JADE DRAGON
                                by Maxwell Grant

     As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," September 1, 1948.

     The Shadow, master stalker of the night, finds himself trailing a
beautiful woman through the foggy alleyways of San Francisco's Chinatown... on
a quest for a rare and deadly talisman.


     I

     GLORIA BRENT was looking at shadows.
     Streaky things, they stretched themselves from basement doorways, from
beneath overhanging balconies. They were cast even by projecting signs that
wavered ever so slightly from the slow swirl of the fog.
     But there was nothing slow about the motion of the shadows themselves.
Rather they seemed to swoop, to rise like living waifs of a distraught
imagination, only to spread and evaporate into mere gray shadings as Gloria
approached each looming umbra.
     It was the fog that distorted these Chinatown shadows.
     Gloria argued that point nicely with herself. Of course it was the fog. It
must be the fog, too, that gave Gloria such shivers. There was always a bite to
a San Francisco fog.
     That was the whole answer.
     Gloria smiled as she tried to balance the situation mentally, hoping that
each idea would cancel off the other. Then memories of previous Chinatown
visits crept into Gloria's mind, as insidiously as the crawling fog itself, and
the girl was chilled by a wave of stark horror.
     This wasn't the first time that Gloria Brent had encountered fog in
Chinatown, while hunting rare curios for her employer, Jonathan Gilmar. As for
shadows, she had noticed them often before, so their combination with fog was
something quite natural. But now the commonplace had suddenly converted itself
into the grotesque and the result was something that couldn't be smiled away.
     Instinctively, Gloria drew back into a doorway, choosing one that was
bathed in the wavering light of a street lamp. It was singular that the lights
themselves should make this setting sinister, because always before they had
seemed to shed a warmth of welcome. Fog shouldn't matter, as Gloria now
rationalized.
     It must be the quest of the Jade Dragon.
     If so, Gloria still couldn't quite understand it. On all her excursions to
Chinatown, it had been her rule to stop in shops and ask the proprietors if they
had any jade among the curios that stocked their stores. Jonathan Gilmar
particularly like to collect jade, and it was hard to find, nowadays. So
usually, the store-keepers shook their heads and raised their slanted eyebrows
blandly.
     Tonight they had done the same when Gloria had described the Jade Dragon
that her employer wanted to buy. Having heard that a Jade Dragon was for sale
in Chinatown, Gilmar had deputed Gloria to find and purchase it. But the
Chinese merchants hadn't taken the request that lightly.
     Each shop-keeper had shown an instant of frozen hesitation before
delivering the habitual head-shake. Looking back into the shops as she left
them, Gloria had noticed that each merchant had peered suspiciously about his
own premises as though something more tangible than fog had crept into his
little domain. Yet the only things they could have been looking at were shadows!
     That was why Gloria Brent had become so shadow-conscious.
     Now, harrowed by a sudden relief in the unreal, the girl made an unwise
pause. Instead of taking to the shadows herself, where her dark-brown attire
might have eluded observation, Gloria picked a lighted spot where she was
making herself an open target for any menace that might be lurking along the
twisty street, which Gloria herself had peopled with living threats.
     Discounting the circumstances, Gloria Brent deserved a setting such as
this, for it turned her natural charm into a striking beauty. In the glow of
the doorway, she was framed full length in a light that fully disclosed the
whiteness of her face and added a burnish to the auburn hair that puffed from
beneath the sides of her hat.
     Ordinarily, Gloria was too self-possessed, too precise and methodical, to
let her loveliness take full control of both her features and her figure. As a
career girl, she had tempered her expression with sophistication and her stance
with poise. Now, temporarily freed from her own notions of what the New Look
should be, Gloria was displaying wide, fear-haunted eyes that in themselves
were haunting by their very blueness. Her lips, caught half-open by a bated
breath, were silently beseeching admiration.
     Gloria's hands, dropping with a pair of brown gloves, were pressing the
doorway as though clutching for protection; while one foot, advanced for
flight, began a tremble that was carried by a shapely ankle to a hidden knee,
which in turn delivered flowing quivers down to the hem of the girl's brown
skirt.
