The Living Shadow s-1

by Maxwell Grant

  “In my study,” continued Wang Foo, “is another hourglass the mate of this one. Both are true to the last grain. The sands which pour from one are equaled by the sands from the other. Both will begin to fall at the same moment. When the last grain has fallen in the glass upon my desk, I shall release the great knife. You will know that moment if you watch the glass upon the window.

  “So you see I shall be kind to you. I shall give you one hour to live, and let you watch that hour as it departs.”

  Wang Foo bowed deeply and left the room. The other Chinaman remained, leaning in the doorway, watching Vincent intently. A few minutes later, a gong struck from a room below.

  Hearing the muffled sound, the Chinaman in the doorway pattered to the windowsill and inverted the hourglass. The prisoner could see the first grains of sand as they began to fall.

  The Chinaman was back in the doorway, still on guard, and the moments were passing.

  Vincent’s eyes remained upon the hourglass. The slow, regular falling of the sands was fascinating. But, as he saw the little mound increase in the lower portion of the glass, the full fear of death crept over him.

  He strove to release the bonds which held him. He worked frantically, exerting his full strength.

  At last he was exhausted. He had not moved his body the fraction of an inch.

  His eyes sought the Chinaman who guarded the door. He could see him in the gloom, but he could not cry out to the man, because of the silken gag in his mouth.

  It meant nothing, however. It would be useless to plead with the accomplice of Wang Foo.

  Vincent turned his eyes toward the hourglass. Nearly half of the sand had dropped. He could picture the other glass in Wang Foo’s den; the old Mongol there, writing, apparently unnoticing, but always watching from the corner of his eye, as the sands fell in the glass upon the desk. “Quick death!” thought Vincent and shuddered.

  A second Chinaman appeared in the doorway. Vincent became aware of this when he heard a mumbled conversation. The first man departed; the newcomer remained on guard.

  Evidently Wang Foo left nothing to chance. He was switching the watchers during the course of the hour so that a thoroughly alert guard would surely be on duty.

  The grains of sand were falling with the same meaningful monotony. It was as though they were grains of sugar sweetening the cup of life, for right then and there the man who had but recently tried to take his own life was finding that life very worth the living.

  Vincent attempted to forget the ominous glass that was spelling out the fragment of earthdom which remained. He sought to locate human aid, and, although his better judgment told him it was useless, his eyes sought the face of the Chinese guard.

  The Mongol was looking straight before him, oblivious as an idol. His face was like a dull yellow globe in the semidarkness coming to the room. The afternoon was waning; the insufficient light in the little room of death made it difficult to distinguish objects. Yet the sharp, heavy cleaver above the doomed man’s head was plain enough to Vincent’s eyes.

  Only a few minutes more, and that messenger of destruction would perform its grisly task!

  The prisoner tried to groan, but even that action was suppressed by the silken bandage between his jaws. His lips were dry; his eyes were staring; his breath came in fitful partings. He looked once more at the huge hourglass. The lower bowl was nearly filled; only a small amount of sand remained to run its course!

  Another Chinaman came to the door. The mumble there attracted Vincent’s attention, and he was glad to turn his mind from that fearful glass. Evidently another guard had arrived, even though the hour was nearly ended.

  The two Chinese talked deliberately in their native language. The new guard took his position, yet the other remained and pointed significantly to the body on the floor.

  His action was easy to interpret. The fiend wanted to remain and watch the death stroke. But his companion gesticulated and talked in a commanding voice. The old guard pattered hastily away to report to his master.

  The sands were almost gone; only a few remained to fall.

  The prisoner cast a pitiful look toward the new guard, but saw no mercy there.

  But the Chinaman left his post, and, coming close, leaned over the victim. His face seemed hideous in the gloom of the darkening room. There was a devilish leer upon his yellow lips, as he bent low beside Vincent.

  Expecting the fall of the knife of death, Vincent cast one more look toward the window. The top half of the hourglass was nearly empty; he could almost count the last few grains as they fell.

