Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 182 - The Golden Master

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THE GOLDEN MASTER
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. DEATH'S WHIRL
? CHAPTER II. FIGURES FROM GLOOM
? CHAPTER III. CRIME'S EVIDENCE
? CHAPTER IV. THE CEYLON RUBY
? CHAPTER V. THE CHINESE AUCTION
? CHAPTER VI. LOO LOOK SPEAKS
? CHAPTER VII. QUEST OF THE DRAGON
? CHAPTER VIII. MESSAGES AT MIDNIGHT
? CHAPTER IX. THE HIDDEN HAND
? CHAPTER X. WEST MEETS EAST
? CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW'S CHOICE
? CHAPTER XII. THE CHOSEN TRAIL
? CHAPTER XIII. THE POWER OF MIND
? CHAPTER XIV. DOUBLED TRAILS
? CHAPTER XV. PAYMENT DEFERRED
? CHAPTER XVI. WITHOUT THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XVII. THE PERFECT THRUST
? CHAPTER XVIII. BLACK DEATH
? CHAPTER XIX. GONG OF DOOM
? CHAPTER XX. THE SEVENTH DRAGON
? CHAPTER XXI. THE JEWEL ROOM
? CHAPTER XXII. CRIME'S FINAL RIDDLE
CHAPTER I. DEATH'S WHIRL
THE lights on the electric sign had begun their strange whirl again. Paul Brent stood watching them from
the window of his hotel room. Over him came the same fascinating spell that he remembered from
previous evenings.
Tonight, the lights did not cease their spin. Gripped by their curious magic, Paul felt a surge of
recollections as rapid as the lights themselves.
Odd, about that sign.
It stood atop a low building on the other side of Broadway. It had a flapping, birdlike figure in the center,
with three circles around it. Red, green, finally an outer circle of yellow lights, which matched the color of
the central bird.
Viewed from Broadway, the sign caught the eye, but did not captivate it. The only times that it produced
a mental daze were when Paul stared at the sign from his window. Probably that was because he was
looking straight at it.
If the matter of angles explained it, Paul was the one person in New York who could feel the bewildering
effect of those lights. His window was directly opposite the sign, and on an exact level with its center.
Why did he happen to be in this hotel room?
Even that simple question could not be precisely answered. Paul Brent had never heard of the Hotel
Grayland, until receiving the circular with the offer of special rates. The letter had been waiting for him in
Miami, when he stopped there on his way back from South America.
Deciding to try the Grayland, he had found a room already reserved for him. This room. So Paul had
taken it. Simple enough, but the rates, he had learned today, were higher than the circular said.
Who had sent that fake advertisement? Who had reserved the room in Paul's name? Who - the final
question jarred Paul, despite his increasing daze - was responsible for those devilish lights, with their
crazy flip-flops and maddening whirls?
The questions seemed to jumble, like the circles. Of a sudden, the lights went blank. So did Paul's
thoughts. He saw the blackened square of the extinguished sign, but the roar of Broadway traffic was
gone. Paul was in the midst of a vast calm, from which he actually expected the token that came.
He seemed to hear a voice, like a distant call, yet cold and level in its pitch:
"Paul Brent... Paul Brent -"
Paul's squarish face was frozen. Its tan gave it the effect of a cast molded from bronze. His eyes were
fixed in an unseeing stare. His lips did not move, yet he felt himself speak a word in answer:
"Yes?"
"You have heard me," said that far-off voice. "You know my name."
This time, Paul's lips opened. Without knowing where the thought came from, he replied spontaneously:
"You are Shiwan Khan."
"I am Shiwan Khan" - the icy tone seemed closer, yet its pitch had not changed - "and you are ready to
obey. Follow every thought that comes to you!"
SLOWLY, Paul turned from the window. He sat at a writing desk that was strewn with papers. From
them, he brought a cardboard folder, opened it and mechanically thumbed the papers that he found
inside.