     By the time Gloria gathered sufficient wits to rout her fears, it should
have occurred to her that any lurking menace would have struck by that time,
considering how long she had openly played the part of a trembling, frightened
fawn in the badly chosen doorway. Instead, the girl was steeled by a new surge
of self-confidence and she began to analyze the shadows that weaved along the
sidewalk.
     All of them were accountable, allowing for the fog, and the way its
increasing billows played flickery tricks with the street lamps. Except for the
shadows, the street was deserted, signifying that the raw cold of the fog had
forced people indoors and therefore still could be accountable for Gloria's own
shivers. With a sharp click of her high heels, the brown-clad girl came from the
doorway and merged herself with the grimy gloom, casting occasional glances
backward as she walked to the next corner.
     Curiously, Gloria then began to deceive herself more than before.
     In watching the shadowy streaks that jolted queerly, and close by, Gloria
was quite oblivious to the weave of more distant shapes. Almost a half-block
behind, a gliding shadow was keeping constant pace as though it were Gloria's
own. Singularly, it seemed to seek other shadows as though magnetized by them.
Once blended with a blotch of darkness, it disappeared, but later it would
unexpectedly emerge from the blackness in a most unlikely quarter.
     Only once did that shadowy trailer reveal itself as something possessing
substance. That was when Gloria had turned a corner and could not have looked
back to see the sudden change. Gathering itself like ink drawn by a blotter,
that shape became a silhouetted figure that took a quick shortcut to the
corner. Despite the clammy dampness of the fog, there was a slight sweep of a
cloak that trailed from hidden shoulders; a momentary glint from keen, burning
eyes beneath the obscuring brim of a black slouch hat.
     The Shadow, master stalker of the night, had for some reason known only to
himself, picked up the trail of Gloria Brent, the girl who was seeking a
mysterious Jade Dragon.
     It was a question how much Gloria would have appreciated this protective
influence, had she known of its existence. Probably she wouldn't have
appreciated it at all, for Gloria was already too fear-fraught to regard
anything shadowy as beneficial. The Shadow himself recognized this, for he made
no effort to close the distance between himself and the girl.
     Then, suddenly, Gloria disappeared.
     It happened just as The Shadow turned another corner, only to flatten
against a wall, as the lights of a car came along a narrow street. The block
was a short one and by the time the car had passed, Gloria could easily have
reached the next corner, so The Shadow headed there rapidly, hoping to regain
the trail.
     However, instead of continuing through the block, the girl had crossed the
street and turned into an alley so completely lost in blackness that even its
entrance could not be observed. It wasn't surprising that The Shadow didn't
pause to check that darkness; with the fear that Gloria had already displayed
toward such gloom, it seemed a totally unlikely place for her to go. But it
happened that the alley was the one direct route to the last Chinese shop that
Gloria planned to visit.
     That was the shop of Koon Wan, and the dead-end that Gloria had taken to
reach it was known as Hangman's Alley. Hemmed between two blank-walled
buildings, the alley was as forbidding as its name. Above was a dull strip of
fog-laden sky stretching between the cornices of the projecting roofs, and the
dim glow showed the alley to be paved with old worn cobblestones as rounded and
as whitened as half-buried skulls.
     Such trophies would have been appropriate, for the alley had gained its
name from the Gold Rush days, when Vigilantes had used it as a place to string
up lawless victims. Although Chinatown had absorbed it, the title of Hangman's
Alley still remained, and Gloria Brent personally regarded it as the most
gruesome thoroughfare in San Francisco. Nevertheless, Gloria had allayed her
fears sufficiently to manage this trek to a final goal.
     Out of the swallowing blackness rose the dull gleam of a basement shop, at
the very depth of the alley. As Gloria reached the light, she could see the
steps leading down into Koon Wan's, and with a sigh of relief she reached a
door that tinkled a welcome as she pressed it open. Gloria's sigh was
justified, for in contrast to the utter blackness of the alley, Koon Wan's shop
formed a very pleasant place.
