Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 100 - The Man From Shanghai

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THE MAN FROM SHANGHAI

Maxwell Grant

http://www.blackmask.com

? CHAPTER I. A MURDERER'S MOVES

? CHAPTER II. A DEAD-MAN'S TALE

? CHAPTER III. THE SUBSTITUTE VICTIM

? CHAPTER IV. THE YELLOW FACE

? CHAPTER V. TRAILS CROSS

? CHAPTER VI. THE MAN FROM SHANGHAI

? CHAPTER VII. CRIME'S PURPOSE

? CHAPTER VIII. THE SHADOW'S PLAN

? CHAPTER IX. THE COUNTERPLOT

? CHAPTER X. INTO THE SNARE

? CHAPTER XI. HANDS IN THE DARK

? CHAPTER XII. CRIME'S PRISONER

? CHAPTER XIII. SHATTERED HORDES

? CHAPTER XIV. MALFORT PLANS ACTION

? CHAPTER XV. THE MESSAGE AT DUSK

? CHAPTER XVI. HOARDED WEALTH

? CHAPTER XVII. A CROOK PLAYS SAFE

? CHAPTER XVIII. THE SHADOW TALKS

? CHAPTER XIX. THE SHADOW ARRIVES

? CHAPTER XX. THE CHEST OF GOLD

? CHAPTER XXI. THE LAST STROKE

CHAPTER I. A MURDERER'S MOVES

THE man by the fireplace was busy at a task. Before him, turned at an angle to escape the fire's heat,

was a low table, stacked with correspondence. The letters were at the man's left; to his right were pen

and inkwell.

The man was reading the typewritten letters in methodical fashion. As he completed each perusal, he

placed the letter in front of him, dipped pen into inkwell and applied his signature with a peculiar flourish.

The name that the man signed was Kenneth Malfort.

The crackling fire raised grotesque flares to reveal Malfort's face. Somehow, flames seemed the proper

light to show that countenance. Malfort's countenance was one that at intervals betrayed a demonish

glare. At those moments, an imaginative observer might have classed him as a satan who had chosen to

masquerade in human cruise.

Except for those intervals, Malfort's face was steady, almost dignified. His features were craggy, from his

high forehead, past his well-formed nose, to his straight lips and large chin. His profile was an excellent

one, always constant. It was only the full-face view that showed those evil flashes.

Then came a narrowing of forehead muscles that brought straight vertical lines above the bridge of

Malfort's nose. The man's eyes shone with evil glint. His lips compressed, to purse themselves into a

smileless leer. Though smooth-shaven, Malfort could have passed for Mephistopheles whenever he

allowed malice to rule his countenance.

Malfort was signing the last letter when he caught a sound that only the keenest ear could have detected.

A tall, moon-faced man had stepped into the sumptuous room. With pussyfoot tread, the arrival had

advanced four steps; then waited. Despite the man's silent approach, Malfort had instantly detected the

entry. Without a turn of his head, Malfort purred a question: "What is it, Wardlock?"

"Spark Ganza is here, sir," replied the moon-faced man, in a solemn monotone. "He arrived by the rear

entrance."

"Tell him to come up."

"Very well, Mr. Malfort."

"Then bring the newspapers, Wardlock. After that, see to the prompt posting of these letters."

Wardlock bowed. In his sneaky stride, he went from the room.

MALFORT arose, placed the table and its letters to one side; then resumed his easy-chair. Side to the

fire, he was facing an empty chair several feet away.

There was a click as the door opened. Malfort's face was expressionless as he turned his gaze toward

the door. A brawny, thick-set ruffian stepped into view; this was "Spark" Ganza. Hard-faced,

sharp-eyed, the fellow had the pudgy nose of a second-rate pugilist and the underslung jaw of a bulldog.

"Hello, Mr. Malfort," gruffed Spark, showing an ugly grin as he approached. "I got your message and

hot-footed it over here -"

"Sit down, Spark." Malfort waved to the chair. Then, still eyeing his visitor, he added in louder tone: "Let

me have those newspapers, Wardlock. Take the letters with you."

