had learned that thuggish Americans were abroad in Frisco. Bad elements, both: unknown Chinese, and
known Americans.
The Shadow had learned that with different races, certain symptoms were in opposition. He was
interested, therefore, in learning what each of these small, but dangerous, groups could be after.
Across the hall, in the room to the right of Trobin's but looking out on another side of the hotel, was a
second watcher. He was Harry Vincent, a competent young man who happened to be one of The
Shadow's agents.
Harry knew that The Shadow had picked up a trail from Chinatown, and followed it to the Hotel
Esplanade. Whatever the trail meant, it had much to do with Mark Trobin, the man who had taken the
corner room on the sixth floor, but who, very fortunately, was at present absent.
Very fortunately, because someone else was in the room. Watching from his window, Harry had seen a
writhy figure, a Chinese, climb up from a balcony below and enter Trobin's room, only a half hour ago.
Harry had reported that fact to The Shadow, by a signal from his own door.
At present, Harry was watching to see if anyone else would arrive. It was possible that the entrant was
but the forerunner of others. As for Trobin, who might be due back at any time, he wasn't Harry's
concern. Trobin would naturally enter by his own door, which The Shadow was watching. The Shadow,
of course, intended to flag Trobin before the fellow could come to any harm.
Darkness had settled half an hour ago, at the time when the snaky Chinaman had entered Trobin's room.
Both balconies, the one outside Trobin's window and that of the fifth floor just beneath, were visible, but
Harry found it difficult to watch them.
His eyes were constantly attracted by the distant gleam of lights, lurid sparkles tinged with many colors,
from the low-lying region some blocks beyond the Hotel Esplanade.
Chinatown! Realm of mystery and intrigue, where this trail had begun!
There were many who claimed that Frisco's modern Chinatown was nothing like the famous quarter that
had existed long before the great fire; but Harry Vincent happened to know differently.
The truth was, that the hidden powers of Chinatown had simply burrowed deeper, and were therefore all
the more difficult to find. Foundations of old, forgotten buildings provided them with natural caverns,
fitted for use as meeting places. The lights of Chinatown made Harry recall such burrows, and he was
sure that only a dank and secret pit could have disgorged the snakish Chinaman who was, at present, in
Trobin's room.
Time to contact The Shadow.
Harry took a quick glance at the balconies, then stepped to his door. From across the hallway, at an
angle, The Shadow flashed a green blink with a tiny flashlight; the signal meant for Harry to watch the
hall. Then, within the darkness of his own room, The Shadow stepped to the window and gazed below.
There was a narrow ledge outside his window, wide enough for a clever and cautious cat to creep along
it. That ledge offered a route to Trobin's room that The Shadow could use, for he, personally, knew
tricks of climbing and clinging that any cat might envy. But The Shadow had studied that ledge before; at
present, his glance took in the street.
A car had pulled up to the rear of the hotel; it was the same car that Trobin had seen when he entered the
Esplanade. Men were stepping from the car, but keeping huddled by it. But The Shadow saw enough of
their motions, their gesticulations, to identify them as Chinese.
With a swish of his cloaked form, invisible in the darkness of the room, The Shadow moved back to the
door and flashed a red blink. It told Harry to resume his watch of the balconies.
BACK at his own window, Harry had a powerful feeling that something was about to happen, and he
was quite sure that it would occur on this side of the hotel. With the thought itself, something did happen.
His eyes focused toward the balconies, Harry suddenly observed a climbing figure.
As if imbued with a spirit of boldness, the man pulled himself up to Trobin's window.
During those moments, Harry was quite convinced that the new intruder must be another Chinaman,
coming to join the snakish scout. Probably, it was all part of the program that another should follow the
first, at the end of a half hour.
It wasn't until the man was half through the window, that Harry realized the truth. The fellow chanced to
glance warily along the wall, and Harry glimpsed his face. The man was an American. Instantly, a name
shot to Harry's mind.
Mark Trobin!
Harry had never seen Trobin before but he hadn't a doubt as to the newcomer's identity.
Yes, this was Trobin, entering his own hotel room by stealth, fearful of watchers who might be in the hall,
whereas the real danger lay within the room itself!
