Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 187 - Shiwan Khan Returns

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SHIWAN KHAN RETURNS
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. WORD TO THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER II. SEVEN O'CLOCK
? CHAPTER III. KHYBER KILLERS
? CHAPTER IV. MEN OF THE DARK
? CHAPTER V. THE MAN FROM PERSIA
? CHAPTER VI. BAIT FOR THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER VII. FRIENDS OF SHIWAN KHAN
? CHAPTER VIII. DEATH BY DESIGN
? CHAPTER IX. MOVES IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER X. THE SCARED MAN
? CHAPTER XI. A TRAGEDY OF ERRORS
? CHAPTER XII. THE VANISHED TRAIL
? CHAPTER XIII. STRANGE SNARES
? CHAPTER XIV. THE MISSING SHADOW
? CHAPTER XV. INTO THE PAST
? CHAPTER XVI. PATHS UNSHADOWED
? CHAPTER XVII. SCHEME OF DEATH
? CHAPTER XVIII. DEATH ON THE LOOSE
? CHAPTER XIX. MARQUETTE'S MISSION
? CHAPTER XX. CRIME'S GREAT STROKE
? CHAPTER XXI. BLOCKED VICTORY
? CHAPTER XXII. CRIME'S FLIGHT
CHAPTER I. WORD TO THE SHADOW
THE thing that stood in the center of the old garage looked like a crazed man's dream. It was intended to
be an automobile, that much was certain; but it looked like a flashback to the experimental days of motor
cars, rather than anything that belonged to the present century.
In the center of a short, broad-beamed chassis, the mechanical brainstorm had a squatty V-type motor
hung low in a metal square. From each corner of the motor, a shaft ran to a wheel. In their turn, the
wheels were pointed at different angles, giving the whole contrivance a wabbly, disjointed appearance.
Beside the distorted device stood a man whose expression marked him as mad as his creation. He was
dressed in good clothes, but they were rumpled, soiled with grime and grease. His face, though youthful,
had a haggard look that went with age. He was unshaven and his face, like his light-brown hair, was
streaked with the same grime that ruined his clothes.
Few of the man's many acquaintances would have recognized him as Howard Felber, recently heralded
as the most promising of young automotive engineers.
Near Felber stood two men in overalls: his mechanics, Casey and Jim. They, alone, had been allowed to
join Felber in this squalid old garage. Located in a rundown section of Manhattan, the place was the only
workshop that Felber could afford. He had exhausted most of his accumulated earnings buying the
expensive materials that now lay discarded along the walls.
Felber trusted his two mechanics, and from their solemn expressions, they regarded the trust as a heavy
burden. It wasn't just a case of sharing the secret of a new invention. Jim and Casey felt that they were
looking out for Felber, keeping his madness a thing unknown to the world.
Watching him steadily, they finally turned to exchange hopeful glances. Felber looked tired, ready to quit.
Perhaps his mood had passed.
Then came an outside roar: the approaching rattle of an elevated train. It rumbled overhead, above the
street that fronted the garage. Felber's sudden triumphant shriek was drowned by the train's tumult, but
his actions told that his mind had taken another of its crazy spurts.
Frantically, he set to work with a huge monkey wrench, detaching one of the shafts that ran from the
motor to a wheel. Once the rod was loose, it slid into three sections. It consisted of a solid shaft inside a
hollow tube, with a still larger tube girdling the inner portions.
Felber spent the next few minutes rearranging those tubes, turning them end over end. He was trying
unsuccessfully to fit them back in place, when a light rap sounded at the small rear door of the garage.
"It's Miss Cragg," whispered Casey. "She must have come down on the el train."
"Better let her in," undertoned Jim. "She's the only person who can reason with him."
CASEY opened the door. A slender, dark-haired girl stepped into the garage. Gowned in light blue, she
brightened the dull setting, though her face turned solemn the moment that she noticed Felber.