They were orders for commercial airplanes, to be delivered to South America. They were made out to
Globe Aircraft; the firm which Paul represented as a technical expert. Paul had gone to South America to
arrange the final specifications.
He had the needed details on another sheet of paper. He could have copied them directly to the orders.
But the paper that Paul picked up from the desk was blank. His eyes, though, saw writing on it, in a hand
other than his own.
The hand of Shiwan Khan!
First, Paul added amendments to the orders. He increased the number of certain planes, eliminating
others of a definitely commercial type. To the specifications for those that he increased, Paul called for a
special wing design, used in military aircraft. With that, he wrote the comment: "Required for flights
across the Andes Mountains."
Next, he changed the motor type from KJ4 to WI7, code numbers used by Globe Aircraft. The orders
for WI7 would please them at the factory, for they already had a few hundred of those new-type motors
in stock. It would also puzzle them, for Globe had built those new motors for delivery to the United
States government.
On the South American orders, Paul wrote: "For immediate delivery." Finally, he produced a government
order that he had picked up while in Washington. It called for delivery of three hundred WI7 motors
within two months, specifying that following such delivery, future motors of that type must be built for the
government only.
A conniving chuckle came from Paul's lips. It was a forced tone, a gloat that seemed rather to belong to
the unknown Shiwan Khan.
The government contract showed a figure "2" to specify the number of months. Paul inserted a figure "1"
in front of it, producing "12" as the total of months. With a year to go, the Globe factory could easily ship
the South American orders, and then begin producing motors for the government.
No longer puzzled, they would be doubly pleased at this chance to make a big commercial sale ahead of
the government's deadline. This would win Paul real approval from the factory. Until Washington heard
about it.
Thought of an unpleasant future did not deter Paul from his next action. Still following the controlling
thoughts of Shiwan Khan, Paul folded the order sheets into a large envelope that was already stamped
and addressed to Globe Aircraft. Putting on his hat and coat, he walked stolidly from the hotel room.
The elevator operator noted Paul's trancelike expression, while he was riding down to the lobby. So did
the bell captain, when Paul dropped the envelope in the mailbox. But neither observer made comment,
for the tan-faced man seemed to know what he was about. They saw Paul Brent walk out through the
side door.
On the sidewalk, Paul waited for a taxicab. That was the first real evidence that his brain probably wasn't
right. No cabs ever stopped on the obscure side street; they always pulled up to the front door.
Tonight was the exception.
Paul had not waited a dozen seconds, before a cab wheeled from a parking place and stopped for him.
The young man stepped into the cab as if it belonged to him; which, in a sense, it did.
That cab, like Paul Brent, was under the control of Shiwan Khan, the unseen master of many destinies.
The proof was the muffled driver. Despite his upturned coat collar, the man's features were momentarily
visible. They were yellow, with sharp black eyes that kept watching Paul in the rearview mirror. Gleaming
teeth showed the driver's grin; straight black hair matched the fellow's scrutinizing eyes.
The man at the wheel was a Mongol. He belonged among the guerrilla bands of western China. Any
passenger other than Paul Brent would have wondered what strange quirk had made the man a cab
driver. But Paul was scarcely conscious of time, space, or surroundings. The will of Shiwan Khan
controlled his thoughts as it did his deeds.
WHEN the cab stopped in back of a small apartment house, Paul stepped to the curb mechanically.
Across the sidewalk he saw a door, and he entered it.
Following a hallway, he turned when he came to a stairway and ascended to the third floor. Passing one
door, he stopped, laid his hand upon the knob of the next. It was the last door in the hall.
Entering the room by a little passage, Paul was immediately attracted by the glow of a single lamp that
stood, unshaded, on a table. It had a greenish tinge, that light, and though it possessed brightness, it didn't
hurt Paul's eyes. Instead, it held them.