It was too late to shout to Trobin; he was through the window. A call might alarm him, and in addition
warn the Chinese lurker who was expecting Trobin's normal return.
There was only one course for Harry. That was to notify The Shadow. With a bound, Harry left the
window and reached the hallway. Hearing his approach, The Shadow was in the hall by the time Harry
arrived.
"Trobin!" Harry's whisper was hoarse. "Up and in, by the balcony -"
Even while Harry spoke, The Shadow was moving swiftly. His black-cloaked form seemed a symphony
of speed. With a mere flip of his gloved hand, he produced a passkey from beneath his cloak and
inserted it, with a soundless stab, in the lock of Trobin's door. Harry saw those gloved fingers give a deft
twist, while The Shadow's other hand turned the doorknob. But the door did not open.
The serpentine Chinaman had evidently thrown the bolt on the inside of the door, and must therefore be
listening from the other side, to make sure that whoever came was Trobin, before allowing admittance.
Harry watched The Shadow. He could see the gleam of his chief's eyes from beneath the brim of The
Shadow's customary slouch hat. The Shadow's eyes alone were visible, but from his lips, Harry heard a
softly whispered laugh. That low tone reached Harry's ears alone.
"Keep working at the lock," instructed The Shadow, in an undertone. "Attract the Chinaman's attention,
and hold it, until he withdraws the bolt."
The Shadow had gripped Harry's left hand and was pressing it against the pass-key. Why he wanted
Harry to work left-handed, was explained when The Shadow poked Harry's right into the agent's own
pocket. There, Harry's fingers felt the smooth coldness of a loaded automatic. The Shadow was
reminding him to have the weapon handy.
Then, The Shadow was gone, back to the room from which he had kept watch, and Harry recognized
his chief's purpose. The Shadow was going to make a deft trip along the ledge that afforded him a route
to Trobin's room, a process which might require as much as two minutes, but certainly no longer.
It was Harry's task to hold a killer in abeyance, and he set to work upon it. The moment that he began a
clatter with the passkey, he was conscious of an answering scrape inside the door, telling that the lurking
Chinaman was busy with the bolt. The lurker was mistaking Harry for Trobin, as The Shadow had
anticipated.
All seemed well to Harry; it would have been, but for another factor.
That factor was Mark Trobin, himself.
THE hunted man had swung across the ledge, into his room, where all was gloom. Keyed to a nervous
pitch, Trobin's hearing was more than normal, and the darkness evidently helped it. For Trobin caught the
sounds from the door; not the slight clatter of Harry's key, but the grate of the bolt that was being drawn
on the inside. There was a sharp gasp from Trobin's lips; with it, he saw something against the door,
where he had heard the sound.
A yellowish face swung about. A clawish hand reversed its process with the bolt, slashing it shut, instead
of drawing it. With that move, the Chinaman blocked off rescue from the hallway, and made a long,
twisty lunge for Trobin.
Against the side window, Trobin's chalkish face was visible, and the killer recognized it as belonging to
the prey he sought!
Viewing the lash of that serpentine form, Trobin started a wild scramble across the room. Such flight
would have saved him, had he continued it. He stumbled against a table and had a perfect chance to fling
the object into the Chinaman's path, but it happened that Trobin's hand contacted something else, a
telephone. Grabbing the instrument, he swung toward his opponent.
This was another instinct on Trobin's part; that of fight. Had he used the telephone as a bludgeon, he
could have warded off the Chinaman's clutch for his throat. But the fact that he held a telephone proved
disastrous to Trobin. He thought suddenly of the telephone in terms of its actual purpose.
Diving for a corner, he yanked the receiver from its hook and yelled into the mouthpiece:
"Help! help!"
Trobin's cries ended in a gargle, as clawish hands took his throat. Lashed about by the Chinaman's
choking grip, Trobin made a wide sweep with the telephone, trying to strike his adversary's head, which
simply bobbed away. Then, as Trobin tried a back stroke, one torturing hand left his throat.
Plucking the telephone from Trobin's weakening hand, the assassin raised his own fist and brought the
improvised bludgeon straight down upon the victim's skull.