It was a lovely face, though, well-rounded and perfect of profile. Forcing a smile, the girl managed to
make it look genuine as she approached Felber and in a beautiful contralto voice said:
"Hello, Howard."
"Hello, Marjorie," returned Felber, seriously. "I'm coming along finely with my four-wheel drive. See
those shafts along the wall? The ones of different lengths?"
Marjorie nodded.
"I made them work," affirmed Felber. "But not as well as I wanted. I'm testing shorter ones on the motor.
Three shafts for each wheel" - he was sliding rod and tubes as he spoke - "and each shaft handles a
different speed. A new idea in gears. This car will do anything, when I've finished with it!"
Another el train came crashing by, out front. Felber clapped his hand to his forehead; his blue eyes took
a half-crazed gleam. Darting from the chassis, he reached the wall and began to tinker with the rods of
assorted lengths.
Joining Jim and Casey, Marjorie requested their opinions. Both shook their heads.
"It's those el trains," argued Casey. "Every now and then one bangs by and jars him from his senses."
"We can't help it, Miss Cragg," added Jim. "We tried to get Mr. Felber settled in a quiet place, but he
wouldn't stand for it."
"He just ranted around," added Casey. "He kept telling what his new car would do if he could get the
right man to test it. He kept saying it would go anywhere, if he could get back here to finish it."
Slowly, Marjorie nodded. She was familiar with Felber's obsession. Knowing his genius for invention,
she was in a quandary. Jim and Casey, earnest though they were, might be lacking in the imagination
necessary to understand Felber's final goal.
From her purse, the girl drew a letter; she opened it, let the mechanics read it. Careful not to touch the
letter with their grimy fingers, the men noted its brief lines. The letter was addressed to a Mr. Lamont
Cranston; it was simply a request, on Marjorie's part, for an interview on a subject that might prove of
importance to him.
"Mr. Cranston is wealthy," explained the girl, "and he is an explorer. If anyone needs a type of vehicle
that would travel anywhere, he is the person. Would it be all right for me to send him this letter?"
For answer, Jim thrust a clean glove on his dirty hand, took the envelope after the girl had replaced the
note in it. Jim gave a solemn nod to Casey.
"I'll mail it," said Jim, starting for the door. "I'm going uptown to get those special tires, though I can't
figure why Mr. Felber needs them. You talk to Miss Cragg awhile, Casey."
Casey did talk, after Jim had left. He used a guarded undertone, so that Felber couldn't hear him, though
the precaution was scarcely necessary. Felber was rattling rods and other gadgets at a great rate,
muttering, sometimes loudly, as he passed back and forth from his invention to the wall.
Only when an elevated train went by did he pause. On those occasions, he stood with wide eyes fixed in
a far-away gaze, as though the discordant rumbles were music to his whirling brain.
"All those parts cost like blazes," confided Casey, solemnly. "They're made of some alloy that's lighter
than aluminum and tougher than steel, so Mr. Felber says. I wouldn't have believed him, if I hadn't hefted
those rods myself and watched the way he whacks them."
Mentally, Marjorie decided that the information would be a sales argument with Cranston. Her
mechanical knowledge was very meager, but she could at least declare that Felber used costly materials.
"Maybe the thing's too deep for me," admitted Casey, "but I'd say that if Mr. Felber got over this
three-shaft idea of his, he might get somewhere. He hasn't figured yet how he's going to steer the car or
brake it. But you can't argue with him."
"Do you think he'd welcome a visit from Mr. Cranston?"
"If you brought Mr. Cranston here - yes," decided Casey, after considering Marjorie's question. "Mr.
Felber trusts you, just like he trusts Jim and me."
GLANCING at her wrist watch, Marjorie decided that it was time to leave. She broached another
subject to Casey, speaking very firmly.
"I'm going to talk to Dr. Buffton," said Marjorie, as they were walking to the door. "I've mentioned
Howard's case to him and he is quite willing to help us. Howard's mental condition may be the whole
trouble, you know."