There was a radio cabinet in the corner and Paul heard the music that was coming from it, for the tune
seemed to catch the same vibration as his thoughts. Standing motionless, Paul observed something that
glittered on the table. His eyes were blurred by the greenish light, so he groped for the object and
gripped it.
The music ended. There was the voice of an announcer, but it wasn't what Paul expected to hear. There
was something else - what it was to be, he had no idea; but another voice - the singular tone of Shiwan
Khan - told him to wait and listen. It came suddenly, from the radio: the stroke of a Chinese gong.
The very air seemed to catch that vibration. It quivered about Paul's ears, made him shudder with a hard
shake of his head. The spell of Shiwan Khan seemed to crash apart, like the breaking of a wave. The
circling lights, the ethereal voice, Paul's own recent deeds, were the slipping recollections of a hideous,
tangled dream.
His hand clenching tight, Paul felt weight, and coldness. He looked at the object that he held. It was a .32
revolver. His eyes, no longer blurred, gazed beyond the gun, to a thing that lay on the floor beside the
table with the greenish lamp.
It was the body of a man, clad in pajamas, lying face down. Blotched in the very center of the man's
back was a mass of crimson that dyed the striped pajama jacket. He was dead, that victim, a bullet in his
spine.
A bullet from the very gun that was gripped in the tight-clenched hand of Paul Brent!
CHAPTER II. FIGURES FROM GLOOM
"I KILLED him."
Paul Brent spoke the words calmly, with a trace of satisfaction. Then, the memory of his own voice
alarmed him.
"I... killed... him -"
It was almost a query, that higher pitch. Paul uttered it desperately, as if to fight off a conviction that must
have been inspired from someone else. Panic caught him; he wanted to dash from the place, raving the
news of murder.
Then came a flood of reason.
Paul couldn't remember coming here; he'd never seen the place before. The gun wasn't his; he had no
idea who the dead man might be. It didn't make sense, this murder.
Or did it?
Doubt was back again; not the sort, however, that made Paul Brent want to scream a guilt that might not
be his. This was a doubt induced by cold consideration, grim enough to prove disconcerting.
Actually, Paul could not account for the past half hour, except as a period of mental haze. He
remembered starting to his hotel room, but wasn't sure that he had really been there. The spinning lights
visible from his window were an occurrence that he associated with previous nights.
It could be that he had come directly here; that he had murdered the man who lay on the floor!
Such a deed, committed in a frenzy, could numb the senses and produce a haze. Confessed killers often
stated, honestly enough, that they had no recollection of anything that happened. Paul's own words: "I
killed him," spoken aloud to himself, loomed anew as damning evidence.
If only he could snatch some tangible detail from that recent whirl of thoughts!
There was a name somewhere in the medley. A name about which everything revolved. A name that Paul
would know instantly, if he heard it; but every effort to recall it made it more elusive. The name that Paul
sought and could not find was Shiwan Khan.
With an effort, Paul jolted himself back to the present. He faced the fact that he had a revolver in his
hand; that a dead man lay on the floor. The gun could tell him nothing, but the victim could, despite
death's intervention. One way for Paul to test his own sanity was to learn if he knew the dead man by
sight.
Probably he didn't. That settled, he would feel better. People didn't go about killing strangers merely for
the fun of it. Stepping boldly forward, Paul knelt beside the body. Still gripping the gun, he used his free
hand to turn the dead face up into the light.
The sight jarred him. Even in death, he recognized those drawn, dissipated features, tight-lipped and
bulge-eyed. The dead man was Bob Ryndon, stunt flier and adventurer, whose path had crossed Paul's a
few times too often.
They had argued it out heavily, nearly a year ago, when Ryndon had wanted Paul to O.K. some old
crates that were being shipped to China. It wasn't a Globe job; the planes were some that Ryndon had
bought on his own. But the purchaser would not accept them unless the specifications were approved by
a person of recognized ability.
