Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 138 - Teeth of the Dragon

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TEETH OF THE DRAGON
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. SOUTH OF FRISCO
? CHAPTER II. A CHINAMAN'S MESSAGE
? CHAPTER III. THE HATCHET MAN
? CHAPTER IV. THE MISSING MESSAGE
? CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW VISITS
? CHAPTER VI. CROOKS CONFER
? CHAPTER VII. HORDES OF THE FANS
? CHAPTER VIII. MING DWAN'S GUILE
? CHAPTER IX. THE LAIR OF THE FAN
? CHAPTER X. THE BLADE OF DEATH
? CHAPTER XI. DEATH IN THE DEPTHS
? CHAPTER XII. ALONG THE WATER FRONT
? CHAPTER XIII. WITHIN THE CORDON
? CHAPTER XIV. THE HOUSE OF LI SHENG
? CHAPTER XV. TRAP FOR TRAP
? CHAPTER XVI. LI SHENG OBJECTS
? CHAPTER XVII. CLOAKED FLIGHT
? CHAPTER XVIII. TEN MILLION DOLLARS
? CHAPTER XIX. HALTED RANSOM
? CHAPTER XX. SHARED TRIUMPH
CHAPTER I. SOUTH OF FRISCO
The powerful, low-slung roadster was spinning southward along a highway that overhung the Pacific's
shore. Brilliant headlights showed the broad stretch of highway fairly pouring beneath the huge-tired
wheels.
With all its speed, the motor's tone was rhythmic. The car never slackened as it took the sweeping,
well-banked curves. A forceful driver was at the wheel of that surging roadster. His eyes were constantly
on the highway ahead. Not once did they wander to look at the speedometer on the dashboard.
The speed that was registered there was one hundred miles an hour. The needle held to that mark as if
glued.
Eyes alone were visible within the darkness beneath the roadster's low racing top. Eyes that burned from
beneath the brim of a slouch hat. The rest of the driver's face was obscured by the upturned collar of a
jet-black cloak. Like his body, his gloved hands were invisible in the gloom.
The Shadow was speeding to a mission where the delay of even half a minute might cost the lives of
innocent men.
The big car zoomed past a looming headland. Below, off to the right, lay a stretch of absolute blackness
that represented the broad expanse of the Pacific Ocean. Under the clouded night sky, the sea had
become a Stygian pool of limitless extent.
Then, from that blackness twinkled lights. A ship was hovering in toward the shore.
The Shadow knew the identity of that vessel. It was the trawler Tantalus, its skipper a Captain Malhearn.
The ship held a human cargo. It was here to unload Chinese upon the California coast.
There was time to arrive at the beach before the small boats from the Tantalus reached it. The Tantalus
was slated for trouble from the Coast Guard; and that could mean murder of the Chinese cargo, unless
some one intervened. The chink-runners had an unpleasant habit of dumping human evidence overboard,
when pressed.
They wouldn't work that game tonight, if The Shadow showed up on the deck of the Tantalus, out of a
small boat coming from the shore.
At the moment when he spied the trawler's lights, the time element was all in The Shadow's favor. Then,
in an instant, that situation was reversed.
The Shadow's right foot shot from the accelerator to the brake pedal. With quick jabs, he broke the big
car's speed and pumped pressure into the hydraulic brakes. As the roadster sliced down to fifty, The
Shadow jammed the brakes hard. The huge automobile swayed and screeched to a stop, only a dozen
feet short of a rock barrier that stretched across the road.
WITH a flick, a gloved hand turned off the ignition and extinguished the lights. The door opened; a
cloaked form flung itself into darkness.
The Shadow's move was none too soon. Three flashlights glimmered as a trio of huskies pounced from
stony hiding places. Guns in their fists, they sprang to the stalled roadster, expecting to overpower its
unfortunate occupant.
Oaths were rasped when the thugs found the big car empty. Those mutters, like the flashlights, betrayed
the positions of the trio. Before they could rally themselves, the cover-up crew was met by The
Shadow's counter-attack.