Spark gaped as he looked toward the door. He had not heard Wardlock reenter; he thought that the

moon-faced secretary had stayed downstairs. Yet there, sure enough, was Wardlock, with a stack of

newspapers in his hands. The secretary approached and laid the journals on the table at Malfort's side.

Gathering up the letters, Wardlock pussyfooted from the room.

Malfort and Spark were alone.

"Yesterday," announced Malfort, choosing a newspaper from the stack, "you did a good job, Spark. I

was pleased with the murder of Jerome Blessingdale."

"It was a cinch," returned Spark. "We hopped aboard the Southeastern Limited when it pulled into

Baltimore. Blessingdale was asleep in his compartment. I tapped him on the konk and took the swag.

Nobody saw us drop off the rattler at Philly."

"Quite true," nodded Malfort. "I have read the Philadelphia newspapers, Spark. They say very little; the

general opinion is that the crime investigation belongs to the New York police, since Blessingdale's death

was not uncovered until after the train arrived here."

"Everybody knows, though, that Blessingdale was rubbed out."

"Of course. However, Blessingdale, as a mining promoter, had made enemies. It was quite all right to let

his death pass as murder."

Malfort laid the back-date newspaper aside. He picked up a later newspaper. His face took on its

devilish glare. Spark, hard though he was, became uneasy.

"To-day's job was not so good. Spark."

Spark had no reply to Malfort's criticism.

"I was not pleased with the way you eliminated William Hessup," admonished Malfort. "His death at the

Merrimac Club was to have been considered a suicide. Hessup had no enemies; but, as president of a

bank in Buffalo, he had some worries. Unfortunately, the police believe that he was murdered."

"They don't know who did it, though," protested Spark. "We grabbed the swag all right, Mr. Malfort -"

"Nevertheless, you bungled!"

Spark shifted in his chair. Malfort's glare was straight upon him. The firelight gave a demoniac reflection

to the master mind's fierce eyes. Spark avoided Malfort's gaze.

"I'm making no excuse," growled Spark. "I should have watched those lugs more close, that's all. The

idea was all right; but there was a slip -"

"Start with the beginning of the matter."

"All right."

SPARK leaned back in his chair and faced Malfort. The latter's features had relaxed. Spark felt more at

ease. "First I went to see Durlew," he stated. "He's the druggist I told you about. He gave me two bottles:

the little one, empty, with the Northern Drug Company label on it; and the big one, with the poison in it."

Spark paused. Malfort had no comment.

"It was a cinch to get into the Merrimac Club," resumed Spark. "We knowed Hessup was coming there.

We had the number of the room he was going to take. So one guy goes in and plants the empty bottle.

"As soon as Hessup shows up, I send the other lug, so as nobody would be suspicious if they saw one

guy twice. He takes a pitcher of ice water with a glass and carries it up to Hessup's room, without

Hessup ringing for it. That's where the lug pulls his boner, thinking he was smart.

"He was to put a dose of poison in the glass, like you said; then, polite-like, he was to let Hessup see him

drop some ice into the glass. For a come-on, like you told me."

Malfort nodded.

"Quite right," he agreed. "Hessup would have been inclined to pour himself a drink of water. He would

have considered the poison liquid as water, melted from the ice."

"That's what I told the lug," expressed Spark, sourly. "But I didn't tell him how important it was, to work

it just that way. So he gets a smart idea and stages his boner."

"Which was -"

"He pours the whole bottle of poison into the pitcher of ice water. He lets Hessup see an empty glass;

then fills it for him from the pitcher. Hessup takes the invite, all right, and he gets enough of the bum stuff

to croak him. But the bottle with the poison in it was bigger than the empty bottle that we'd planted in

Hessup's room!"

Malfort thwacked the newspaper that he held.