     The shop was well-stocked with a large array of Oriental merchandise and
Koon Wan himself was dozing behind a counter as though nothing could ever
disturb the calm of Hangman's Alley. A wide-built Chinese gentleman, Koon Wan
delivered a smile that was naturally broad, as he arose and recognized Gloria
Brent as a former customer. However, Koon Wan was already shaking his head.
     "You want jade again tonight?" queried Koon Wan. "No luck. Too bad."
     "I want something very special," replied Gloria, in a firm tone. "Not just
a few jade trinkets, but a large dragon - a Jade Dragon - and I think that you
may have it."
     Koon Wan's narrowed eyes showed no wider than the crease of his
double-chin. Then, referring to the dragon, he asked:
     "How big?"
     Planking a bulky brown handbag on the counter, Gloria became the
thoroughly brisk career girl. She leveled one hand above the other, to indicate
an object slightly less than one foot high; then placed her hands vertically,
showing about half that width.
     Koon Wan shook his head again, as though insisting that such a fine jade
curio could never exist in so large a size. But Gloria was brisk and to the
point, especially as she had assured herself that she and Koon Wan were alone
in the shop, there being no lurking spots large enough to hide an intruder.
     "It's a fine green color," stated Gloria. "In order to make sure that it's
the real Jade Dragon, I brought along some material to match."
     With that, Gloria opened the bag and Koon Wan's head tilted wisely as he
caught a crinkle. Then the girl was spreading currency of surprising
denominations: fifties, hundreds, and even a few five hundred dollar bills. For
once Koon Wan's eyes looked actually open, but before he could spot any thousand
dollar bills in the fortune that Gloria carried, the girl was putting the money
back into the hand-bag.
     "I think I shall recognize the color," assured Gloria. "Let me see the
Jade Dragon, Koon Wan."
     Deliberately the squatty Chinese merchant turned around and Gloria's
self-assurance was suddenly erased. The girl's expression reverted to that
wide, blue-eyed alarm which she had registered earlier. Hurriedly, she clamped
her bag and turned toward the door as she saw Koon Wan open an odd-shaped
Chinese cabinet that hitherto had been obscured behind him.
     That cabinet in itself could be a lurking spot for some hired assassin
more capable of delivering swift action than Koon Wan. Decorated with red
lacquer, etched with a Chinese scene in gold, the cabinet had two front doors
above a small drawer forming a part of the table on which the cabinet rested.
Those doors were narrow, because of flanking posts at the corner of the
cabinet, but they were still large enough to admit a human form - at least in
terms of Gloria's strained imagination.
     That notion faded as the doors came wide. The interior of the cabinet was
smaller than Gloria had supposed, so small that it could not have held a person
of more than midget proportions. Besides, the cabinet was already occupied, by
an object that was definitely not alive, though when Koon Wan plucked it from
within the cabinet and brought it into the light, it seemed literally to writhe
in his hands.
     For the object was fancifully carved into the form of coils that glistened
with a shimmering green beneath a tiny, grotesque head that had little golden
eyes and teeth, with a forked tongue, also gold, extending from its open jaws.
     Gloria Brent had found the Jade Dragon.


     II

     FROM the moment that Koon Wan placed the Jade Dragon on the counter,
Gloria knew that it must be the very prize that Jonathan Gilmar wanted and was
willing to purchase at a premium price. However, in her part as Gilmar's
purchasing agent, Gloria always played the bargainer and this of all times, was
one that demanded strict adherence to the rule.
     Using the poker-faced expression that had become her regular habit, Gloria
looked at Koon Wan and inquired:
     "How much?"
     Koon Wan curved those broad lips of his until they paralleled the deep
line of his double chin.
     "People tell you of Tsai Hsun?" asked Koon Wan. "Come visit long time ago?"
     "Prince Tsai Hsun," recalled Gloria. "Brother of the Chinese Emperor. I've
read about him coming to San Francisco, but that must have been almost forty
years ago."
     There was a nod from Koon Wan.
     "Tsai Hsun have this with him." Koon Wan gestured to the Jade Dragon.
"Police did good job, keeping tongs from killing Tsai Hsun. He sold this to pay
thank-you money. Only reason you find anything like this outside China."