A thug by the left side of the car was the first to take it. He swung his flashlight, to catch The Shadow's
outline in its gleam. The hoodlum saw his foe too late. Looming upon him from beside the car's big hood,
The Shadow sledged a long arm for the fellow's head. A heavy automatic sideswiped a capped skull.
The thug thudded the concrete road.
A second rowdy had reached the roadster's steering wheel. He heard his pal slump. He aimed blindly
into the blackness above the car door. That darkness solidified into a human shape. From it sped a free,
gloved hand that throttled the crook's throat with a paralyzing grip. The thug's head went back; his arms
dropped. His revolver clanked the handle of the hand brake.
With a side fling, The Shadow slammed his second foeman flat on the floor of the car. Clearing the way,
he did a headlong dive clear over the other door, straight into the glare of the flashlight that bobbed there.
The Shadow's surge blotted the light's rays. Flinging aside his .45 as he came, he locked with the last thug
before the fellow could aim.
The third struggle was as swift as the others. The Shadow took his adversary off balance; sprawled him
to the edge of the highway, where the thug's head took a jolt that left him senseless. The Shadow had
settled the entire group, without a single shot to alarm the main gang on the beach below.
KEEPING his flashlight low, The Shadow found a jagged path between high rocks. Going through, he
found himself upon a high promontory. Again, the lights of the Tantalus twinkled, very close to shore.
Lanterns were swinging from the beach. Boats were preparing to put out, to bring the Chinese ashore.
The Shadow had a difficult quarter mile to cover, to reach that crowd on the beach. The only path was a
precipitous one, down from this high ground. At that, The Shadow might have reached his goal before
the last boat started; but before he could begin his foray, another circumstance intervened.
A long-beamed searchlight cleaved the blackness. It shone from a full mile off shore, and its sweeping
path finally settled on the clumsy hulk of the trawler Tantalus. A Coast Guard cutter had arrived to pick
out the smuggler ship.
The cutter's approach was untimely. It foretold death to the helpless Chinese. Halted on the path, The
Shadow could picture those Celestials going overboard in deep water, weighted with chunks of iron.
Runners like Malhearn were merciless, when they thought they would be caught with the goods.
The Shadow's race seemed useless, when a strange thing happened. The lights of the trawler came
moving inward, straight for the shore!
That meant one thing only; Malhearn was going to beach the Tantalus; wreck it in the booming surf.
There was but a single reason possible for such sacrifice. The skipper was determined to unload his
Chinese cargo intact, despite the risk of capture and the sure loss of the ship.
Others than The Shadow stared at the unusual sight. That gang along the beach could not understand
Malhearn's folly. A shell whined from the cutter; it whistled across the trawler's bow and splashed the
waves. The Tantalus kept moving shoreward.
There was a lull; another warning shot had no effect. During the next interval, the only sounds were the
roar of the rolling surf and the pound of the trawler's engines. The cutter began fire in earnest. A shell
ripped away the trawler's funnel; another shot shattered the deck near the stern.
The lights of the Tantalus quivered. The chunky ship was beached. Firefly gleams from the cutter told that
its crew was boarding small boats, to take up the chase ashore. Near the bottom of the path, The
Shadow saw men dragging water-soaked Chinese into the light of the lanterns. One small batch was
hustled away, in a direction opposite The Shadow's. They were being taken to trucks, hidden by rocks
on the highway, somewhere beyond the barrier that had halted The Shadow.
More Chinese were hauled ashore, but no more groups were started on their way. The cutter's boats had
landed. Government men opened fire, above the heads of the men who were in the open. Some made a
dash for the road. The rest threw up their arms and surrendered, along with Malhearn and the trawler's
crew.
By the rocks beside the road, a dozen men were waiting in ambush, their rifles covering the beach. One
of them, serving as temporary leader, snarled to his companions:
"They've grabbed Malhearn and the rest of the shore gang! They've got the chinks, too! They'll be
heading here to snatch the bunch that we just ran through to the trucks. Here they come! Let 'em have
it."
