The Shadow Unmasks s-131

by Maxwell Grant

  Despite his strain, Harry managed a blank look. Shark gave a guffaw.

  "Don't try to kid me," he snorted. "You were at Silsam's! So was The Shadow! You were working for him! Maybe you know who he is. I'd like to know, too."

  Harry chewed his lips. He knew what silence meant; more torture, until his bones would snap. Moy Ming had hooked the ironing-boards so that they would not buckle under strain. The clothes-wringers were heavy enough to haul a ton weight, under the leverage that the big Mongols could give the long handles.

  Harry felt that he was through. The sooner death came, the better. The best way to start the finish was to ignore Shark Meglo.

  Harry turned his head away, looked for some chance object upon which he could concentrate his gaze.

  He wanted anything that would help him hold his thoughts away from the racking pains that would soon tear through his limbs.

  THERE was a small window in the rear wall, just below the ceiling. It had no shade; that indicated that the window must be below the level of a small courtyard. Probably the space outside the window was topped by a grating. Neither Shark nor Moy Ming supposed that any one could peer into their torture chamber, through that window.

  Shark was glaring at Harry. Moy Ming was copying the stare. The Mongols were silently waiting at the wringers. Only Harry looked to the window, hence the prisoner alone saw the face that suddenly appeared there.

  It was a wizened face; pale but foxy. It pressed to the pane, its little eyes shifting everywhere, to make sure that no one but Harry was looking in its direction. Once the quick eyes met Harry's, the face shifted away. Only the blackened window pane remained, when Shark happened to glance there.

  With an effort, Harry repressed the smile that tried to force itself to his drawn face. Rescue was at hand.

  He had recognized the face at the window.

  The peering man was "Hawkeye," a crafty agent who prowled the underworld in search of information for The Shadow.

  Hawkeye was teamed with Cliff Marsland, a husky chap who had a reputation in the badlands.

  Gangdom classed Cliff as a crook and a killer. Actually, Cliff was working for The Shadow.

  Silently, Harry thanked himself for remembering that routine call to Burbank. Like other active agents, Harry sometimes failed to consider the dangers that might lurk in simple missions, such as this visit to Moy Ming.

  Burbank, filling long, dreary hours at his contact post, had a habit of weighing all details that were passed to him. When absent, The Shadow depended upon Burbank much more than the other agents supposed.

  Burbank's methodical mind had worked promptly after Harry's call. Burbank had decided that if Harry's mission proved simple, the presence of Cliff and Hawkeye could do no harm. Should things go wrong -

  as they had - the other agents would be necessary. So Burbank had called them to give instructions of the sort that The Shadow would approve.

  Into Harry's thoughts came an interruption that seemed very far away until Harry snapped from his reverie. Shark Meglo was snarling new threats. They were final. Harry turned his head to meet Shark's glare.

  "Are you talking?" demanded Shark. "Or do you want more heat? We can give it -"

  His fingers had come up. The Mongols were starting pressure on the handles. As the new strain tormented him, Harry panted:

  "I'll - I'll talk!"

  SHARK halted the torture. Harry gave a groan. Shark made the Mongols release their pressure. Harry settled loosely on the ironing-boards. The strain ended, he could feel that he was intact. All he had to do was bluff Shark, while Cliff and Hawkeye finished quick preparations for attack.

  "I'd tell you about The Shadow - if I could," falsified Harry. "I never saw him - not before that night at Silsam's. It was afterward that he came to me, to tell me about Moy Ming. All that he wanted was to learn where Moy Ming was. He didn't say why -"

  Above Harry's words came an interruption that made Shark whip away. Revolver shots had sounded, from somewhere outside the building. The reports chilled Harry; for he thought that Cliff and Hawkeye must have run into Shark's reserves. The fusillade became brisker.

  Shark yanked out a revolver and sprang toward the rear door. Ready for departure, he pointed to Harry and shouted to Moy Ming:

  "Give him the dirk! He's no good to us! Get rid of the body!"

  Out came Moy Ming's knife. The lean blade gleamed above Harry's eyes while the Mongols kept the rope taut so that the prisoner's heart lay open to the assassin's thrust. Harry did not flinch; he watched the knife point coolly. After all, he had expected death; and the blade would be quicker than the rack.