Casey nodded his agreement.
"Mr. Cranston should receive my note this afternoon," added the girl, "so I can hope to hear from him this
evening. I'm all booked for a cruise; I am supposed to go on the boat this evening. But if anything can be
done for Howard, I shall cancel the trip."
Outside the garage, Marjorie saw a dingy cigar store across the little street. Pausing, she looked inside
the place and observed a telephone. After a quick glance about her, the girl entered the store. Marjorie
had gained the momentary impression that eyes were watching her.
They were. Dark eyes that belonged to darkish faces. Two men, crouched in a parked coupe, had
noticed the girl leave the garage. They held muttered conversation in a foreign dialect. One slid from the
car and entered the cigar store.
In peculiar broken English, the darkish man was asking for cigarettes at the counter when Marjorie made
her call at the open phone. He understood English better than he could speak it, for the fellow's saffron
lips showed a smile beneath his smudge-black mustache, as he listened.
"Dr. Buffton is not there?" Marjorie was saying. "Yes, this is Miss Cragg... Not until seven o'clock, you
say... Very well, I shall expect a call from him then... Yes, at my apartment..."
The darkish man was back in the car when Marjorie came out to the street. He and his companion were
exchanging guttural mutters, as they watched the girl walk toward the elevated station. The glitter of their
ugly eyes, the fangish expressions of their leering mouths, were those that hunters might give when sighting
a choice and helpless prey.
Savages both, despite their ability to travel freely in New York, the villainous pair were confident that
they could wait for an easier opportunity to pluck Marjorie Cragg from circulation. Their calculations told
that they had until seven o'clock that evening, at which time darkness would favor them.
The men waited, motionless, in their car, until they heard the heavy roar of an elevated train. Their faces
firmed, their eyes glistened like fireballs, bulging in a sightless stare.
When the clatter had faded, the two strange men relaxed. The one at the wheel started the car, while the
other gazed curiously from the window, much interested in observing the peculiar customs of Manhattan
dwellers that they passed.
With all their vigilance, the spies had failed to notice the letter that Jim carried when he left the old garage.
Coming out through the door, the mechanic had thrust the small envelope into one pocket, his glove in the
other. Marjorie's letter, slight though the facts it gave, was on the way to Mr. Lamont Cranston.
A girl in danger, as Marjorie Cragg definitely was, could have chosen no better person with whom to
correspond. Though noted for his remarkable experiences in many foreign lands, Cranston had a habit of
finding still greater adventures in New York. Any shred of mystery or intrigue became his cue for action.
On those occasions, Lamont Cranston frequently disappeared. In his place, there roved a singular being
known as The Shadow!
CHAPTER II. SEVEN O'CLOCK
MARJORIE CRAGG was punctual, when it came to keeping appointments. She had to be; otherwise,
her profession would have suffered. Marjorie wasn't really famous as a vocalist, but she had made some
fairly profitable concert tours through the Middle West.
Certain persons had enthused quite highly, regarding the merits of Marjorie's contralto voice. One was
Howard Felber, but Marjorie had long ago decided that his opinions were not based on her voice alone.
Otherwise, he wouldn't have traveled many miles to see her, on nights when he couldn't arrive until the
concert was over.
Howard Felber was ambitious, and so was Marjorie Cragg. Perhaps that was why they had never really
talked of love. Each recognized that the other had a career ahead; that not until success had been
individually attained would they talk of sharing it together.
Pure coincidence had brought them to New York. Howard had come to discuss the commercial
possibilities of new automotive developments, while Marjorie had been attracted by a short-term radio
contract.
Once in New York, they had stayed on - Howard, to work on a new invention; Marjorie, to accept a
singing engagement on a cruise ship. Then Marjorie had learned of Howard's strange mental turn.
How it began, and why, she did not know; but it perturbed her. She hoped that his brain, and his
invention, both, would prove sound; that Buffton, the physician, would certify one, and Cranston, the
financier, would approve the other.