Rifles crackled from the rocks. There were answering shots from the beach; then the Coast Guardsmen
dropped for cover. There were raucous shouts from the crooks in ambush. This time, the advantage was
theirs. They had the government men in the open; the crooks intended to give no quarter.
Slaughter was their plan; then the release of Malhearn and the other prisoners, and a recapture of the
Chinese. Long-range flashlights beamed through the darkness, to show up the fighters who were flattened
along the unprotected beach. Three minutes were all that the dozen snipers needed to wipe out the Coast
Guard crew.
As the first rifles rattled, seeking the right range, a pair of automatics spoke from a rocky crevice. Flames
tongued straight toward the snipers. Those bursts were from The Shadow's automatics. The cloaked
fighter had reached a ledge above and to the right of the ambuscade.
Clustered sharpshooters sprawled. Their pals swung savagely to meet the flank fire. They fired their rifles
toward the crevice. The bullets ricocheted without effect. The Shadow's ambush was a perfect one.
His automatics continued their close-range pour. Unwounded thugs did not wait for that volley to finish.
They made a break for the road.
That took them to rocks above, away from The Shadow's fire. They were spotted by lights from one of
the cutter's boats. Riflemen from the beach began to pick off the fleeing thugs, while others hurried
forward to gather in the crooks that The Shadow had wounded.
Shifting back toward his rocky path, The Shadow could see the results. He had accounted for half of the
ambushed crooks. The remaining six were dropping one by one, toppling from rocks as rifle shots
winged them.
From a final vantage point, The Shadow could see a waiting truck, beyond the range of his automatics.
Its motor was roaring, ready for the getaway, when a lone member of the ambush party staggered into
the glare of its headlights.
Rocks protected the truck from the Coast Guard fire. The driver lingered long enough to haul the
wounded man aboard. Then the truck was off with a roar, carrying its small cargo of Chinese - a mere
three or four who had come from the Tantalus.
The Shadow reached his roadster. He arrived in time to subdue one of the thugs who had recovered. He
bound the hoodlum, along with his stunned pals, and left all three by the rocks, where the Coast Guard
could find them. Stepping into the roadster, The Shadow turned the car about and started back toward
San Francisco.
A WEIRD laugh sounded from the darkness of the roadster. Its chilling tones blended with the pound of
the Pacific's surf. Though luck had interchanged tonight, the final result had been success. The Shadow
had thwarted men of crime; he had saved men of the law from doom.
There was no chance to pursue the fleeing truck; for it had started southward from a spot beyond the
blocking road barrier. The Shadow was content to let the few surviving crooks have their small success,
carrying through a very few of the smuggled Chinese.
Though he had not yet learned it, The Shadow had missed the greatest of tonight's opportunities. The
escape of that lone truck and its small cargo was destined to plunge The Shadow into a series of strange
and desperate adventures.
CHAPTER II. A CHINAMAN'S MESSAGE
Aboard the fleeing truck, a steady, hard-faced driver was choosing a roundabout way back to San
Francisco. The ugly look on his square-jawed face showed that he was contemptuous of pursuit. He
knew these roads like nobody else. That was why he had been given the job of handling the truck.
The driver's name was "Lubber" Kreef; and he considered himself an ex-member of Malhearn's trawler
crew. Lubber had quit the Tantalus because he had never been able to find his sea legs. When Malhearn
had given up trawling to run Chinese, he had found Lubber and signed him up as shore man for the outfit.
What Lubber had failed to learn about handling a trawler, he had made up for with his knowledge of
managing a truck.
Lubber was growling as he drove along. Though loyal to Malhearn, he thought the skipper crazy,
because he had beached the Tantalus. He was sore, too, because the shore gang hadn't brought all the
Chinese to the truck. It would be a long rap for Malhearn and the crew of the Tantalus. Lubber didn't
care about the shore gang. They were hired hoodlums, who didn't belong with the trawler.
All except the fellow that Lubber had dragged aboard the truck. He was Steve Henney, from the
Tantalus. Steve had come along to see that the Chinese reached the truck. Recognizing him as an old pal,
Lubber had dragged him into the truck.
It didn't seem much use, though. Slumped beside Lubber, Steve looked like he was through. A couple of
Coast Guard bullets had clipped him.