  A crash riveted Moy Ming; held him, his hand still upraised while his almond eyes darted in a new direction. Husky hands had cracked the little window near the ceiling. The frame was toppling into the room, glass and all. With it came Hawkeye sliding through feet-first.

  The little man hit the floor along with the smashing window frame and took a bounding leap that would have done credit to a rabbit.

  "Get Vincent!" snapped Shark. "Finish him, Moy Ming! I'll take care of this mug!"

  Shark aimed for Hawkeye but the human rabbit was away, beyond a metal laundry tub. Shark's bullets clanged steel. Moy Ming however had time to follow Shark's order. He poised again and drove the knife blade downward.

  An automatic stabbed from the space where the window had been. Harry saw Cliff Marsland fire that shot. Steady of aim, poker-faced in expression, Cliff delivered the needed dose. His bullet took Moy Ming in the heart.

  The slug from Cliff's .45 carried an impact that jolted the knife-jabbing Chinaman. Moy Ming lurched, his stab went wide. The blade buried in the edge of the ironing-board, at Harry's shoulder. Moy Ming slumped to the floor, dead.

  Hawkeye was answering Shark's fire. The odds favored Hawkeye, for he had cover and Shark was in the open. Shark yanked the bolt of the rear door and made a dive out into the darkness. Luck was with the killer again. He seemed almost to dodge Hawkeye's peppering fire. Shark was off on another getaway.

  Before the Mongols could make trouble, Cliff and Hawkeye had them covered. Crashes came from the sliding door that led to the front part of the shop. An ax hewed through. The Mongols saw the blue uniform of a policeman. Together, the pair started for the rear route that Shark had taken.

  Neither Cliff nor Hawkeye fired. They heeded a warning call that Harry gave. Hawkeye, bounded to the window, shot his arms up to it so Cliff could tug him through. Shots ripped from the shattered sliding door, stopping the Mongols in their tracks. Then the barrier crashed entirely.

  Into the room came Joe Cardona, carrying a smoking revolver. He was followed by the private dick, Jim Tyrune. A few moments later, Michael Chanbury joined them.

  RELEASED, Harry gave a satisfactory explanation. He said there had been a message at the hotel, asking him to come here and collect a package of laundry that had been lost in transit. Moy Ming had trapped him; afterwards, Shark had arrived.

  To avoid mention of Cliff and Hawkeye, Harry said that Shark had started flight when he heard the police give battle with the front street guards. Moy Ming had objected to Shark's hasty departure; so Shark had shot him down, probably because the Chinaman knew too much.

  Harry's story suited Cardona. The ace gave Harry an explanation of his own, concerning the law's invasion.

  "You owe your life to Chanbury," informed Joe. "After you started for town, he began to worry about your safety. So we came in, the three of us: Chanbury, Tyrune and myself - and we stopped outside the Metrolite. We saw you come out and take a cab. We followed."

  "But we lost you," put in Tyrune. "We had to get out and look around, with some patrolmen. That's how we ran into Shark's outfit."

  Like Cardona, Tyrune gave credit to Chanbury. Harry thanked the grizzled art collector, and shook hands warmly. Chanbury's blunt features showed embarrassment, although his keen eyes flashed a pleased twinkle.

  "It was nothing," assured Chanbury. "I'd been doing some worrying
on my own; that's how I happened to think of you, Vincent. Maybe you can do as much for me some time, Vincent."

  BACK at the hotel, Harry reviewed the night's adventure. He knew that Shark would avoid another thrust. The killer was satisfied that Harry knew little; and with Moy Ming dead, there was nothing that Harry could learn for The Shadow.

  Events would remain latent until after The Shadow's return. Tonight, however, Harry had learned one fact. Michael Chanbury was a man who could show both keenness and action. Even though Cliff and Hawkeye were Harry's actual rescuers, Chanbury deserved the credit given him.

  Harry was positive that Chanbury was one person who would later prove useful to The Shadow.

  CHAPTER XII. THE THIRD WEEK

  A FORTNIGHT had passed and neither the law nor The Shadow's agents had gained a trail to Shark Meglo's present hide-out. The killer was back in his home field. Keeping out of sight was still Shark's best specialty.