     Gloria could have disputed that point, but didn't. There were other
reasons why rare jade might leave the Orient, but Koon Wan's statement covered
this particular case. Nevertheless, Gloria didn't intend to be impressed by any
suggestion that might encourage Koon Wan to hoist the price. In her most frigid
style, the red-haired girl related her original question:
     "How much?"
     Koon Wan glanced yearningly at the brown hand-bag, then came to a quick
decision:
     "Ten thousand."
     "Too much," returned Gloria, in a determined tone. "I'll give you five
thousand."
     "Split same," offered Koon Wan, without an instant's hesitation. "Make it
seven thousand and half."
     Dropping further parley, Gloria opened the bag and counted out the money.
Now that Koon Wan gained a full look at the currency, he saw that his estimate
of ten thousand had been quite far below the amount of cash that the girl
carried in all, the roll of bills totaled approximately twenty-five thousand
dollars, but there was no proof that Gloria would have bid that high for the
Jade Dragon.
     Nevertheless, Koon Wan appeared quite unconcerned. More than that; he
acted as though satisfied. Taking the seventy-five hundred dollars, he
deposited it in the little drawer beneath the red lacquered cabinet, pushed the
drawer shut and closed the doors of the now empty cabinet which had so recently
been the repository for the Jade Dragon of Tsai Hsun.
     Gloria had again become anxious-eyed, stealing glances toward the door of
the shop, as though anticipating the horror of that darkness lurking in
Hangman's Alley.
     As Koon Wan turned from the closed cabinet, Gloria gestured to the Jade
Dragon and began:
     "I think you had better wrap it in a package -"
     With that the girl's face froze, and Koon Wan's narrowed eyes saw why.
Gloria was not looking directly at the Jade Dragon, but at a portion of the
counter just beside the foot-high image. There on the counter lay a shape so
hideous as to hold any eyes in horror.
     It was a shadow, a green shadow, cast by the Jade Dragon itself. Somehow
the reflection of the mellow lights in Koon Wan's shop caught the color of the
green jade and transcribed it to the saffron oil-cloth of the counter. A green
shadow was singular enough, but its shape was unaccountable, and that was the
feature that transfixed Gloria's gaze.
     Instead of forming a shadow that resembled the squatty dragon, the shape
on the counter was a grotesque, elongated stretch of green that represented a
monstrous Chinese devil. Gloria had seen huge statues in Oriental museums,
depicting such evil spirits, but had never regarded them as more than mere
graven images. But for the shadow of one of these to materialize from nowhere
and appear in green, was something of a shock.
     Strange indeed must have been the genius of the artisan who had carved
that dragon from a chunk of jade. In his innermost thoughts he must have
constantly pictured not the dragon but some awesome joss, whose pose and
features he had sought to capture - and did.
     For that patch of grotesque green formed a monster with upraised claws
that stood for hands, reared above a bulky head that bore two tusky curves as
devil horns. More than a shadow, it was a picture, for the misshapen head bore
a face. Slanted slits made evil, leering eyes. Below them was an ugly, widened
nose that seemed all nostrils. Under that was a distorted, curving gash,
producing a smile so demoniac that no human mouth could have duplicated it.
     These features, of course, came from gaps amid the dragon's coils, where
the light shone directly through. But it was impossible to trace them in the
carving of the Jade itself. The result was therefore all the more uncanny,
almost hypnotic as it gripped Gloria's gaze. Koon Wan saw it too, that green,
forbidding shadow, and it stirred him to haste.
     Hauling out a square of wrapping paper, Koon Wan planted it over the
dragon, obliterating the green shadow on the counter. Rapidly, he wrapped the
package and tied it with a string, while Gloria, her hands trembling badly, was
stuffing the remainder of her money back into the hand-bag. Something fluttered
to the floor, but neither Gloria nor Koon Wan noticed it. Both were eyeing the
package as Koon Wan wrapped it and the merchant himself was shaky now. For at
moments, the crinkly paper itself seemed to cast a vague shadow resembling the
monstrous image that the dragon itself produced. It was as if some evil thing
were struggling to free itself from bondage and renew a career of horror.