"Lubber - Lubber" - Steve stirred to gasp the name - "they - they got me -"
Lubber shot a sidelong glance toward Steve's drawn face.
"You're O.K., Steve," growled the truck driver. "I'll get you to a croaker when we hit Frisco. I'll drop
you there before I deliver the chinks. It won't be long, Steve."
"I - I can't last, Lubber."
Steve coughed the words. Lubber didn't doubt the statement. He had figured that Steve would be dead
before they reached San Francisco. Lubber thrust out his right hand, to quiet Steve as the fellow writhed
in the truck seat. Steve sagged; but his hand came tugging weakly from his pocket.
"Take this, Lubber!" Steve managed to press an envelope into the driver's hand. "A Chinee give it to me
- on the boat. It means - means five grand - if you deliver it to the guy it's meant for! The dough's yours -
Lubber -"
Steve went limp. Thrusting the envelope in his pocket, Lubber leaned from the wheel to eye his
companion. Steve was dead.
"Five grand," muttered Lubber. "Steve meant it, too. Boy, this is a break, now that Malhearn's racket is
on the fritz! When I get to Frisco, I'll give that envelope the once-over."
Lubber finished his comment with a nod of thanks to the dead form of Steve Henney. Perhaps Lubber
would have omitted the courtesy, had he known the person for whom the message was meant.
Astonishing though it was, that envelope that had passed from one crook to another was addressed to
The Shadow!
NEAR San Francisco, Lubber conveniently disposed of Steve's body; but did not look at the envelope.
When he reached the city, he drove to a garage, where a crew of mysterious, lurking Chinese took over
the Celestials who were in the back of the truck.
Driving away, Lubber headed for another garage and stowed the truck there. Coming out on the street,
he took his first glance at the envelope that Steve had handed him.
Lubber's lips phrased an oath.
The only name and address that showed on the envelope were two Chinese characters. As near as
Lubber could figure it, they represented some one's name; but that didn't help. Lubber couldn't read
Chinese.
There was one place where the riddle could be answered. That was Chinatown. The Oriental district
wasn't far from the garage. Soon, Lubber was footing it along steep-pitched streets where yellow faces
were in abundance.
Stopping by the brilliantly lighted front of a Chinese theater, Lubber accosted a Celestial who looked like
a doorman. He shoved the envelope in front of the fellow's almond eyes, with the query:
"Say, Johnny, tell me who this is for, will you?"
Slanted eyes became beady. The Chinaman showed a frightened look. His lips muttered a name that
Lubber could not hear. Sidling away, the Chinaman entered the theater.
There was a Chinese girl in the box office. Lubber flashed the envelope there. The girl's eyes stared as
though they were looking right through Lubber. Mechanically, the girl spoke in English:
"Your pardon, sir. I cannot read Chinese.
Lubber had gone half a block before he realized that the girl's words must have been false. What was she
doing, working for a Chinese theater, if she couldn't talk the lingo and read Chinese?
At a lighted corner where a pagoda-shaped auction house towered, Lubber stopped a passing Chinese
and showed him the envelope, with the hoarse demand that the fellow interpret the characters.
The Chinaman twisted away, while Lubber clung to him. At last, the man mumbled the words:
"Ying Ko - Ying Ko!"
"Who's Ying Ko?" jabbed Lubber. "Where'll I find him?"
The Chinaman didn't answer. They had reached a handy alley. He broke away and darted from sight
before Lubber could stop him.
Some other Chinese had seen the episode. They were gathering close to Lubber. To explain the matter,
he showed them the envelope. Two or three moved away hurriedly. Another pair made a move as if
reaching for knives. Lubber decided to clear that neighborhood.
REACHING another street, Lubber felt nervous. Who was this Ying Ko, that some Chinese didn't want
to talk about; whose name was like a threat to others? Had the tougher-looking Mongols passed the
word along?
Lubber thought so, for he fancied that he could see passing Chinese stare at him; while others, squatted in
shop windows, gazed askance.