  Harry Vincent had been an occasional caller at Chanbury's Long Island home; and so had Clyde Burke.

  The reporter had been introduced there by Cardona. Both Joe Cardona and Jim Tyrune had visited the wealthy art collector, in hopes that he might have some good ideas. Chanbury's hunch regarding Harry's predicament had impressed the sleuths.

  Chanbury, however, had confessed himself at a complete loss. He was not a crime investigator. He felt that he had been given too much credit for one chance idea.

  That statement pleased another visitor who heard it. Madden Henshew had found occasion to visit Michael Chanbury. One afternoon, Chanbury had shown Henshew and Harry all through the big mansion, with its hall-like picture galleries.

  "Paintings," Chanbury had said to Henshew, "interest me far more than jewels. It is too bad, Henshew, that you are not an art dealer. I might become your best customer."

  There was one man who chafed under the long lull that had followed the robbery at Silsam's. That man was Police Commissioner Weston.

  On this particular afternoon, two weeks after Harry's rescue, Weston was seated in his big office, nervously strumming the desk. Weston's mind was badly disturbed. He was therefore somewhat pleased when Clyde Burke sauntered in to pay a passing call.

  "Hello, Burke!" greeted Weston. Then, hopefully: "Any news?"

  "None about Shark Meglo."

  "Too bad," declared Weston ruefully. "Gad, Burke, I wish you could dig up facts regarding those robberies! I had hopes that you could do so after the keen manner in which you solved the Cranston riddle."

  Still strumming the desk, Weston stared from his window, scanning the broad reaches of Manhattan. In a weary tone, he commented:

  "Shark Meglo is somewhere in this city. So is another man, a master-criminal. We are hunting blindly; and all the time, new crime is drawing closer."

  "Maybe not," said Clyde. "You published a full description of the stolen gems. That ought to crimp another sale."

  "I hope so, Burke," returned the commissioner. "No more sales, no more crimes. That seems logical.

  And yet it's my belief -"

  He paused. Impatiently, he picked up a newspaper and thwacked the front page.

  "Any day, Burke!" he exclaimed. "Any day, these pages may reek with horror! New death - new robbery! It's a dreadful responsibility, being police commissioner."

  As he placed the newspaper on the table, Weston indulged in a relieved smile. He pointed to a photograph on the front page. It showed a long, lean face, with high forehead; firm eyes gazed beneath straight brows. The picture was of Kent Allard, the lost aviator who was arriving home from Guatemala.

  "There's a man for you, Burke," declared Weston. "Twelve years ago, his plane crashed in the jungles of Guatemala. He was crippled, helpless among a tribe of Xinca Indians; and I understand those savages are the most barbarous in Central America.

  "Did Allard yield to those Xincas? No! Instead, he tamed them. He lived with them; ruled them. When he had civilized them to a state where they could govern themselves, he appointed a native as chief. A work of twelve years was ended, so Kent Allard came home."

  Clyde nodded his admiration for the famous aviator. The reporter was sorry that he had not taken the Guatemalan assignment; for Allard's return had developed into the most sensational news story in years.

  It was due for its culmination today, when Allard arrived in New York.

  There was a ring of Weston's telephone bell. It presaged one of the best scoops that Clyde had ever had as a newspaper reporter. Clyde did not know that, until Weston finished talking over the wire. The commissioner's face showed huge enthusiasm.

  "Bad news and good," announced Weston. "The mayor is too ill to receive Allard when he arrives. I have been appointed to take His Honor's place. You can come with me, Burke."

  THEY met Kent Allard at the Battery, amid the greatest medley of chimes and whistle-blasts that had sounded since the Armistice.

  Tall, limber, the famed aviator wore a solemn look upon his thin, bronzed face. He was as solemn as the pair of short-built Xinca Indians who had come back with him from Central America.

  Weston and Allard entered an open car and Clyde joined them, much to the envy of other reporters who were on the scene. Allard spoke brief words to the Xincas; following his bidding, the two Indians went aboard another automobile.