"So that was it!" he exclaimed. Then, reverting to his easy purr: "Naturally, the police found evidence of

more poison than the little bottle could have held. No wonder they classed Hessup's death as murder!"

"Yeah," agreed Spark. He nudged a thumb toward the newspaper: "But the bulls didn't let the bladders in

on why they thought it was murder. They didn't want nobody to wise up that there was too much of the

croak-juice in the pitcher. All they said was that the bottle they found didn't prove that Hessup bumped

himself."

"I have read the newspapers," announced Malfort, coldly. "All that I wanted was your version of the

matter. This occurrence alters our future plans."

"About knocking off this next guy, George Furbish?"

"Yes. I shall relieve you of that task, Spark. Simply keep your men on duty. Inform me when Furbish

arrives at his new apartment."

"Then who'll croak Furbish?"

"I shall delegate that work to Ku-Nuan."

Spark grinned when he heard Malfort's utterance. Evidently the name of Ku-Nuan was one that specified

crime of a most insidious sort.

"Meanwhile," added Malfort, "you can visit your druggist friend. Talk to Durlew, Spark; be tactful when

you sound out his opinions. If his views are reasonable, see to his welfare. If they are not -"

Malfort paused, to study the eagerness that showed upon Spark's ugly face. In significant purr, he added:

"If Durlew is unreasonable, follow your own impulse."

Spark nodded. Malfort delivered a wide, sweeping gesture that ended with his hand pointing toward the

door. The interview was concluded. Spark arose and went from the sumptuous living room.

SILENCE followed the thuggish lieutenant's departure. Malfort, the master of murder, sat studying the

fire. Dying embers brought a ruddy glow to satanic features. Malfort spoke, in low-toned pur:

"A fresh log, Wardlock."

Again, the soft-footed secretary had entered; and Malfort had sensed his silent arrival. Wardlock

approached and drew back the screen to place a log upon the fire. In indulgent fashion, Malfort spoke

confidentially to the moon-faced man.

"All goes well, Wardlock," purred the master murderer. "I expected Spark Ganza to have more trouble

with Hessup than with Blessingdale. It would be unwise, however, to continue with Spark when we deal

with Furbish."

An expectant look appeared upon Wardlock's moonish face.

"Therefore," concluded Malfort, "I have chosen another instrument. You will summon Ku-Nuan."

Wardlock's lips spread in a pleased leer. Like Spark Ganza, the secretary seemed to hold a high opinion

of Ku-Nuan. So, for that matter, did Malfort. The master of crime was already gloating as he foresaw

new evil triumph.

"Spark will cover his trail," stated Malfort. "The next move will rest with Ku-Nuan. The last stroke, like

the first, will be my own. I began crime, Wardlock; I shall end it. I have left to others the episodes that

lay between.

"My methods are unique. As a man of reputed wealth and standing, I am above suspicion. No one can

suspect my part in crime. No one can find a trail that leads to me. No one can cope against my efforts -"

Malfort paused abruptly, as he saw a flicker of worry upon Wardlock's face. With a grating laugh,

Malfort added final words of emphasis:

"No one. Not even The Shadow!"

THE tone restored confidence to Wardlock. In his moonish manner, the secretary matched his master's

satanic facial twist. As long as Malfort recognized the existence of The Shadow; as long as he considered

that master foe of crime as a possible adversary, there could be no danger from the hidden source. So

Wardlock reasoned; for Malfort, himself, had once voiced that opinion.

Rising firelight sent long streaks across the floor. They were ominous, those shadows; but Kenneth

Malfort thought them meaningless. He purred, in convinced tone:

"Blessingdale—Hessup—Furbish—two are dead; the third will soon be the same. No dead man can

provide The Shadow with a trail."

Sound statements, those; but ones that Malfort might find to be untrue. This murderer had been swift in

moves of crime. That, more than he thought, could account for the security that he still enjoyed.

Moreover, in his mention of names, Malfort had forgotten one. He had not included Durlew, the druggist.