Lubber found an alleyway that suited him and cut through to another street. He grunted with relief when
he saw no sharp looks from the next Chinese who he passed. But he kept the envelope in his pocket.
There was a tea shop on this street; in front sat a benign old Chinaman who puffed a long pipe. Lubber
stopped there; easing his usual gruff tone, he remarked:
"I've got a message for some Chinaman named Ying Ko. It's in Chinese. But nobody will put me wise
about this guy Ying Ko."
The old Chinaman stopped his contented puffing. His mild eyes had a piercing glitter as they studied
Lubber. His placid pose returning, the Chinaman said quietly:
"Come into the shop."
Lubber followed the old man inside. There, the Chinaman requested to see the message. Lubber
produced the envelope. Studying the Chinese characters, the tea-shop owner questioned:
"Have you shown this to any one?"
"Yeah," replied Lubber. "To a theater doorman; to a girl in the box office -"
Lubber halted. He decided that he had told enough. The old Chinaman evidently believed Lubber, when
the crook added:
"They told me it was for Ying Ko. That was all."
"Perhaps," suggested the Chinaman, "they mentioned who Ying Ko might be?"
Lubber shook his head emphatically. The Chinaman looked at the envelope; for a moment, Lubber
thought that he intended to open it. With five thousand dollars promised for the safe delivery of the
message, Lubber didn't want that. He made a hurried snatch for the envelope. Lubber's sincere
eagerness to protect the message impressed the Chinaman.
"You will promise," he said, "to show that message to no one else. Nor will you mention the name of
Ying Ko to any one. If so, I shall see that Ying Ko learns of it."
Lubber agreed. The Chinaman asked him for his address. Lubber scrawled it on a piece of paper.
Blandly, the old man led him through the rear of the shop to a door that opened on an alleyway. He
bowed Lubber out into the darkness.
As soon as Lubber had gone, the old Chinaman went to a telephone and called a number. There was an
answer; the tea-shop owner gave his name. To the listener, he stated:
"I have called you, Doctor Tam, because you are a friend to Ying Ko - The Shadow. Tonight, I have
seen a message addressed to Ying Ko. It is held by one who does not know that Ying Ko is The
Shadow. This is his address..."
The address given, the old Chinaman went out to the front of the shop and resumed his chair there. He
puffed his pipe as contentedly as if he had totally forgotten Lubber's visit. But behind the old Celestial's
placid gaze lay watchfulness. He was making sure that no spies appeared along the street. Seeing none,
the Chinaman was pleased.
That tea-shop proprietor was neither a superstitious Oriental who feared mention of the name Ying Ko,
nor did he belong to an evil brood of Mongols, who sought to thwart The Shadow. He was a friend of
Doctor Roy Tam, a modern Chinese, who stood for progress. Doctor Tam, so a chosen few
understood, owed much of his success to The Shadow's aid.
UNFORTUNATELY, the quiet of the tea-shop street was misleading. There was a reason why lurkers
did not come there. Lubber Kreef had unwisely poked himself in the wrong direction; he was back on a
lighted street where spies persisted.
Though evil-eyed Mongols knew nothing of Lubber's stop at the tea shop, they had his trail again. They
knew that he was the bearer of a message to Ying Ko. The rumor passed to other Chinese of a skulking
type.
Heading toward the water front, Lubber soon realized that he was being watched. He was near the
outskirts of Chinatown; he saw a big truck halted at a corner. It was pointed in the direction that Lubber
wanted.
Lubber hopped aboard without ceremony, and introduced himself to the driver as a fellow truckman.
"Thanks for the lift, buddy," Lubber voiced, when they neared the front. "I'll drop off here."
Lubber picked a corner near a grogshop that was frequented chiefly by seamen. He figured that he
needed a few stiff drinks, to forget those peering yellow faces that had watched him everywhere.
At a battered corner table in the booze-joint, Lubber was pouring himself a third glass when a big hand
thwacked his shoulders. Lubber winced; then grinned as he recognized the man who sat down beside
him.
The fellow was "Shiv" Faxon, a racketeer whose business frequently brought him to the docks.