Paul had refused to lend his name to it, on the ground that Globe wouldn't like it. Ryndon hadn't believed
him. He had called Paul a fool who put integrity ahead of easy money. Nobody would ever know the
difference, Ryndon had said, since a lot of incompetent Chinese aviators were going to crack up
whatever ships they received. Paul had coolly told Ryndon to ask someone else to do his dirty work.
Who else knew about that argument?
No one, unless Ryndon had talked about it, which he would not have found good policy. Unless he had
found some way to twist the facts against Paul. Nevertheless, it wasn't pleasant for Paul to find that this
dead man was an acquaintance, even though he hadn't seen Ryndon for nearly a year.
SUDDENLY sure that he had not killed Bob Ryndon, Paul decided upon immediate departure. He was
somewhere in New York; that was certain. If he could find his way to the street, he could go back to his
hotel and forget Bob Ryndon. The stunt flier knew plenty of other people; the police would probably find
the real murderer long before they reached Paul.
Almost to the door, Paul realized that he still held the gun. He was wondering what he ought to do about
it. An incriminating thing to have, yet something he would need if he met the real killer just outside of here.
Paul was speculating upon that unpleasant prospect, when he stiffened.
A click of the doorknob told that someone was entering the room!
To late to get out of sight from the passage, Paul dropped back, aiming the revolver. He was ready to
give challenge, when he found that words were unneeded. The person who entered wasn't formidable.
Quite the contrary.
The arrival was a girl. Stepping in from the passage, she faced Paul, a faraway stare in her eyes. That
distant expression suited her costume. The girl was clad in Chinese dress that made her a symphony in
silk.
Her colorful costume had the appearance of pajamas, topped by a loose, wide-sleeved robe of an
exquisite pattern, combining poppy leaves and peacocks. She was one of those rare creatures who might
have delighted an opium smoker's dreams.
Her oval face was beautiful: dark eyes with languorous lashes, ruddy lips that were not too bright. Her
nose was short, but without the wideness that sometimes marred the symmetry of Chinese features.
Despite her costume, Paul would have classed the girl as an American, rather than Chinese, if it had not
been for the olive tinge of her complexion. Since she showed neither fear nor antagonism, Paul lowered
the gun and waited.
The girl spoke in English, not with singsong pitch but in a slow monotone:
"My name is Lana Luan."
There was a rippling sound to the name, even with that slow pronunciation. Paul bowed, but did not
introduce himself. He watched the girl gaze about the room.
She looked toward a large box-seat couch at the front wall, then toward the radio across the room. Her
eyes passed the rear window and settled on the corner where Ryndon's body lay beneath the greenish
light.
Sight of the dead man produced no surprise. Lana Luan acted as though she expected to see Ryndon
lying there.
Turning to Paul, she eyed the gun and stated, very simply:
"You killed him."
Almost on the point of nodding, Paul restrained himself. Lifting one hand slightly, Lana Luan carried a
broad fold of silk cloth with it.
"Let me have the gun," she suggested. "I shall dispose of it. I think it would be wise for you to leave."
There was no malice in the eyes that met Paul's. Their depths revealed a simple sincerity. Perhaps Lana
Luan had wanted Ryndon's death, though Paul was convinced that she had not murdered the man. It
might be that she was protecting someone else. Whatever the case, it offered an end to Paul's own
predicament.
He placed the revolver in the folds of silk, gingerly keeping his hand in readiness, should Lana Luan make
a grab for it. His trust was complete when he saw the girl stand motionless, merely waiting for him to
leave.
With a quick stride, Paul stepped toward the passage. He was through it, closing the door, before the girl
could possibly have disentangled the gun, to aim it. His parting glimpse restored Paul's momentary loss of
confidence. A statue in silk, Lana Luan had made no move whatever.
Not until Paul had time to reach the street did the girl stir from her position. Then turning her head
mechanically toward the door, she watched it, while her hand folded in the corners of a silken square.
The gun was not lying in a portion of her sleeve. It was in the center of a handkerchief that matched her
costume in all its gorgeous pattern.