Small wonder, for, to Malfort, Durlew was not even a pawn. Durlew was a side issue; one whom Spark

Ganza could handle. He could be forgotten.

Forgotten people, like forgotten facts, were often the ones whom The Shadow found. Those flickers

from the firelight, with their streaks of shadowy darkness on the hearth, were to prove more ominous

than Malfort supposed.

Chance though they were, those wavering patches of black presaged The Shadow's entry into the affairs

of Kenneth Malfort.

CHAPTER II. A DEAD-MAN'S TALE

THOUGH Kenneth Malfort had forgotten Durlew, Spark Ganza had not. There was good reason why

Spark should remember the obscure druggist. Spark had been delegated to the task of using tact with

Durlew. He was, therefore, on his way to talk to the man who had provided the poison.

From Malfort's, Spark had traveled by taxicab to an elevated station. There, he had boarded an East

Side train. Riding southward, Spark wore a contemptuous grin as he looked about the lighted car and

surveyed the few passengers.

All were buried deep in the final editions of the evening newspapers. They were gobbling news of

murder—the law's version concerning the death of William Hessup, prominent Buffalo banker, member

of New York's swanky Merrimac Club, where he had been found poisoned.

Theories were absent from the newspapers. The police had progressed only to the point where they

rejected suicide as the explanation, but had no other.

Spark's evil recollections went back to yesterday. Then, the newspapers had screamed the name of

Jerome Blessingdale, prominent mining promoter, who had come North from Florida. Blessingdale's

death had been murder, out and out; but it had provided no clues.

The "el" train rumbled to a stop. This was Spark's station. As he stepped off to the platform, Spark was

chuckling over thoughts of the future. To-morrow, the newspapers would have something new to shout

about. Another murder, this time a prominent Wall Street financier. One whose name Spark could

predict: George Furbish.

Spark Ganza, in his own crude way, was quite as confident as Kenneth Malfort. The lieutenant shared

Wardlock's belief in the master murderer's prowess. Moreover, Spark had not forgotten the mention of

the mysterious Ku-Nuan.

Spark's reveries ended as he reached the bottom of the elevated steps. Darkness was thick along the

gloomy avenue where the elevated loomed. Only at the cross street was there any sign of bright lights.

There, a newsboy was hawking his last few copies of the final editions.

"Uxtry! Uxtry! Read about de new moider!"

Spark paused to listen to the gamin's shout. He saw the newsboy sell a newspaper; then raise the cry:

"Anudder big moider! Police link de killers!"

Spark spat an oath, as he turned and strode along the avenue. He had expected this sort of thing from the

newspapers. Blessingdale and Hessup were both from out of town. It was only logical that the police

should see a tie-up between the two cases of sudden death. Malfort's reason for wanting Hessup to

appear a suicide struck itself home to Spark.

Nevertheless, the thuggish lieutenant displayed no worry as he paced past the dingy store windows that

lined the avenue. Let the law think what it wanted. Trails were covered. Another death would strike while

the police stood baffled.

MUSING thus, Spark came to the building that he was seeking. He slowed his pace, craned his neck

forward and studied a grimy store window that bore scratchy gold letters upon its lighted pane:

H. DURLEW

Apothecary

Peering through a glass-paneled doorway, Spark saw a stoop-shouldered man huddled over the counter

of the tiny shop. Large-rimmed spectacles gave the fellow an owlish look. Spark could spy twitchy lips;

he guessed the reason for the man's nervousness. The owlish individual was Durlew. The druggist was

reading a final edition of an evening newspaper.

Spark shouldered his way into the store. Durlew looked up, saw his visitor and gulped. His twitching lips

began to phrase incoherent words. Spark cut Durlew short with a growl.

"Close up this joint of yours," he told the druggist. "Slide into the back room, where we can talk."

Durlew nodded, and moved toward the door. Spark picked up the newspaper and added:

"I'll take this sheet in there with us. I want to see what sort of baloney the bladders have been handing

out."

