Not a mention of any name or destination.
“What time? They’ve been there and gone by this time… I paid the truckmen in advance; I have the receipted bill right here.” Roucard tapped the stack of papers. “What’s that…? Yes, any time from now on. Send your own men up there to get it; but there’s no need to hurry… Nobody’s going to bother those crates…
“Yes, three crates. The Joss is in the big one; the others contain the dog cannons… The truckmen? Not a chance… Everything’s covered with canvas. They didn’t catch a glimmer… Fine. I’m glad you’re satisfied.”
ROUCARD thumped the receiver on the hook. He sat down at the table and leaned his head back to deliver a pleased chuckle. The Shadow watched him dig into his pocket; from it, Roucard produced an envelope, opened the container and counted out fifty crisp bills, each of a thousand dollar denomination.
The Shadow understood all. Roucard had arranged the sale of the Fate Joss to the unnamed person who had just called him on the telephone. The price had been fifty thousand dollars. Roucard had promised to buy the Joss and collect a commission from its owner, who — The Shadow knew — might have been Chichester Laudring.
Somehow, Roucard had gained the Joss without payment. He had bluffed both purchaser and seller, keeping the money for himself, Roucard was planning a prompt departure from New York. The Shadow watched him pocket the bank notes. Then he saw Roucard pick up the papers that he had added to the stack. He put them in the same pocket that contained the money.
That done, Roucard went to the closet and brought out suit and overcoat. He packed them in a bag. Going back to the table, he made a hurried inspection of the odd papers, tearing up some and pocketing the others. Roucard’s chance action had caused The Shadow to miss his opportunity of gaining the papers that concerned the Fate Joss.
Roucard lifted the telephone receiver and called downstairs. He asked for a porter, to carry down his bags. Quietly, The Shadow closed the connecting door. He moved through the darkness of the adjoining room; reached a hallway and descended by a gloomy stairs. Reaching a passage behind the Phoenix lobby, he saw a porter entering the elevator.
From his vantage point, The Shadow would be prepared to trail Roucard. The passage led to a side street; once Roucard arrived to check out, The Shadow would make his exit in that direction. From the corner of the avenue, he could take up Roucard’s trail.
The porter arrived with Roucard’s bag and typewriter. From his spot of gloom, The Shadow watched the man stack the burdens; then nod to the elevator operator.
“Better go up again,” said the porter. “That fellow from 228 will be along in a minute. He sent me ahead with the bags while he was looking ‘round to be sure he hadn’t forgot nothing.”
“He’ll ring when he wants me,” retorted the operator. “I’ll wait here.”
Three minutes ticked past. No sign of Roucard; no buzz from the elevator. Turning, The Shadow took to the darkened stairs. He reached the second floor; the corridor was empty.
In the gloomy light, The Shadow made an instant discovery. There was a side passage that terminated in a window with a red light, signifying a fire tower. That window was open; it had not been when The Shadow had left the second floor.
Quickly, the Shadow entered the unlocked door of Room 226, the room that he had used before. On his way, he noted that Room 228 was closed. Gaining the connecting door, The Shadow opened it. From the threshold, he saw a horrible sight.
Raymond Roucard was lying face upward on the floor. His sallow face was frozen; his eyes were bulged toward the ceiling. Driven deep in his breast was a long knife, clear to the hilt, its heavy handle glimmering in the light. Roucard’s shirt front was dyed with a huge crimson stain — his heart’s blood.
ABOVE the dead man crouched the murderer, an insidious, leering fiend. The killer was a Chinaman, clad in American garb. His breath was coming in gloating snarls; the venomous sound was proof that he had enjoyed his kill.
His big, bony hands showed yellow against the whiteness of objects that he had tugged from Roucard’s inside pocket. The Chinaman had found the envelope with the bank notes; also the sheaf of papers that The Shadow knew concerned the Fate Joss.
As the killer thrust these trophies into his pocket, The Shadow swung forward into the room. With gloved hand, he whipped forth an automatic, to cover that evil-faced croucher.
Though The Shadow’s approach was silent, the murderer somehow guessed of the advance. With a quick upward tilt of his head, the Chinaman glared straight into The Shadow’s burning eyes.
Instantly, the Chinaman’s form shot upward and forward. From a crouching figure that seemed of normal height, he became a giant of startling proportioms. Six feet six in stature, massive of build, the Mongol rocketed forward like a mammoth battering ram. Head downward in an incredible lunge, he sped long arms ahead of him, while his lips voiced a hideous cry of rage.
Only six feet separated The Shadow from his adversary. Springing up from beside Roucard’s body, the giant Chinaman covered the distance in one unbelievable lunge. His left hand, jabbing its writhing claw, caught The Shadow’s right wrist in a ferocious twist. His right hand, swinging overarm, went straight to The Shadow’s throat.
The Shadow had met with a foe whose speed and power were as amazing as his deceptive crouch. Like a living Jack-in-the-box, this fierce murderer had aimed for his mark and found it. Hurled back by the terrific attack, The Shadow, with all his surpassing skill, did not have time to even press the trigger of his automatic.
Shots were useless once his hand had received that upward jolt. Twisted in the grip of his giant enemy, The Shadow found the gun a handicap. He let it fall as the Chinaman’s gripping arms encircled him. With fiendish vigor, the Mongol had gained the hold he wanted. He was trying to snap The Shadow’s body as one would break a tree bough.
The Shadow writhed. His free left hand drove back the Mongol’s chin; the punch brought a contemptuous snarl from the murderer. Lifted clear from the floor, The Shadow was helpless in the giant’s grip, unable to gain a counterhold against the killer. Only his contortions saved him from the Chinaman’s back-breaking tactics.
Back and forth across the room, stumbling past Roucard’s body, the hissing Chinanan carried his black-cloaked burden. With each pause, he tried to snap The Shadow’s body; every time, The Shadow twisted in the giant’s grip, sufficiently to defeat the would-be killer’s game.
THE SHADOW had realized instantly who this terrible foe must be. He had heard of Hoang Fu, mightiest of mongol wrestlers, who had long dwelt in Manhattan’s Chinatown. But Hoang Fu had been classed as a genial giant, his nature free from malice.
Driven berserk, he had become a raving demon with a lust for death. With all his mighty skill concentrated upon murder, Hoang Fu was seeking to destroy The Shadow, whom he — like others — knew to be the arch-foe of crime. Yet though the Mongol held The Shadow in a terrific grip, he could not perform the last snap that his huge arms sought to give.
Fiercely, Hoang Fu whirled, driving toward the outer door. Past Roucard’s body, he turned; as The Shadow performed another safety twist, the killer changed his tactics. Stooping almost to the floor, he shot upward to his full height, swinging The Shadow’s form aloft. Then, with a fierce heave of his tremendous shoulders, Hoang Fu sent the cloaked form whirling sidewise through the air.
The Shadow struck the floor beyond Roucard’s body. Jouncing, rolling, he was bound for the wall; had his head struck that spot, he would have been knocked senseless, an easy prey for the gigantic killer. But The Shadow’s left arm was swinging as he sprawled. With it, he clipped a chair that stood near the corner, seeking to break the violence of the coming blow.