She was willing, in the emergency, to sacrifice her future for Howard. All day, she went about her
shopping, pretending that she was going to take the cruise; but she made it a point to dine early, and
reach her little apartment ahead of seven o'clock.
She knew she would hear from Buffton, perhaps from Cranston. If either insisted that she remain in town
to further Howard's welfare, the cruise ship could leave without her.
The apartment looked quite pathetic when Marjorie reached it. Her luggage formed an unsightly stack,
featured by the huge but almost empty trunk that was to hold the many costumes which were being sent
to the boat.
With an entertainment scheduled for nearly every night of the three-week cruise, Marjorie had decided to
vary her performances. With the aid of costumes. In fact, she was being advertised as the "International
Songstress," and there would probably be considerable speculation regarding her actual nationality.
Around the trunk lay suitcases; one was open for last-minute packing. Though she was tense with worry
about Howard, Marjorie decided to pack the articles that she had brought back from her shopping tour.
She was piling bundles on the trunk, studying the suitcase to see if all would fit in it, when she gave a
sudden gasp.
The aeolian harp was gone!
Of all articles that Marjorie prized, the aeolian harp rated first. She had obtained it literally for a song.
Someone who liked her radio singing had sent it to the studio, as a token of appreciation. The harp was a
ten-stringed instrument, shaped like a long, shallow box; but no skill was required to play it.
That was, no skill except nature's own. When the harp was placed in a breeze, the air currents
themselves would play it, sometimes producing most remarkable harmonies.
HER hand pressed to her forehead, Marjorie tried to think clearly. Her head was aching from worry over
Howard; she wondered if she could have put the wind harp in the trunk or in another suitcase.
Not wanting to unlock and open all the luggage, she was hoping for some clue to the missing instrument
when the harp itself supplied one.
Vaguely at first, then with gusts of sweeping melody, the tunes of the rare instrument reached Marjorie's
ears.
She turned to the window, gave a happy sigh. The aeolian harp was on the window sill, where she must
have left it. The window, too, was open, though she thought that she had closed it when she left the
apartment before noon. Outside, a night breeze was stirring, its fitful impulse gaining a steady strength.
The spirit of the breeze was registered by the harp. The twang of the strings came louder. They faded
into a fairylike pianissimo, to which Marjorie's fancy could add the tinkle of sylvan bells. Then, to the
accompaniment of a powerful gust, the harp produced an imposing forte that strengthened the girl's fiber.
From the window, Marjorie saw the lights of Manhattan - a myriad array of forceful glow that seemed in
keeping with the harp's proud melody. Then they were gnome lights dancing in the distance, as the easing
breeze swept lighter music.
Eyes half closed, Marjorie caught the dreamy lilt of vague and distant song. It faded; she listened, intent,
hoping it would return.
Then came the voice.
It was a voice that spoke, each word tuned to a twang of a harp string. A tone that was at moments kind;
at, others, commanding. It spoke her name, ordering her to listen; then its gentle words soothed her,
much like the cooling breeze.
The voice spoke thought-words.
They were in no language, yet she understood them. The voice was telling her to wait, to let her problems
rest. Should other things distract her, she was to pause and contemplate. The voice would answer.
Into that lovely mental harmony came a discord: the ringing of the telephone bell. It grated on Marjorie;
she drew her body taut and clenched her fists. She wanted to hear the voice again. It came. Striking a
mighty beat from the harp, it said:
"Answer!"
Marjorie found the telephone, lifted the receiver and gave a detached hello. Over the wire came a precise
tone that she recognized as belonging to Dr. Buffton. He was asking about Howard Felber. He had to
repeat the question, for Marjorie didn't answer.
Letting her lips relax, Marjorie waited for the mental voice to tell her what to do. Almost before she
realized, she was speaking into the telephone.