A smooth customer, Shiv. Thin-faced, tight-lipped; with eyes that stared like little beads. His hands were
quick, restless, as if they itched for action. They could give it too. The racketeer was a speedy man with
the "shiv," the slang term for a knife. It was his ability with the dirk that had produced his nickname.
Shiv had learned his knife-work in Mexico. Since his sojourn in that country, he rarely carried a gun. But
he never lacked a knife. Shiv had a collection of those tools; his hardware included bolos, machetes and
stilettos. He always seemed to have the right dirk with him on the required occasion.
"H'lo, Shiv," greeted Lubber. "Wish you'd been with me up in Chinatown. Lot of chinks up there looked
like they wanted to jab me with a toad-sticker. You could have scared 'em off me."
"Yeah?" Shiv was curious with his sharp tone. "What was it about, Lubber?"
Lubber produced the envelope; flashed it so that Shiv could glimpse the Chinese characters.
"This come from a chink that was run through tonight," confided Lubber. "Those letters ain't laundry
marks. They're the name of the guy that's to get the message. Five grand for me when I deliver it. Only, a
lot of chinks were leery when I showed it to them."
Lubber had an idea that five thousand dollars was small change to Shiv. He saw no harm in mentioning
the amount; in fact, he thought it would put him higher in Shiv's estimation. Lubber refrained, though, from
mentioning the name of Ying Ko. He shrugged his shoulders and pocketed the envelope, when Shiv
asked where the envelope was to be delivered.
"The right guy will come for it," assured Lubber.
AT a near-by table sat a stooped man, whose face had a yellowish tinge, although he didn't look like a
Chinese. His eyes had noticed the large characters on the envelope, when Lubber happened to turn it in
his direction. Finishing a drink, the stoopish man arose and sidled into a back room, to reach a
telephone.
Ten minutes later, Lubber said good night to Shiv and left the grogshop. From the moment that he
reached the street, he was followed.
No ordinary trailers, these. They were the pick of Chinatown's stalkers. They shifted from doorway to
doorway; clung to the darkened fronts of piers. They were close behind Lubber when he took a side
street and entered the house where he lodged.
There was a short passage beside the house; it ended in a blocking, ten-foot wall. Watching from the tiny
blind alley, two lurking Chinese saw the light of a gas jet flicker from a corner window at the rear of the
third floor. They had marked Lubber's room. Sidling away, they babbled in low tone to other Chinese.
Three minutes later, there wasn't a single yellow face in sight anywhere along that block. The Chinese
trailers had returned to their usual haunts. Their part of the work was finished.
More minutes passed. Beneath the glow of a dingy street lamp came an evasive streak of darkness, that
flitted weirdly into view, then faded. It told of a living shape, blended with the blackness of the house
fronts.
The Shadow had heard from Doctor Roy Tam. He had come to find the man who held a message for
him.
Gliding noiselessly along the front street, The Shadow made positive that there were no lurkers present.
He noted the house number; then moved into the blind alley. From there, he saw streaks of light from the
edges of Lubber's third story window, where the crook had drawn the shade.
Lubber was at home, ready to receive his mysterious visitor. Blackness moved toward the front door of
the house; The Shadow entered a dim hallway, where he faded from sight as he approached a flight of
stairs.
The Shadow had chosen the usual route to Lubber's room, on a mission that seemed simple and direct.
Yet, when he crossed that threshold, The Shadow was moving into danger as insidious as any that he had
ever encountered.
CHAPTER III. THE HATCHET MAN
ALL was placid in Lubber's room at the time when The Shadow had observed the light that fringed the
shaded window. But circumstances were due for a sudden shift there - one that came within the few
minutes that The Shadow required for his trip up from the street.
There were two windows in Lubber's room. The Shadow had observed the one that opened on the side
of the house. The other was in the rear wall. Lubber had drawn the shades of both windows, but he had
not locked the sashes. They were battered and rickety, with no catches.
Moreover, Lubber saw no danger from the windows. The side one was three floors above the ground.
The rear window was above an eight-foot drop to a porch roof that was on a level with the second
story.