  But something strange was happening! The wicked-looking Chinaman was at his side, forcing and pressing at the padlock which held the chain about the prisoner’s arms.

  Now the hourglass was empty at the top!

  There was a sharp click; the chain loosened. Vincent’s eyes turned upward, and he saw the huge cleaver tremble for its plunge. A powerful arm was beneath his neck; his head was swung forward and upward, just as the mighty knife descended.

  The edge of the falling blade whizzed past the top of Vincent’s head. He could feel the rush of air as it went by. It struck the floor with a tremendous crash, cheated of its victim at the last possible moment!

  CHAPTER X

  THE FIGHT IN THE GLOOM

  The short, squatty Chinaman was forcing the padlock, which bound the captive’s feet to the lower posts. The rescued man was leaning back, exhausted by his ordeal. His head was propped against the heavy cleaver that had fallen a fraction of a second too late.

  There was another click; the chain was loosened at Vincent’s feet. But would the Chinaman cut the bonds and remove the gag?

  Vincent’s mind was working clearly now, and his heart sank.

  Perhaps this was not a rescue. No friend could have penetrated to the depths of this fiendish lair. It must be another trick of the ruthless Wang Foo - to save his victim from one expected death only to conceive a more terrifying torture for him.

  There was a sound at the doorway. Yes, there they were - the three giant Chinamen who had brought him to this dreadful room. They must have come to carry him away again, Vincent supposed.

  The short, squatty Celestial turned his head at the sound of footsteps. He rose, and Vincent expected him to greet his companions. But this was not to be.

  Even in that dim light, the prisoner could see the look of amazement on the faces of the three giants. He could hear their angered hisses as they dashed into the room.

  Sharp knives gleamed as the two leading Chinamen threw themselves at the one who had released Vincent. The little, chunky man seemed to cower and draw away.

  But, as the two giants were almost upon them, a strange thing happened.

  The little Chinaman grew large; his body seemed to spread upward to almost a foot above his former height!

  The stranger’s arm shot through the gloom to catch the first of the Chinese giants squarely upon the chin. The monster staggered, then slumped to the floor. His companion jumped in, swinging a swift, upward knife-thrust for the midsection of Vincent’s rescuer.

  With surprising alacrity, the latter turned his body and caught the wrist of his attacker. The huge yellow man was catapulted through the air, his knife skidding harmlessly across the room.

  Meanwhile, the third Wang Foo minion was not idle. Feeling his two companions could handle the active opposition, he had turned to the captive lashed to the floor.

  He had stood for a short space of time contemplating he who had so miraculously escaped the cleaver. Then, having evidently decided to make up for the cleaver’s failure, he drew his knife and tested its point with his fingers while a wicked light shone from his squinting eyes.

  Shortly thereafter he poised the knife above Vincent’s breast, then started his arm downward on its death-dealing journey. A strange, terrifying laugh suddenly pierced the room and Vincent closed his eyes.

  That which followed was utter black confusion to Vincent. Only in a more peaceful interl
ude thereafter could he figure out the action that likely had transpired. Once again his unknown rescuer must have served him when sorely needed.

  The stranger, Vincent decided, must have hurtled himself upon the back of Vincent’s attacker. For the huge Chinaman now lay motionless upon the floor, pierced to death by his own knife!

  But there was no time then to ask questions. One of the two opponents who had earlier been temporarily accounted for had now recovered, and was wading in. Without pausing for breath, Vincent’s rescuer leaped from the floor, and, seizing the remaining giant by the arms, swung him over his shoulder, and carried him, struggling but helpless, to the door. With one great heave he flung the huge man headlong down the stairs. A great thump, and the groan that followed was sufficient proof that the third of Wang Foo’s warriors would fight no more.

  The strange Chinaman, Vincent noticed, had resumed his squatty appearance. Picking up one of the knives, he cut Vincent’s bonds and helped the prisoner to his feet. He drew Vincent to the window, where the cooling air of dusk brought new strength to the weakened American.