"Howard Felber?" Marjorie gave a musical laugh, that she caught from the rippling harp strings. "He's
quite all right, doctor. I called you to tell you so."
Came more questions, that Marjorie heard but did not weigh. Some other mind had taken command of
hers. Its vibrant music gave her words to say - words that she echoed in a tone not quite her own.
"I'm leaving tonight on the cruise ship," said Marjorie. "We can see Howard together, when I return.
Thank you so much, doctor, for offering to help."
There were other words, that Marjorie answered; then the click of a receiver that she did not hear. Her
hand drifted downward to place her own receiver on the hook. The telephone was like a weightless
plume as she rested it lightly on the table.
From the harp came a happy melody of triumph, which Marjorie felt she shared. The music seemed to
inspire the breeze, rather than be governed by it. Under the fascination of complete hypnosis, Marjorie
waited dreamily for the next command.
The telephone bell began to ring again. The girl did not even notice it. A lighter sound, however, attracted
her full attention. It was a slow, repeated rap at the door. Automatically, Marjorie spoke the word:
"Come!"
The door opened in a drifting fashion. On the threshold stood a tall, darkish man, who bowed.
""We are ready, Miss Cragg," he announced in choppy tone. "The cab is waiting downstairs, to take you
to the ship."
THOUGHTS of the luggage did not bother Marjorie. Her only reluctance was that of leaving the music
behind her.
Curiously, the harp faded of its own accord. Trying to catch some haunting recollection of the melody,
Marjorie walked mechanically from the room and toward the stairway.
She passed other men that she did not notice. They waited, while the one who had entered leaned above
the aeolian harp in the window. The strings were twanging jerkily, its tones as jarring as the telephone
bell, which kept up its persistent ringing. The dark man at the window spoke, in English:
"It is I - Suji. I have word, Kha Khan."
His gleamy eyes fixed in a rigid stare, as if his brain were ejecting full news of Marjorie's departure and
the unanswered telephone call. Then the dark face lighted, as if receiving answer. Curling lips announced:
"It shall be done, Kha Khan!"
To his darkish fellows, Suji gave orders in a guttural tongue. They finished packing the baggage, adding
the aeolian harp. To the accompaniment of the telephone bell's jangle, they cleared the room of luggage in
a single trip.
Only Suji waited; his lips formed a satisfied sneer as the ringing ceased. Extinguishing the lights, he
departed.
In a cab that she had found awaiting her, Marjorie had begun a trip that seemed to carry her through
circular paths of light and darkness. She had no way to judge the time it took, for she was solely
concerned with humming the last bars of a strange melody that she did not want to lose.
She lost count of the times she hummed it. Still singing softly to herself, the girl alighted when the cab
stopped. A dark-faced driver guided her into an obscure doorway, which, to Marjorie, in her present
mental state, might have represented anything, even the gangway of an ocean liner.
Next, she was on an elevator, trying to fit its constant thrum-thrum to the haunting tune that she hoped
never to lose. Exiting from the elevator, she followed a corridor, lured by the tone of the harp itself!
Ahead was an open doorway, a maid waiting beside it, but Marjorie did not notice her. Entering,
Marjorie merely realized that the door had closed behind her and that she was alone.
The harp was on the window sill; the sash was slightly raised, to admit the wafting breeze that strummed
the strings. All about was Marjorie's baggage, carefully arranged. Some of her things had been
unpacked; the bed was turned down, and her pajamas were lying on a chair, along with slippers and
dressing gown.
Marjorie decided that she had been assigned to a very lovely stateroom.
Her voice vibrating softly to the lilt of the aeolian harp, she undressed. She didn't notice her wrist watch
as she removed it. Much had happened in a very short space of time. Dr. Buffton had phoned the
apartment at seven o'clock, and the watch, still running, registered only quarter past that hour!
Nor did Marjorie realize that she was retiring at a surprisingly early time. She was intrigued by the way
her clothes seemed to float away as she touched them, until they were all gone. She drifted into the
pajamas, then found herself in bed. Her hand found the lamp above her head, extinguished it with a lazy
touch.