The crunch of that furious blow marked the death of Mark Trobin. The victim's body thudded the floor
as the Chinaman released it, and the telephone hit beside it.
Clicking sounds were coming from the telephone, signifying that Trobin's shrieks had been heard. The
clatter of Harry's key was audible at the door. The yellowish killer who crouched above Trobin's body
did not care to tarry on the scene. His claws were probing Trobin's pockets, and had found the wrapped
package containing the bargain shaving kit.
Snatching the wrapped package as a prize, the assassin sprang for the door. He swept back the bolt with
the same hand that held the package, while his other fist whipped out a long-bladed knife.
The Chinaman made a quick side step, as the door swung inward. Harry Vincent lunged half across the
threshold, caught himself and took a quick back step, bringing up his automatic. It was a swift action,
defensive enough for ordinary purposes, but useless against the man who had slain Trobin.
Before Harry could even sight the killer, the fellow was upon him, coming with a sidling spring through the
doorway, thrusting his knife ahead of him in a sweeping, upward stab for another victim's heart!
Harry saw two things in a single instant: one, the flash of the assassin's blade; the other, a stab of flame
from a window straight across the room. With the shot, the Chinaman's arm jolted; the dirk left his fingers
and sped past Harry's ribs like an unleashed arrow, the shrieking killer reeling after it.
Taking an involuntary back step before he could turn, Harry saw the window again. Its lower corner was
a blot of blackness, which could only signify The Shadow. Though delayed too long to rescue Trobin,
The Shadow had arrived in time to save Harry's life with the timely shot that stayed the course of an
assassin's knife.
To Harry's mind had come the answer to this deed of The Shadow's; a thing so amazing that all other
thoughts were crowded out of mind. The flash of the knife darting out from darkness could not have been
enough target, even for The Shadow's aim. In that moment, The Shadow had picked a better target.
He had aimed for Harry's heart!
Confidence that the bullet would never reach its actual mark, but would find another object that was
driving in between, was The Shadow's even as he had pressed the gun trigger. The moving thing had
sped In between, in the shape of the wrist behind the Chinese killer's knife.
Bullet and blade, both aimed for Harry's heart. One had nullified the other, thanks to The Shadow's
consummate skill!
CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW'S THEORY
THE SHADOW was through the window and half across Trobin's room, before Harry's returning wits
told him that there was still work to do. Turning, Harry looked along the hall, in time to see the staggered
assassin gather up the knife and dart away. Stung by The Shadow's bullet, the killer wasn't capable of
further fight.
He had done his assigned task. He had murdered Trobin, and was making away with what he regarded
as an important prize: the package from the dead man's pocket. He wasn't able to carry the package and
use his knife at the same time, having but one hand available for both actions; hence his mind was set
upon escape.
Equally determined to head off such flight, Harry started after the fellow, shouting for him to halt. Already
past a row of elevators, the Chinaman zigzagged for an inside fire tower at the end of the hallway.
Deliberately, Harry paused and aimed for the fugitive's flying legs, intending to trip him with a bullet
before he could reach his goal.
The Shadow's gun spoke first.
He was shooting from the edge of Trobin's doorway, not at the fleeing assassin but at others, beyond. As
if in response came shots from the fire tower, but they were wild. For the first time, Harry saw a medley
of faces, representing cover-up men who had arrived to aid the killer's getaway.
The Shadow had expected them, from the car below. They were Chinese, armed with revolvers, but too
slow in their fire. They had the habit of keeping an empty chamber next to the gun hammer, requiring two
trigger tugs before their guns could blaze. Profiting thereby, The Shadow had given them a taste of fire
during their preliminary efforts.
As The Shadow fired, Harry heard his quick warning and ducked across the hall to the doorway of the
room where he had kept watch. As he went, the Chinese came in a surge, thinking that Harry was their
only adversary.
Seeing Harry reaching safety, The Shadow held his own fire, hoping the Chinese would come into the
trap. But a sudden intervention saved them.
An elevator door slapped open and from the cage lunged a group of men. Two were house detectives,
others bellboys, and the elevator man brought up the rear. They had come in response to the help call
from Trobin's room, and they were in just the position to flank the advancing Chinese.