  Opening his coat, the Chinaman dropped a coil of rope that had been wound about his body. He fastened an end of the rope to one of the bars in the window, and fitted the other end about Vincent’s waist.

  “Lean against the wall,” he whispered, in perfect English. “Rest until I make an opening. Then you can drop to safety. The alley will take you to the street. Your cab will be waiting there.”

  Vincent was too weak to do more than nod. The room was now almost dark. He could see nothing but the shadowy form of the Chinaman who had rescued him. Then he observed the man’s hands at the window.

  They were slender hands, but they seemed to possess tremendous power. They were working at a bar, which was set firmly in the framework of the window. It seemed incredible that any human being could move that rod of iron; but as Vincent watched, he saw it bend - just the fraction of an inch.

  The hands continued their work. The bar was yielding now, only a trifle more than before. The minutes were moving by; they were precious minutes, Vincent knew. Yet the slim, powerful hands worked on.

  The bar had assumed the form of a curve. Then suddenly the hands ceased to twist it. They were motionless, and Vincent knew that the man in the dark was listening. There was perfect silence for a moment.

  Then, from the depths of the house below, came four strokes of a Chinese gong.

  The hands became active again. The bar began to move. It budged backward and forward, from side to side. Suddenly it snapped from its moorings, and the hands pulled it inward. The opening between the next bar and the window-frame was just large enough for a man to squeeze through.

  “Hurry,” came the whisper from the shadows. “Through the window.”

  Vincent clambered to the sill. He grasped the bar to which the rope had been attached, and pulled his body to the position desired. His rescuer, now invisible in the darkness, helped him push his way to the outer air.

  “Steady,” came the whisper. “Make sure you have the upper end of the rope. Let yourself down easily. There will be time.”

  Footsteps were stamping up the stairs. There was the sound of voices, half-shouting in Chinese.

  Vincent poised himself upon the outer edge of the windowsill. His rescuer had left him. He was faint, and he held himself there, while he breathed the refreshing air.

  The scene in the room commanded his attention. While it lasted, he was transfixed; unable to find strength to lower himself to safety.

  Bright flashlights gleamed from the doorway. Before their glare came four more of Wang Foo’s men, each with an extended knife. In the center of the room crouched the squatty Chinaman - if Chinaman he were - waiting for the onrush of his opponents.

  As the men moved forward with a weird cry of triumph, the little man grew large again, and it seemed that he strangely chuckled. His hand swung upward, holding the iron bar that he had wrested from the window. His shadow, passing over the floor and up the further wall, stood behind him like a huge, living monster.

  Into the mass of Chinamen he sprang. His iron club swung right and left with mighty force. His enemies went sprawling to the floor. The men behind, who held the lights, were routed by the attack. Bodies fell tumbling through the doorway, and the lights went with them. In one valiant thrust, this amazing stranger had smashed his way to safety!

  As Vincent’s hands grasped the rope, and he began his precarious trip to the ground, he heard an exultant sound come up the stairway.

  It was a long, mocking laugh; a strange, unaccountable laugh; a laugh that would chill the heart of a man who had never known fear!

  CHAPTER XI

  A BAFFLING MYSTERY

  Harry Vincent reclined comfortably once more in an armchair in his room at the Metrolite Hotel. Three days had elapsed since the thrilling episode at the house of Wang Foo, the Chinese tea merchant, and the memory of his close escape from destruction still brought chills to Vincent’s spine.

  He could hardly remember what had happened after his escape to the alleyway behind Wang Foo’s domicile. He knew that he had somehow managed to stagger to the street; that the driver of the green taxi had helped him into the cab, and that he had been brought directly to the Metrolite Hotel, where he had managed to pull himself together sufficiently to reach his room.

  But these were simple facts that came as recollections. As to the actual details of his return, his mind was blank.