With the lulling notes of the harp, Marjorie heard the deep moan of a steamship whistle. It was distant,
but her impressions of space were as vague as those of time.
Totally unaware of the fantastic experience that had overtaken her, Marjorie sank into a deep,
comfortable sleep, undisturbed by any dreams that might have furnished an inkling of her plight.
CHAPTER III. KHYBER KILLERS
RIDING in the rear seat of his luxurious limousine, Lamont Cranston again studied the letter that he had
received from Marjorie Cragg. The passing lights of the avenue showed Cranston's features to be
masklike, but of a singularly hawkish mold.
His eyes were suited to his profile. Sharp orbs of burning power, they scanned each line of the letter, as if
ferreting out some hidden meaning from the penmanship alone.
The letter was unusual. In stating little, it said much. A simple request for an interview, from a young lady
named Marjorie Cragg, was slight in itself; but the reference to a "matter that might prove of importance"
meant much when written by the girl in question.
Though Cranston had never met Marjorie, he recognized that the matter which she mentioned could be
vitally important to some third person, whose name was not stated. Unwittingly, Marjorie Cragg had
written her own personality into the letter.
The rounded curves of the writing, with wide margins at the ends of the lines, were clues to an artistic
temperament. Slight separations in the midst of words were signs of intuition, produced by lifting pauses
of the hand. There was sincerity in the vertical formation of the letters. Whatever favor that writer might
request, it would not be for herself.
More than that, if some risk should be involved, Marjorie would be willing to share it. Whether or not the
risk already existed was a fact unrevealed, but there was a circumstance that made it seem most likely.
The letter had been addressed to the Cobalt Club; arriving there at seven, Cranston had received it and
had promptly called Marjorie's telephone number.
The line had given a busy signal; when it cleared, Cranston's call had remained unanswered. Obviously,
some sudden occurrence had been responsible. After a second attempted call had failed, Cranston had
promptly left the club and ordered his chauffeur to take him to Marjorie's address.
As the big car swung from the avenue, Cranston reached beneath the rear seat, drew out a hidden
drawer that was fitted under it. From the drawer he brought a black cloak, a slouch hat, and a pair of
.45-caliber automatics.
He was attired in the black garb, his guns were beneath his cloak, when he reached for the speaking tube
and spoke in calm, leisurely tone:
"This will do, Stanley. Wait here five minutes, then return to the club."
Those words were the final token of Cranston. The figure that glided from the limousine was not the
dinner-jacketed form of the jaunty clubman. It was a blot of blackness - a strange, sinister shape that had
the ability to blend with gloom.
Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow!
THE apartment house where Marjorie Cragg lived was in a secluded neighborhood, about two blocks
from where the limousine had stopped. The path that The Shadow followed to reach his destination was
untraceable.
Avoiding the front entrance, he entered a rear courtyard, scaled to a hallway window on the high first
floor. Finding the stairway gloomy, he ascended it.
Marjorie's apartment was number 3C. Past the doorway, merged with blackness at the end of the hall,
The Shadow stretched a gloved hand to the knob, found the door latched. His next move was to
produce a small tool shaped like a gimlet. Its shaft no thicker than a needle, The Shadow bored the point
straight through the old woodwork, slanting pressure against the latch.
The door slid open from the jogging pressure of a black-cloaked elbow. After a dozen seconds of
absolute silence, The Shadow entered, closing the door behind him. He used a flashlight guardedly,
keeping its beam shrouded in the folds of his cloak.
Brief inspection showed the tiny apartment to be furnished, but untenanted. The only sign of recent
occupancy was the open window. Above a roof on the opposite side of the courtyard - the roof was on
a level with this window - The Shadow could see a considerable portion of Manhattan's skyline.