The door was locked, with the key in it. Lubber was seated at a corner table, staring at the envelope that
bore the mysterious name of Ying Ko. In addition to the table, the room had a few rickety chairs and a
battered bedstead. There was also a large, clumsy piece of furniture in the shape of a big wardrobe, that
stood against the wall by the rear window.
As Lubber figured it, that bulky wardrobe was useless. It took up what he termed "half the room", and he
had no use for the big drawers with which the wardrobe was provided. Lubber kept all his belongings in
a suitcase.
Itchily, Lubber fingered the envelope. He remembered that the Chinese tea-shop merchant had wanted
to open it. Shiv Faxon would have liked to do the same. Lubber was feeling the same impulse; but the
thought of five thousand dollars restrained him. There wasn't going to be any squawk from Ying Ko,
whoever he might be, when he came to get the message.
Half aloud, Lubber expressed the speech that he expected to deliver for the benefit of some owl-faced
Chinaman.
"Five grand, Ying Ko," repeated Lubber, "and it's yours. Take a gander; see for yourself that nobody's
looked into it. Don't ask me who it's from. All I know is what it's worth. Take it or leave it!"
DURING his mumble, Lubber failed to hear a sound behind him. There was a flutter from the curtain of
the rear window. That shade was too old to give a warning crinkle. What Lubber should have heard was
the creak of the rickety sash; but he didn't.
The curtain raised. From beneath it peeked a wicked yellow visage, with an ugliness that outmatched any
face that Lubber had seen in Chinatown tonight. Long, spidery arms reached for the floor; clawish hands
spread flat, while a twisty body and scrawny legs sidled over the sill.
The grotesque creature that crouched on the floor by the window could scarcely be classed as human.
His face showed him to be a Chinaman; but his dwarfish, hunchy body looked like the figure of an
undersize orangutan. His limbs were also apelike.
The ugly visitor had scaled the wall for a meeting with Lubber Kreef. He was clad in darkish, baggy
garments, with a big belt around his spidery waist. From that belt, the distorted man drew the most
terrible of Chinese weapons: an odd-shaped hatchet. That instrument, so often used in tong
assassinations, was the weapon that the crawly visitor intended to use upon Lubber Kreef.
The hatchet man unlimbered. Edging forward, he halted suddenly and stretched against the wall near the
window. Lubber had thrust the envelope deep into a pocket. He was rising from the table. Dotty eyes
watched him. If Lubber turned toward the rear window, the hatchet man would spring. If not, he would
wait.
Lubber unwittingly did just what the assassin wanted. He stretched himself; then decided to sit down
again. He opened the table drawer, brought out a grimy pack of playing cards. He began to shuffle the
pasteboards for a game of solitaire, while he waited for Ying Ko. Lubber never dealt a single card. The
riffle of the pack was loud enough, close enough, to prevent Lubber from hearing the hatchet man's
approach. With long, creepy stride, the killer came forward; drew back a thin arm and made a straight
leap. His hatchet descended with terrific impetus, squarely upon Lubber's skull.
The blow cleaved bone and brain. Lubber's shoulders seemed to telescope, then flounder sideways. He
flattened, face-upward, on the floor, his head in a pool of blood.
THE killer thrust his hatchet beneath his belt. Crouching above Lubber's body, he dipped his clawish
fingers into the dead man's pockets. He was probing for the envelope; but all the while, his dotlike eyes
were fixed elsewhere. They were watching the door, the one place from which the hatchet man thought
trouble might come.
The hatchet man's fingers had not reached the envelope, when his eyes saw something. The key in the
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TEETHOFTHEDRAGONMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.SOUTHOFFRISCO?CHAPTERII.ACHINAMAN'SMESSAGE?CHAPTERIII.THEHATCHETMAN?CHAPTERIV.THEMISSINGMESSAGE?CHAPTERV.THESHADOWVISITS?CHAPTERVI.CROOKSCONFER?CHAPTERVII.HORDESOFTHEFANS?CHAPTERVIII.MINGDWAN'SGUILE?C...

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 138 - Teeth of the Dragon.pdf

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