     Gripping the package under her arm, Gloria hurried from Koon Wan's shop as
though even the forbidding depths of Hangman's Alley were preferable, as well
they might be, for in the alley's darkness, no shadows could be cast. The bell
on the door tinkled Gloria's exit and even that sound was now disturbing, for
lurkers in the alley could have heard it.
     Perhaps possession of the Jade Dragon was a protection rather than a
menace, if power lay within the monstrous shadow that the carving cast. Such
thoughts at least were sweeping through Gloria's mind and with distorted
results. For now, to Gloria's startled senses, even Hangman's Alley seemed
different, transformed during the dozen minutes - or less - that she had spent
in Koon Wan's shop.
     Now, instead of forming a dull white pathway, the skullish cobbles of the
alley lay like a carpeting of rugged, tufted green. From somewhere in the
fog-sodden sky, the narrow thoroughfare was catching an emerald glow and
absorbing it as a sickly olive hue. Gloria realized this as her high heels
clattered on the rounded stones, for as she gave a worried glance upward, she
saw that the space between the cornices was a brighter green than the paving
beneath her feet.
     But that brightness brought a shudder, for there was something in its
vivid hue that reminded Gloria of jade.
     Green shadows sprang again to Gloria's mind. She was casting one herself,
a curious zig-zagged mass, the way the rough cobbles distorted it. But that
wasn't the sight that held Gloria frozen. There were other shadows, things of
life, on the roof edges some thirty feet above.
     It was the glow from the sky that made them green, those shapes that
looked like heads and shoulders. Gloria could picture faces peering down into
the alley, monstrous faces like that cast by the Jade Dragon. She couldn't see
the faces, but she was sure the figures were alive and that she was the object
of observation.
     For as Gloria wavered and took half-hesitant, sideward stumbles, those
heads and shoulders seemed to act accordingly. One jutted further outward, the
other moved inward, as though suiting their angles of vision to Gloria's own
shifts. They couldn't be ornaments along the roofs, those shapes, for there
were only two of them, like a pair of strange sentinels, each guarding his side
of the alley, or more specifically, the opposite side, in case any wayfarer
should huddle beneath the cornice across the way, thus slipping from the sight
of the watcher directly above.
     Turning on one high keel, Gloria gave a frantic glance back toward the
dull trickle of light that represented Koon Wan's basement shop. Momentarily
she thought of dashing there for refuge, but now, to her horror, even Koon
Wan's light showed a greenish tinge, something that Gloria either hadn't
noticed before or did not remember.
     That was enough.
     Swiveling completely about, Gloria dashed for the lighted street at the
entrance to the alley. One heel caught between a pair of cobbles and Gloria
nearly sprawled; then her foot wrenched loose and she managed to stumble
onward, without dropping the precious package containing the Jade Dragon which
Gloria now wished she had never seen, or even heard about.
     Then, Gloria had reached the street and was heading toward the next
corner, where down a steep slope she saw two spots of light that were a sharp
red, in happy contrast to the lurid, frightening green that had literally
driven the girl into this maddened flight. Those were the tail-lights of a
taxicab, parked near the edge of Chinatown, so Gloria kept going in their
direction, puzzled by the half-limping gait that she had somehow acquired from
that frenzied rush she had made through Hangman's Alley.
     The package was still safe under Gloria's arm, but she was wondering why
she hadn't flung it away, regardless of its value.
     Koon Wan had certainly been glad to get rid of the Jade Dragon.
     So Gloria reasoned, because otherwise Koon Wan would not have sold it for
but a fraction of its possible worth. It was easy for Gloria to picture Koon
Wan now, back on his stool behind the counter, dozing with a complacent smile
upon his face, happy that he had disposed of something that he actually didn't
want, to someone who was foolish enough to buy it.
     Gloria's picture of Koon Wan was correct.
     In his shop, the merchant had returned to the stool that stood in front of
the lacquered cabinet. His smile was indeed a trifle wider than before and his
head, tilted forward, was thrusting the deep wrinkle of his double chin down to
the precise level of his throat.