Durlew closed his tawdry shop and extinguished the lights. He and Spark walked around an ancient

show case that reached the ceiling, and entered a dim, dingy passage at the back of the store.

They came to a small room; Durlew turned on the lights and closed the door. They were in the

apothecary's office.

This room was as old-fashioned as the store at the front. The rolltop desk and swivel chair; the revolving

bookcase—all were furniture of the past century, as antiquated as the title of "apothecary," which Durlew

preferred to druggist.

"Getting jittery, Durlew?"

Spark snapped the question as the druggist seated himself in the swivel chair. Durlew nodded; licking his

twitchy lips, he replied:

"You faked what you said about the bottle and the poison, Spark. If I'd known you were after an

important man like William Hessup, I wouldn't have gone through with it."

"Just what I figured," retorted Spark. "That's why I bluffed you, Durlew. What difference does it make,

though? Your moniker wasn't on that bottle label. It said Northern Drug Company."

"The police will make inquiries at the Northern Drug Company."

"What if they do? The bulls will spend a week quizzing mugs who know nothing. That's all the further

they'll get."

"Unless they find out that the printer who does work for the Northern Company ran off some labels for

me," Durlew said. "Maybe he'll remember that he shipped a small batch of Northern Drug labels to the

wrong customer."

"Forget it! There's no dick on the force who's smart enough to go to see the printer. But what if some

one does? All you've got to do is sit tight. Just say that you never got any of the wrong labels."

DURLEW pondered. Spark pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighted it while he watched Durlew's

expression. The druggist winced under Spark's scrutiny.

"The facts still remain, Spark," whined Durlew. "I provided you with the planted bottle and the poison,

too. I thought they were for a gang feud, to cover something that the police would soon forget. Actually, I

had no proof that you intended murder at all."

"There's your alibi, Durlew."

Durlew shook his head, despite Spark's reassurance. He licked his lips, blinked owlishly. Swinging away

from his desk, he pointed to the newspaper under Spark's arm.

"Tell me, Spark," pleaded the druggist, "is there really a link between Hessup's death and that of

Blessingdale, who was murdered yesterday?"

Momentarily, Spark's facial muscles tightened in ugly fashion. Quickly, the crook relaxed. His growl

lessened as he replied:

"Sure! We bumped Blessingdale yesterday. That job was a cinch! Hessup was just as easy."

Durlew's troubled expression changed to a look of shrewdness. Spark saw it; instead of betraying anger,

he pretended, greater confidence. Leaning over the edge of the rolltop desk, he announced:

"There'll be another job to-night. Sweeter than either of those two! Ever hear of George Furbish?"

Durlew shook his head.

"Furbish is a Wall Street guy," informed Spark. "Out of town right now; but he's due back, maybe

tonight. He's coming to a new apartment; one of those big-dough joints that you've got to buy, because

they won't just rent them. It's a ritzy place, called the Royal Arms.

"Blessingdale and Hessup went the route. So will Furbish. This is a real racket, Durlew; I'm working for a

big-shot, a guy who put a bank roll into the game. The fact that we're knocking off blokes like

Blessingdale, Hessup and Furbish ought to show you that we're out to grab real potatoes.

"Get over the jitters." Spark clapped a brawny hand on Durlew's frail shoulder. "If you're worried, close

up this joint and take it on the lam. I'll see the big-shot to-night; and I'll slip you a fistful of mazuma

to-morrow. Well pay your freight wherever you want to go."

Durlew raised his head with a pleased smile. He nodded, as if eager to accept Spark's suggestion. Spark

grinned, dunked his cigarette in an ash tray and strolled to the door. He gave a wave of his hand as he

departed.

DURLEW listened intently to Spark's fading footsteps. The crook was going out by a rear passage that

led to a back alley. Durlew heard a door slam. It signified Spark's final departure, for the rear door had

an automatic latch.