In the same tone that she had used before, Lana Luan announced:
"He has gone."
THE lid of the box-couch lifted. From the interior came an ugly Mongol face, quite like that of the taxi
driver who had brought Paul to this apartment house. The leering Mongol was the actual murderer of
Bob Ryndon, and Lana Luan accepted him as another portion of the scene.
Lifting the handkerchief by its corners, she gave it to the Mongol, who carefully wrapped the folds more
tightly. He paid no further attention to the girl, as she stepped toward the doorway to make her own
departure. Even before the door had closed, the Mongol was engaged in other business.
The silk-wrapped gun pocketed in his American garb, the killer stepped to the radio and lifted the lid of
the cabinet.
It was a combination phonograph and radio. From the turntable, which had stopped automatically, the
Mongol lifted a ten-inch phonograph record and slid it beneath his dark vest. Moving past the corpse; he
was careful not to crack the phonograph record, as he made a rapid search of Ryndon's clothes.
With a dozen pockets to turn inside out, the job took several minutes, despite the Mongol's expert touch.
Finished with the clothes, he tapped the pocket of Ryndon's pajama jacket, then had a look through a
suitcase that stood in the corner. Satisfied with his task, the Mongol fixed his gaze upon the greenish
lamp.
Though his leer did not alter, the Mongol's eyes took on the same distant stare that Paul Brent had noted
in the case of Lana Luan. At that tine, it had not occurred to Paul that he, too, had held a similar fixed
expression, back in his hotel room. He might have realized it, had he remained to witness the actions of
this Mongol.
"Yes!" hissed the leering man, suddenly. "It is I, Hoang Khu. I hear you, master. All is done, Kha Khan!"
There was a pause, as if the evil brain behind the yellow face had received an important reminder. A
clawlike hand moved toward the greenish light. About to touch the glowing bulb, Hoang Khu quivered,
as under a vibrating impulse.
Slanted eyes lost their stare as the Mongol's fingers gripped the light bulb, prepared to loose it from the
socket. An instant later, Hoang Khu gave up that purpose. Leaving the light aglow, he whisked from the
table and bounded, with a rubbery silence, to the open box-couch at the front of the room.
Clutching one hand to protect the precious record, Hoang Khu vaulted the couch edge with the other.
Landing noiselessly, he sped a claw upward, drew the hinged top into place with an action as silent as it
was speedy.
A streak of blackness stretched inward from the passage. It formed a hawkish silhouette upon the floor,
then dwindled, as the figure that cast it moved into the green light's glow. Of all intruders upon the scene
of death, this arrival was the most remarkable.
He was a being cloaked in black, whose slouch hat obscured the profile that had momentarily registered
itself upon the floor. Unlike Shiwan Khan, who ruled evil from afar, this being, foe to crime, preferred to
visit danger zones in person.
The green glow had welcomed a final figure from the gloom: The Shadow!
CHAPTER III. CRIME'S EVIDENCE
FROM the moment of his entry, The Shadow began an intensified survey of the murder scene,
accomplishing his work with most efficient tactics. Starting with Ryndon's body, he noted its position, the
condition of the wound, as well as the dead man's face.
With one black-gloved hand, The Shadow tilted Ryndon's chin into the light. All the while, another
gloved hand was waiting, half-concealed within The Shadow's cloak folds. The slightest move on the part
of any foe, hidden or otherwise, would have brought that ready hand into sight, armed with a .45
automatic.
In inspecting the body, The Shadow used a process that had occurred to neither Paul Brent nor Hoang
Khu. He stooped in the corner beyond the flattened form, so that he retained a view of the entire room. It
was impossible to tell whether he was actually looking at the body, or keeping camouflaged watch on
other portions of the room.
True, there were moments when The Shadow's eyes displayed a reflected glow when they caught the
rays of the lamplight; but those moments were seldom, and afforded no opportunity to Hoang Khu, who
was watching from the crack of the couch top.