     Koon Wan had reverted to his customary slumber, a state just slight enough
for the tinkle of the entrance bell to rouse him. Slighter sounds could not
disturb Koon Wan. That was why he did not hear the scarcely audible clicks from
the red and gold cabinet behind him.
     The lacquered front was opening again, but in a most curious fashion. Not
just the doors, but the broad posts beside them were making an outward swing,
barely passing Koon Wan's bowed shoulders.
     Gloria Brent had gauged that cabinet as too small to contain a human
being. Her estimate had been correct, considering that she had viewed only a
portion of the interior; but the lacquered chest, now spreading wide to its
full extent, was larger by twice than Gloria had supposed. The false walls that
formed the central box were lifting apart to join the outer sides. The drawer
that contained the money had become a tray that was lifting to the top of the
cabinet, so that the occupant could unlimber himself from the leg space on
either side.
     The full interior, thus disclosed was definitely large enough to contain a
human being.
     Yet Gloria's verdict still stood.
     For the creature that was emerging from this remarkable hiding place, in
the walls of the cabinet itself, could not be classed as human. It was a man,
but of inhuman sort. Thin of body, scrawny of legs and arms, the creature's
bony shoulders were topped by a head more ugly than the green silhouette cast
by the Jade Dragon. Bulging eyes, flattened nose and jutting teeth sufficed it
as a face; but these were far less terrible than the talons which served the
creature as hands.
     Flinging forward, those hands made a wide sweep over the head of Koon Wan.
Dropping they came backward and together as though gently massaging the back of
the sleeping merchant's neck. Clawish fingers gestured as though tying a
shoe-lace. Without releasing its evil leer, the creature dropped lightly from
the cabinet, turned and closed it, hinged drawer and false walls coming back in
place.
     Opening the drawer, the leering thing plucked out the bundle of money,
then closed the drawer again. Stealing around from behind the counter, the
creature stuffed the money into a pocket of a jacket that encased its
thin-ribbed body and brought out a rounded object that looked like a large
coin. One of Koon Wan's hands lay open; into that hand, the creature placed the
disk. Then, picking its way through various antiques, the thing from the cabinet
found a tiny window too small to need bars, squeezed its way through, and
disappeared into a side courtyard.
     All the while, Koon Wan sat as placidly as ever, still wearing the broad
smile that characterized his present doze. Now, slowly, he slumped forward, his
hands closing as they struck the counter ahead of him, his flat face landing
flush against the saffron oil-cloth. That jolt did not annoy Koon Wan nor even
disturb his smile.
     It produced only an accidental change...
     In his sprawl, Koon Wan came into the glow of an antique Chinese lamp
which stood in the front window. That lamp had a green silk shade which cast
its color on the floor. The glow received the silhouette of Koon Wan.
Singularly, the clutch of Koon Wan's fists, with their upright thumbs and the
squatty head that lay between them, produced a demoniac image much like the
outline cast by the Jade Dragon.
     Another green shadow, this shadow of Koon Wan's, and its lack of motion
stood for death. Slow moments followed, while silence seemed to thicken in the
little shop. Then came the click of an opening panel in the far wall of the
shop. Shadows stirred as silence ended with the throb of a low, strangely
whispered laugh.
     A living shadow had arrived upon this tragic scene. A living shadow who
was rightly named:
     The Shadow.


     III

     IN FINDING the shop of Koon Wan, The Shadow has traveled a long way
around, but that was logical procedure under the circumstances. There had been
nothing in the action of Gloria Brent to indicate that she was disturbed by
more than an imaginary fear. Hence, having lost the girl's trail, The Shadow
had circled to regain it, rather than back-track his route.
     Indeed, The Shadow's mode of arrival was a justification of his policy.
There were few in Chinatown - even among the Chinese themselves - who knew that
Koon Wan's could be entered by the secret route that The Shadow had chosen.
Perhaps Koon Wan himself had been ignorant of the fact that this basement store
he rented was originally a panel house, a curious relic of the old Chinatown
days.
     Panel houses had once served a purpose as places where people could be
lured, then slugged through an opening in a section of a revolving wall. Many a
stout character had been shanghaied by that process in the times when San
Francisco had been famous for its Barbary Coast, along with other intriguing
but unsavory institutions that reform had finally abolished.