Quickly, Durlew reached into a pigeonhole of the desk. He produced a long-pointed pencil and a small

prescription pad.

Hurriedly, Durlew wrote the same of George Furbish; after it, the next victim's address: the Royal Arms.

Worry dominated the druggist's owlish face. At last, Durlew drew a tense breath. He picked up a

telephone book, found a number; he lifted a telephone that stood upon the revolving bookcase. Raising

the receiver, Durlew dialed a number.

The druggist was calling detective headquarters.

From the moment that he had connected the deaths of Blessingdale and Hessup, Durlew had been

hoping for a way to square himself with the law. The link between Blessingdale and Hessup was

insufficient to amend Durlew's deed of supplying Spark Ganza with poison. Durlew had wanted

something that would better fortify his position. He had gained it, thanks to Spark.

The crook had named a coming victim: George Furbish. Durlew could tell the law facts that would

forestall crime. That would establish his sincerity. The police would believe him if he claimed to be an

unwitting tool in the matter of Hessup's death.

Durlew's shaky finger delivered the final twist to the dial. The druggist was holding the receiver clamped

against his left ear. Suddenly, a hand planked itself upon his left. A snarl sounded, as the hand wrenched

away the receiver and banged it down upon the hook.

Gasping, Durlew revolved in his swivel chair. His bespectacled eye blinked into the muzzle of a leveled

revolver. Back of the weapon were the ugly eyes of Spark Ganza.

The crook had faked his departure. He had sneaked in through the passage, to learn if Durlew had

decided to use the information that had been fed to him.

Spark saw the telltale pad on Durlew's desk. With his left hand, he ripped away the top sheet that bore

the scrawled name of Furbish. Wadding the paper, Spark thrust it in his pocket. All the while, his gun

was straight between Durlew's eyes.

"Spark! I—I wasn't—I—don't kill me, Spark! I—I -"

Durlew's incoherent protest ended as the revolver shoved forward. Spark pressed the trigger. From a

two-inch range, a bullet boomed into Durlew's brain. Spark watched the victim's head tilt back. The

swivel chair spun crazily; Durlew's form slumped toward the desk. His mutilated forehead thudded the

woodwork.

There was a tremble of the building. An elevated train was rumbling along the tracks that ran in front.

Spark knew that the rear alley was deserted. No one could have heard the revolver's blast. Pocketing his

gun, Spark strode from the tiny office. This time, his departure was unfaked.

THE muffled slam of the rear door was the last sound, except for the loud ticking of an alarm clock that

stood upon a windowsill, in front of a drawn blind. Minutes passed slowly, solemnly, in this room of

death. Seven had gone before a new motion occurred.

Something stirred the frayed green windowshade behind the clock. An edge moved slightly, to a distance

no greater than the width of a human eye. Motion stilled; then gloved fingers appeared uncannily beneath

the windowshade. They were black, those fingers; they acted like detached creatures.

The windowshade lifted. Solid blackness loomed inward. Eerily, it became a living shape. When the

shade had dropped to its former level, it formed the background for a weird figure. A being cloaked in

black had entered this room of doom.

Above shrouded shoulders, the uncanny visitor wore a slouch hat, with downturned brim that hid his

features. Eyes alone were visible; they showed like points of fire as they directed themselves upon the

dead form of Durlew, half across the desk.

The Shadow, superfoe to crime, had arrived upon the newest scene of murder. He had gained the trail

that Durlew had feared; the one that Spark Ganza had thought too slim for any sleuth to follow. While the

law had decided to quiz the employees of the Northern Drug Company, The Shadow had visited the

printer who supplied the labels.

The Shadow had come to make Durlew speak. Arriving, he had found the druggist dead. Nevertheless, a

whispered, mirthless laugh came significantly from hidden lips.

The Shadow had hope that he might learn a dead man's tale.

CHAPTER III. THE SUBSTITUTE VICTIM

IN his survey of the tiny office, The Shadow recognized at once that Durlew's death had been recent.