  He had visited Fellows, the insurance broker, at ten o’clock the following morning. He had said nothing of his adventures on the outskirts of Chinatown; he realized that the quiet, round-faced insurance man had probably already been informed of the facts. His conference with Fellows had been very brief.

  In the quiet of the inner office, The Shadow’s agent had told him to enjoy himself until further notice, but to spend his idle moments to good use: namely, to read the front pages of the newspapers, and to absorb all details of any stories that pertained to murder.

  This, in itself, had been a task. For three days, one specific crime had continued to dominate the headlines of the daily journals. That was the robbery and murder which had been committed at the home of Geoffrey Laidlow, in the fashionable suburb of Holmwood, Long Island. To date the police had found themselves checkmated.

  The available facts of the case were definitely accepted. Geoffrey Laidlow had been living at home, although his family was away. It was his custom to go out nearly every evening, accompanied by his secretary. On the night of his death, he and the secretary had returned shortly before eleven o’clock.

  Burgess, the secretary, had witnessed the actual murder. He explained that he and Mr. Laidlow had entered the house quietly, and had gone into the library, closing the door behind them. The millionaire had intended to sign some letters, so Burgess waited, wearing his hat, coat, and gloves, ready to take the mail to the post-office.

  Before signing the letters, Mr. Laidlow had searched for a book on one of the shelves, and, finding it, had scarcely opened the volume before he stopped and listened.

  Some one was moving in the study across the hall, where the safe was located.

  Acting on the spur of the moment, the millionaire opened the library door and rushed across the hall. There he surprised a man rifling the safe. The burglar drew a gun and shot him at close range.

  The secretary had reached the hall in time to hear the pistol’s report, and to see its flash from the dark study.

  He grappled with the burglar as the man emerged into the dimly-lighted hall. He, too, was a victim of the murderer’s gunfire; a shot struck his arm and caused a flesh wound. Burgess had staggered for a moment; and had then followed the fleeing robber to the end of the hall, where the man had escaped through an open window.

  The murderer was carrying the large box that contained the Laidlow jewels. In vaulting through the window, he had dropped his revolver, for it was found on the grass outside.

  Burgess, weakened by his wou
nd, had not followed the escaping man. Both the butler and the valet had heard the pistol shots. They had run down the stairs, half-dressed, and had arrived just after the murderer had disappeared.

  A neighbor of the millionaire was Ezekiel Bingham, the celebrated criminal lawyer. Bingham had been passing the Laidlow home when the shots were fired. He had pulled his car to a stop at the first shot. Hence his testimony took up the story where the secretary had left off.

  The window of the hall opened toward the street, but the house was set back among the trees. By the gleam of an arc-light, the lawyer had plainly witnessed the murderer’s flight. He stated that the man had almost fallen, but had caught himself and had dashed off across the lawn and through a hedge.

  Bingham had observed that the man was carrying some sort of a box. Realizing that he could not take up the pursuit - the lawyer was an elderly man - Bingham had entered the Laidlow home.

  It was he who had notified the police of the crime.

  There were other witnesses: the cook, the house-maid, and the chauffeur. But their testimony was virtually without apparent value.

  The police had quizzed the secretary, and found his story clear and acceptable. He had been in the employ of Geoffrey Laidlow for five years, and was a relative of the millionaire’s wife. He was Laidlow’s confidential man; he knew that the jewels were kept in the safe, but had never been given the combination. He was a man of known honesty; and Ezekiel Bingham’s statements substantiated those of Burgess.

  The secretary had been treated for his wound, and was on hand when the millionaire’s family - Mrs. Laidlow and two sons - arrived at their home.

  The description of the burglar indicated a man of medium height, wearing a dark suit and a black mask, who weighed between one hundred and forty and one hundred and fifty pounds. Burgess had given this information, and Bingham had coincided.

  With such an excellent beginning, the police had expected many clews, particularly after the rapid flight of the murderer. But they were disappointed.