     Apparently the old days were back.
     As The Shadow emerged from the trick wall, he promptly sighted the figure
of Koon Wan and recognized that the merchant's slump was something more
profound than mere slumber.
     With uncanny silence, The Shadow threaded his way to the spot where Koon
Wan lay. There a singular manifestation occurred. Blackness clouded out green,
as if one projection slide had been effaced by another. Now it was The Shadow's
own shadow that seemed to envelop Koon Wan and the grotesque green patchwork
that the merchant's figure cast.
     Such at least was the impression that anyone would have gained if viewing
the scene from the front door or through the shop window. Spying eyes from
those directions would not have observed The Shadow at all. But from behind the
counter, had an observer been there to look, The Shadow was revealed in full as
he stooped above Koon Wan.
     Between the folds of the cloak collar and the brim of the slouch hat, The
Shadow's face showed as a hawkish visage, calm and impassive save for its
probing eyes. Probing indeed, those eyes, for they worked with the skill of
gimlets. In contrast, The Shadow's lips were straight, immobile, giving no
expression of what went on within his mind.
     The Shadow was surveying death, as personified by Koon Wan. Mysterious
death, for there was little to show that the Chinese merchant was dead rather
than asleep. There was even less to indicate how Koon Wan had died, for his
body showed no trace of violence and there were no signs of a struggle. Indeed
Koon Wan's smile gave the impression that he himself was rather pleased by this
macabre situation.
     That smile told The Shadow that Koon Wan had died swiftly. In their probe,
The Shadow's eyes noticed the deep crease in the fold of Koon Wan's double chin.
From beneath his cloak, The Shadow produced a small penknife. A blade flipped
open as The Shadow pressed a button; then, as though performing a delicate bit
of surgery, The Shadow worked the blade along the back of Koon Wan's neck and
gave a sudden, sharp twist.
     Koon Wan's head twisted as though he had come temporarily to life. His
double chin jellied downward, losing its deep crease. From the thin-gloved
fingers of The Shadow's hand, there now dangled a length of fine cat-gut that
had lain concealed in Koon Wan's chin wrinkle, or rather had drawn the fleshy
crease down to the exact level of the dead man's throat.
     Not only had Koon Wan been strangled, and instantly; the deed was
obviously the work of a killer skilled in certain Oriental processes. Obviously
the girl who had visited the shop could have had no hand in this. More than
likely, the killer had been concealed in the place itself. Since The Shadow had
used the secret route through the paneled wall, he eliminated it as far as the
murderer was concerned. Therefore, to trace the killer's actions, The Shadow
looked for the most convenient spot.
     The Shadow saw the lacquered cabinet.
     The same gloved hand that closed the pen-knife and pocketed it, came out
with a .45 automatic, a handy thing to have ready should the assassin still be
lurking in his lacquered lair. With his free hand The Shadow opened the red
doors and saw the empty interior. A whispered laugh came from hidden lips as
The Shadow - unlike Gloria - recognized the difference between the visible
hollow and the size of the cabinet's outer walls. Giving the cabinet a slight
push with one hand, The Shadow promptly put away his gun with the other.
     The lightness of the cabinet proved two things: First, that the walls must
be hollow, like the false box in the center; second, that those trick walls had
no occupant. Probing with both hands, The Shadow soon found the hidden catches.
The cabinet opened to its full extent, exactly as the killer had sprung it from
within.
     Studying the cabinet briefly, The Shadow closed it. In that survey he had
gauged the limitations of the scrawny killer's size. Sliding open the drawer,
The Shadow found it empty, but his keen eyes saw smudge marks in the slight
dust of the drawer bottom. Similarly, the bottom of the false interior showed
an outline which was oddly shaped in contrast to the oblong imprint in the
drawer beneath.
     As though he had been there as a witness, The Shadow could picture Koon
Wan taking some rare object from the cabinet, giving it across the counter in
exchange for money, and finally stowing the currency itself in the little
drawer beneath the supposedly empty cabinet.