Superficially, the situation could represent either a hoax or a trap. More careful consideration indicated
that it was neither. Marjorie's letter was neither a jest nor a lure; not with the sober, troubled indications
that The Shadow had observed in it. If someone else had taken a hand in the matter, it was too trivial to
be a hoax. As for a trap -
The Shadow interrupted a rapid chain of thought. He had just about decided on the verdict that a trap, to
be worthy of the name, would have some features to occupy his full attention. This apartment lacked any
such; yet it was a trap. The Shadow had seen the proof of it.
A thin slice of light had disappeared. It was the dim streak of glow that showed beneath the doorway
from the hall. Blocked partly by a rug, the disappearance of that faint token would not have been noticed
by anyone standing in the apartment. It happened that The Shadow, in making his rounds, was keeping to
a crouched position below the window level.
The question was: how had The Shadow's entry been detected? No one had seen him enter the building;
there had been no lurkers in the hallway when he opened the apartment door. Chances favored the
supposition that the arrivals did not know their prey had arrived. They might be coming here to put the
place up to the standard of a proper trap.
Before The Shadow could carry the question further, the door was opened. The Shadow sensed the fact
from the slight breeze that stirred in from the window, only to cease as promptly as it had begun.
Whoever these entrants, they had closed the door behind them, and they were experts in ways of
stealth.
Two of them. The Shadow sensed that, also, as he worked toward the door. Their breathing was barely
audible, yet more pronounced than The Shadow's. He was shoulder to shoulder - first with one, then
with the other.
Crouched low, they were working inward from the door, yet taking turns at crossing the path to that
outlet. They acted as if they expected to find someone. The Shadow decided to let them.
With a quick sweep, he drove toward the man on his right, expecting to floor him, then whirl on the
other. The Shadow shot one hand for an invisible throat; in the other fist, he clenched an automatic,
prepared to use it as a cudgel. The swiftness of his surge took his opponent almost off guard; not quite.
The result was a real surprise.
Instead of striking a rising human form, The Shadow struck a thing that whirled. Hands sliced in past his
own; The Shadow's gun stroke overreached. Hoisting shoulders came up in corkscrew fashion, aided by
a twisting, butting head.
Lifted from his feet, The Shadow was hurled into a sideward fling as if recoiled from a cannon!
IN the midst of that half sprawl, he recognized the mode of battle; one that belonged to a clime far
different from Manhattan. Coming to one hand and knee, The Shadow made a quick spin of his own to
meet the second foe, in whose direction he had been tossed.
The clash came instantly; this time, it was equalized. As The Shadow's whirling figure met that of a
revolving opponent, they locked like two jamming cogwheels out of gear. Lashing arms hooked tight, but
The Shadow's spin was the one that carried the greater power.
Twisting his foeman with him, The Shadow drove straight for the man who had supplied the first fling.
Fresh arms grappled; all three were in the struggle.
The Shadow recognized the breed of his enemies. They were Afghans, killers of the sort that stalked the
Khyber Pass. They used these twisty tactics not only for attack, but as a means of wriggling free when
outnumbered. Holding the odds, they weren't thinking of getting loose. They were working hands free
merely to draw their favorite weapons: knives.
They were depending too much on their own game. It didn't work for them. It took two arms to hold The
Shadow's one. His free fist was slashing with its heavy gun, making the Afghans duck, striking down the
hands that tried to haul out long-bladed knives.
They were snarling in their native language, Pukhtu, and The Shadow understood the jargon. The pair
wanted to get their troublesome foe over by the window.
Apparently, they were afraid of knifing each other by mistake. Their butting tactics, too, would serve
them better if they could ever combine beside the window, for in that case The Shadow would go out
across the sill.
Each was calling the other by name: one was Suji; his pal was Kuli. In the midst of the whirl, The
Shadow soon lost track of which was which.
He was letting them swing him toward the window. He knew that when they reached it, they would think
to trap him unawares. A swing, half across the ledge, would give The Shadow a backhand sweep at their
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