The Mongol considered his own concealment safe. The interior of the couch was dark; no one, not even
The Shadow, could have discerned the peering eyes of Hoang Khu.
At intervals, the Mongol eased the couch top a trifle upward, while his other hand sought the handle of a
long-bladed knife beneath his coat. But always, Hoang Khu was forced to let the top inch down again,
when The Shadow made a timely turn in his direction.
Ryndon's clothes showed plainly that they had been searched. Therefore, The Shadow gave them a very
brief examination, which did not allow Hoang Khu time to get busy with the knife. Gliding about the
room, The Shadow passed close to the couch, but he was gone before Hoang Khu could take advantage
of his nearness.
Reaching the radio, The Shadow used his system of standing against the wall beyond it, thus watching the
door, as well as the rest of the room - the couch included - while he made an inspection of the cabinet.
He learned, by lifting the lid, that the radio was also equipped as a phonograph.
He also discovered something more.
Though the combination cabinet contained no records, there was dust on the phonograph needle. Peeling
away a glove by pressing his left hand beneath his right elbow, The Shadow stroked the needle point with
his finger tip and assured himself of the telltale clue.
One of Shiwan Khan's devices, that of influencing persons by sound, was definitely indicated to The
Shadow.
During his roam about the room, the cloaked investigator had given passing glances to the green light. His
interest in the olive-tinted bulb had been quite as frequent as Hoang Khu's efforts to bring a knife into
play.
Back at the table, The Shadow was comparing the position of the light with that of Ryndon's body. A
whispered laugh stirred the room.
Like the stroke of Shiwan Khan's gong, the tone was shuddery. But the air seemed to absorb it,
repeating an echoed sibilance, rather than be jarred. The Shadow's laugh remained a recollection,
whereas the gong clang had broken off the chain of previous memories.
The green light, as The Shadow saw it, had the sort of glow that would produce a hypnotic effect, the
longer that one watched it.
Just how the bulb had been placed here, did not demand immediate consideration. Certain it was that
Bob Ryndon had stared at the curious glow, until too puzzled to do anything about it. His mind focused
upon the eye-gripping brilliance, the victim had gone into a trancelike condition that had made his murder
a simple matter.
Ryndon had never sensed an intruder's entry. He hadn't felt the gun muzzle that had been planted
squarely against his spine. It was doubtful that the death shot had jarred him from his coma. Crime had
been merciful, in this case, but that did not indicate charity on the part of the insidious master who had
ordained Ryndon's death.
Contrarily, a supercriminal who dealt in such calculating methods could resort to wanton cruelty, if it
would better serve a purpose. The Shadow had learned that often, in his campaign against living fiends.
GLOATING within the box-couch, Hoang Khu was hopeful that the light would rivet The Shadow's
attention, as it had done with others. The Mongol was promptly disappointed.
The Shadow, it seemed, had timed the brief limit in which it was safe to watch the light. Stepping from the
table, he began to inspect other portions of the room.
The slight crack on the edge of the box-couch was gone. Settled inside, Hoang Khu was making rapid
changes in his plans. The knife was beneath his coat, with the phonograph record. Frantically, he was
tugging at the silk cloth in his pocket, to get at the death gun.
Shiwan Khan wanted that revolver as it was, with Paul Brent's fingerprints implanted upon it. Hoang
Khu, the tool, was spoiling one design of the hidden master, in an effort to save his own yellow-hued
hide. He had no other choice.
If The Shadow lifted the couch top, a knife would not suffice the Mongol. It would be a question of gun
against gun, and Hoang Khu's leer, though lost in darkness, was proof that the Mongol considered that
he, rather than The Shadow, would be the survivor, should such a duel arrive.
With passing minutes, Hoang Khu realized that The Shadow had apparently ignored the big couch as the
possible hiding place of an assassin. That was not entirely unreasonable; outwardly, the couch had an
appearance of solidness. Working the top upward with his free claw, the Mongol shoved the gun muzzle
to the crevice, along with his eye.