Though blood had clotted on the apothecary's forehead, it still dripped from the dead man's spectacles.

Moreover, the room held a distinct trace of the pungent odor that only revolver smoke could produce.

Spark had flung the late newspaper into a wastebasket beside the desk. The Shadow could see the

screaming headlines, with their guesswork announcement: "Police Link Deaths." It was obvious that this

was Durlew's newspaper; a murderer, had he brought it, would have carried it away.

That edition had been on the street for only half an hour. It was likely that Durlew had read the

newspaper account. Likely, also, that his reading could have had some bearing on his death.

A large ash tray lay in a corner of Durlew's desk. It contained cigar stumps. Unsmoked cigars were

bulging from the dead man's breast pocket. In contrast to this proof that Durlew preferred cigars was a

small ash tray on the top of the rolltop desk. It contained a cigarette butt.

The Shadow pictured events almost as they had happened.

He visualized a visitor, accosting Durlew in the store. He pictured the apothecary closing his shop,

coming voluntarily into the rear office. The Shadow could retrace a brief conversation; after that, a

departure from the office.

Durlew's position told that he had been freely engaged when some one had entered to take his life.

Though the druggist was slumped upon the desk, his feet were shifted to the left. His own weight had

carried him back to his former position; but his feet had dragged. Moreover, the telephone interested The

Shadow. It was not quite to the center of the desk. Its cord was too short to reach that far.

Obviously, the telephone belonged either on top of the desk or on the revolving bookcase. The Shadow

knew why Durlew had been slain. The man was making a hurried telephone call when the murderer

entered.

The telephone book immediately concerned The Shadow. The fat directory was lying on the desk,

closed. The Shadow thumbed its pages, on the possibility that the book would open readily at the page

last used. That chance failed; nevertheless, The Shadow could divine the purpose of Durlew's call. The

apothecary had certainly intended to spill some news of crime.

THE SHADOW had already placed Durlew's part in the death of William Hessup. The druggist had

supplied the poison and the little bottle. Whether he had done so with knowledge of their purpose, did

not matter. A man of Durlew's status would probably have preferred to say nothing.

This East Side apothecary's shop was of a doubtful sort. It was the type of place that thugs would

frequent; a place where required medicine could be had for wounded hoodlums. It also had the

qualifications of a "blind" establishment that would be useful to dope peddlers.

Durlew, despite the pitiful aspect of his dead face, was a man for whom The Shadow held little regret.

The odds were that he had dipped his hand into criminal activities whenever the risk was not too great.

Durlew had become a man who knew too much. Murder had frightened him; particularly after he had

read the rumor of a link between the deaths of Blessingdale and Hessup.

The Shadow had seen the possibilities of such a link; until now, he had gained no evidence of it. Thugs

had been employed to kill both men; but that was not sufficient to prove that the same hand of crime was

behind both murders. The Shadow had chosen to investigate Hessup's death, in preference to

Blessingdale's. He had known that if the two were linked, he would find clues along the trail. He had

gained good evidence here at Durlew's.

The ways of gangland called for quick death to any traitor. Durlew had been killed because he had

decided to squeal. Many sleuths would have formed that conclusion and let the case rest with it. Not so

The Shadow. He saw reasons why Durlew would have preferred not to talk. Definitely mixed in

Hessup's death, the apothecary needed something to square him with the law.

The mere naming of the murderer would not be sufficient. Durlew would have done that previously, if he

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THEMANFROMSHANGHAIMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.AMURDERER'SMOVES?CHAPTERII.ADEAD-MAN'STALE?CHAPTERIII.THESUBSTITUTEVICTIM?CHAPTERIV.THEYELLOWFACE?CHAPTERV.TRAILSCROSS?CHAPTERVI.THEMANFROMSHANGHAI?CHAPTERVII.CRIME'SPURPOSE?CHAPTERVIII.THESHADOW'SP...

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 100 - The Man From Shanghai

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