  The procession moved up Broadway, beneath a storm of torn paper that was streaked with ribbons of ticker tape. Thousands of windows were disgorging that man-made deluge amid the fading light of late afternoon. The shouts of multitudes rolled among the canyon between the mighty buildings; drowning the music of the band that led the parade.

  It was that spectacle that only Manhattan can produce: the home-coming welcome for a man of recognized achievement. It was a titanic expression of modern approval that dwarfed a Roman triumph; yet Kent Allard received it with surpassing calmness.

  His bows to the welcoming throng were properly timed. His smile, when he showed it, was genuine.

  When the procession had passed the greatest tumult, Allard chatted with Weston and Clyde, showing no partiality between the commissioner and the reporter.

  At the city hall, the aviator received the formal greeting and spoke well chosen words into a microphone, that was hooked up with a countrywide circuit. He observed the radio announcer's watch and timed his talk to the exact five minutes that had been allotted him.

  Then came the trip to the huge uptown hotel, where a suite had been reserved for Allard. Attired in evening clothes, the aviator met Weston later and appeared as guest of honor to a huge banquet.

  Clyde was still the commissioner's guest; and all through that early evening, the reporter marveled at the tireless manner of Allard.

  The speech that Allard made was a masterful account of the Xinca Indians, from the days of their ancient myths to an analysis of their modern life and customs. It was agreed by all who talked with the famous aviator, that they had never met a man quite the equal of Kent Allard.

  NINE o'clock found Allard back in his suite, with only Weston and Clyde present; excepting, of course, the two Xincas, who were Allard's personal attendants.

  There was one point upon which Allard had dwelt but little; namely, how the Xincas had accepted him as the white god from the sky. Allard seemed to consider that of but little importance.

  Viewing the two Xincas, both Weston and Clyde noticed how definitely Allard had modified that detail.

  It was plain that the servitors worshipped their white chief; that every action they made was hinged upon his command. In private, Kent Allard was quite as amazing a figure as in public.

  "I admire the way you controlled those savage tribesmen," confided Weston. "I wish, by Jove, that we could use the same system with some of the dangerous characters that rove our underworld!"

  Allard's clear blue eyes fixed themselves upon Weston. The commissioner met a stare that carried a hypnotic strength. He began to understand how the lost aviator had held complete mastery over hundreds of natives for twelve long, continu
ous years.

  "Criminals can be handled," declared Allard. "But they should not be compared with the Xincas. The Indians, though savage, are human. Some denizens of your underworld could be better defined as jackals."

  Weston agreed. He thought of Shark Meglo. He told Allard about the murderer, and the aviator added a comment. Shark, in his opinion, was a jungle killer, whose habitat happened to be the depths of a metropolis, instead of an impenetrable forest.

  Finding Allard interested, Weston proceeded with further details; he discussed the quest for the master-crook who the law was sure existed. He told of the valuable advice that Madden Henshew had supplied.

  WHEN Weston left, Clyde went with him. Allard sat in a comfortable chair beside the window, looking out over the lighted city.

  His far gaze was reflective; he seemed to be feasting on his new view of New York, as if comparing it with the solitudes of the Jungle. He listened to the murmur of the city, so different from the noises of the tropical forest.

  Meanwhile, the Xincas were prowling softly, their faces as stolid as ever. One moved out into the hallway, while the other waited at the opened door. When the first returned, the second went into another room. The first Xinca approached Allard and announced, in slow-toned English:

  "The way is open, master."

  Kent Allard arose. As he crossed the room with his slow, long stride, he exhibited a slight limp. Both Weston and Clyde had noticed it. That limp was the result of a broken leg that Allard had sustained in his airplane crash. He had set the break himself; the fracture had not mended perfectly.

  The first Xinca was at the hallway door, pointing to a fire tower that gave a clear path below. The second Indian came from the inner room, bringing dark garments.

  Allard received a cloak and slid it over his shoulders. He slid thin gloves over his hands. The last article that he took was a slouch hat, that he pulled tightly upon his head.

  Allard's limp ended as he took a long, gliding stride toward the fire tower. As he reached the darkened entrance, he turned. His shape was merged with blackness that matched his garb; all that the watching Xincas saw was the glow of burning eyes.