What Hoang Khu saw, pleased him.
The Shadow, apparently satisfied that the room was empty, had returned to the light. This time, to test
the glow fully, he had seated himself before the table. The green glow had done the rest. The Shadow
was slouched forward toward the light, exactly as Ryndon had been when Hoang Khu murdered him.
Lifting the couch top higher, Hoang Khu aimed straight for The Shadow's back. Then, as a chance
breeze from the partly opened window stirred the cloak sleeve, the Mongol changed aim with a snakish
action of his claw. Tugging the trigger, Hoang Khu dispatched a bullet to the green light, instead of the
black cloak.
Amid blackness wherein glass tinkled to the echoes of the gun blast, Hoang Khu sprang from the couch
and dived for the window. A figure shot from the doorway passage, caught the Mongol in a low, fast
drive.
Hoang Khu's gun blasted again - above The Shadow's shoulder. The shot told where the weapon was. A
gloved hand clamped the Mongol's gun wrist.
Wrenching wildly, Hoang Khu managed to dodge the stroke of The Shadow's gun. Letting his own
revolver scale from his hand, he clawed at the long-limbed adversary who had sped in, cloakless, to
intercept him. Hoang Khu was fighting with the fierce writhe of a giant python, which told that his present
desire was escape.
Hoang Khu's hearing was no keener than The Shadow's. The Mongol had caught the creak of a door
hinge before The Shadow entered. Similarly, The Shadow had heard vague indications of the Mongol's
rapid sneak to the box-couch. After lulling the hidden killer, The Shadow had tricked him into showing
his hand.
Noting the betraying crack along the couch edge, The Shadow had seen it disappear. Whisking off cloak
and hat, he had draped them on the chair near the table. Choosing the passage, The Shadow had
watched for Hoang Khu's thrust. Only the chance breeze from the window had prevented Hoang Khu
from completely gobbling the bait. By shooting out the light, the Mongol had somewhat equalized
matters.
His gun gone, Hoang Khu was after his knife. If gripped by the twisty yellow hand, the blade could prove
a powerful weapon in this grapple. The Shadow was not deceived by a crackle that came from beneath
Hoang Khu's coat. It was the phonograph record, not the Mongol's ribs, that had cracked.
To get the range he wanted, The Shadow whirled Hoang Khu toward the window, then loosed him with
a half fling. Dropping back, The Shadow aimed his gun. But the quick-witted Mongol didn't wait.
Head foremost, he crashed through the window, ruining the half-lifted sash with his huge shoulder.
Landing on a low roof, a story below, Hoang Khu made a lope for the roof edge.
By then, The Shadow was at the window, aiming his automatic. Had his finger tightened in its squeeze,
there would have been one less Mongol in the service of Shiwan Khan. But The Shadow was forced to
hurry the shot, with a jerky motion. A man lunged in from the doorway; behind him came the glare of a
flashlight.
Jabbing his shot at Hoang Khu, The Shadow let the recoil carry him about. A tall figure in evening
clothes, one arm raised to hide his face, he drove squarely upon the pair who had arrived to start a
combat of their own.
THEY were headquarters police. The Shadow learned that as he tussled with them. The flashlight had
clattered to the floor, and in the darkness the two men handled their guns earnestly, but with bluntness
摘要：

THEGOLDENMASTERMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.DEATH'SWHIRL?CHAPTERII.FIGURESFROMGLOOM?CHAPTERIII.CRIME'SEVIDENCE?CHAPTERIV.THECEYLONRUBY?CHAPTERV.THECHINESEAUCTION?CHAPTERVI.LOOLOOKSPEAKS?CHAPTERVII.QUESTOFTHEDRAGON?CHAPTERVIII.MESSAGESATMIDNIGHT?...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：73 页 大小：185.42KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-23

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