The house dicks had revolvers and began to use them, while their helpers grabbed for dodging foemen
and tried to wrest their guns away.
The fight ended suddenly, before The Shadow needed to insert another shot. It stopped because of a
curious incident involving the assassin who had slain Trobin. The snaky Chinaman was diving for the fire
tower, when a bellboy tripped him.
Losing his hold upon the package, the killer let it fly ahead of him as he turned, snarling, to use his knife.
The package hit the floor and cracked open, sending the razor in one direction, the tube of shaving cream
in another.
Both The Shadow and Harry aimed at the killer, to stop his knife thrust, but the house detectives were
closer, and more hasty. They simply turned from the Chinese that they were handling and riddled the
knife specialist with close-range fire.
In their hurry, the dicks laid themselves open to shots from the other Chinese, but the cover-up men
didn't wait. For some reason, actually puzzling to Harry, the whole crew dashed for the fire tower, and
intervening figures made it impossible to fire after them.
Seeing the Chinese on the run, the house dicks dashed after them, and the other hotel employees trailed
along. Gunfire from the fire tower told that a running battle was in progress, with possible ill
consequences below. The Shadow beckoned to Harry as the chase disappeared, and, together, they
reached the elevator. Slamming the door, The Shadow started the car downward.
Here was a real chance to head off the Chinese before they reached the ground, and Harry again
admired The Shadow's foresight, which was doubly demonstrated when his chief removed hat and cloak
and thrust them into Harry's hand.
Divested of such attire, The Shadow was a figure clad in Tuxedo; above the stiff collar, his face was
masklike and of hawkish aspect.
The Shadow was in the guise of Lamont Cranston, wealthy globetrotter, a personality which he
frequently used. He had registered as Cranston at the Hotel Esplanade, and was now free to use his
accepted identity.
STOPPING the elevator at the mezzanine, The Shadow pointed to a stairway. He wanted Harry to go
up to his room, which happened to be on the third floor, and take the black garments along.
From the stairway, Harry saw people dashing up from the lobby; men who accepted Cranston as a
chance leader, because he happened to be a few steps ahead. Reaching the third-floor room, Harry flung
open with the window and drew his gun, hoping that he could provide some handy marksmanship. By
then, however, the shooting was a thing of the past.
The Chinese had ducked before The Shadow reached them. They had sprung from the fire tower to the
low roof of a neighboring building, and were already dropping over the far edge, before Harry spied
them.
Harry saw The Shadow's followers join with the house detectives who had trailed the Chinese down the
fire tower. The combined pursuers dashed across the roof and fired a few shots at the street beyond. But
the roar of a car motor was evidence that the hunted Chinese had made good their escape, and were
tearing back to Chinatown. With only a half-dozen blocks to go, they would have no trouble getting to
their burrows.
With one exception: the dead assassin who had slain Mark Trobin.
Harry viewed the killer again, when, with Cranston, he went to the sixth floor and met the police who had
arrived there. The headquarters men were reconstructing the case upon the evidence to hand. They found
enough to form what they considered a very satisfactory solution of the Trobin murder.
In Trobin's pocket, they discovered five thousand dollars. In his suitcase were folders of various
real-estate agents, advertising prune groves. Identification cards proved that Mark Trobin was a New
Yorker, hence the conclusion seemed obvious.
Trobin was an Easterner who had come to San Francisco with five thousand dollars, to go into prune
raising. Visiting Chinatown, he had probably flashed his bank roll and some crooked Chinese had seen it.
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THECHINESEPRIMROSEMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.FRISCOMYSTERY?CHAPTERII.CROSSEDTRAILS?CHAPTERIII.THESHADOW'STHEORY?CHAPTERIV.ANOTHERVISITOR?CHAPTERV.THEHIDDENMASTER?CHAPTERVI.ALLIESOFJUSTICE?CHAPTERVII.HARRYTAKESOVER?CHAPTERVIII.ATTHEHONGKONGSHOP...

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 216 - The Chinese Primrose.pdf

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：77 页 大小：492.11KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-23

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