     Coming around the counter, The Shadow let his gaze rove ahead of him to
the little window at the far end of the shop. That exit to the courtyard just
about fitted the proportions of the assassin who had slain Koon Wan, as gauged
by the trick cabinet.
     Again The Shadow whispered a mirthless laugh. From the operation of the
cabinet, the height of the window, The Shadow had gained a good idea of the
killer's agility. Right now, he could have picked out the slinky creature from
a crowd. That was good for future reference, particularly if The Shadow should
happen to run across that slinker in an unexpected place.
     Now, in front of the counter, The Shadow was looking for other clues. The
first that he found was the slip of paper that had dropped from Gloria's
hand-bag. Picking it up, The Shadow discovered that it was a transfer usable on
a cable car line. He noted the day and the hour as punched on the slip of paper.
Again, The Shadow's deductive brain was at work. This trivial find afforded a
wealth of possibilities that could be studied later.
     Two things now interested The Shadow because of their peculiar contrast.
Those things were Koon Wan's fists.
     Under the stress of his last gasp, Koon Wan should have twinned the
frantic grasping of his hands, in fact probably had. But one fist was clenched
evenly, the other showed a slight twisting overlap of the fingers. It reminded
The Shadow of a jar lid that had been pried loose and warped a trifle in the
process, so that it would not close evenly again.
     Taking that dead hand, The Shadow prodded it wide. From Koon Wan's already
clammy palm dropped the round metal disk that the assassin had planted there.
     It was like a coin, a metal token - an unlucky token, where Koon Wan was
concerned. Stamped from silver, it had a green border and its center bore
Chinese characters of the same hue. The color was permanent, imprinted in the
metal much like fine lacquer work on wood. Both sides of the coin were the same
and The Shadow recognized the Chinese characters. He spoke them, in undertone:
     "Wei Hai Wei."
     That was a significant name in Frisco's Chinatown. It stood for one of the
Chinese companies that had known an intermittent existence over many years, with
a highly checkered career. Unlike the infamous and deadly tongs, the Chinese
companies were neither notorious nor dangerous, at least not in their
unadulterated form. The records of Wei Hai Wei showed that it had accomplished
beneficial things, such as finding work for Chinese immigrants, insuring the
properties of Chinatown merchants, raising funds for the National Government in
China itself.
     But the ways of such companies could become devious and this might well
apply to the way of Wei Hai Wei. Certainly the finding of that company's token
in the fist of a murdered merchant, was something of peculiar significance,
with a variety of interpretations.
     Such angles could be studied later. Having concluded his investigation of
this death scene, The Shadow began to think anew in terms of the unknown
red-haired girl whose trail had led him to the discovery of murder.
     There was only one route by which the girl could have gone. That was out
through Hangman's Alley. Tightening his cloak about him, The Shadow glided to
the front door, opened it, and made his exit to the old street of the
Vigilantes.
     Silent, invisible was The Shadow's passage through the doorway, like a
filtering cloud of dissipating smoke. There was a token of his departure,
however, that caught The Shadow's ear. It was the tinkle of the tiny bell.
Artfully hidden, the bell had escaped The Shadow's notice. There was a carrying
tone to the clear tintinnabulation, as though the bell were purposely meant to
cast its echoes ahead of the cloaked figure that was venturing from the shop of
Koon Wan.
     That in itself would have warned The Shadow to probe his coming pathway,
but he had already observed another sign of menace.
     Hangman's Alley was no longer the blacked-out dead-end which had eluded
The Shadow while he was trailing Gloria Brent. It couldn't be the same, not
with the ghoulish green glow that now pervaded it. That deathly tint would have
captured The Shadow's attention earlier. Hangman's Alley was still a dead-end,
even more specifically so, when considered in terms of Koon Wan. There was
something significant in the fact that this ghastly illumination should have
arrived so soon after murder.
     Softly, The Shadow laughed, but he merely modulated his tone, making no
effort to repress it. This was The Shadow's answer to a challenge, much like a
counter-warning given to discountenance any lurkers. With that sibilant laugh,
The Shadow sidled uncannily to a far corner of the alley, where it spread like
a mushroom head in front of Koon Wan's shop. Noting the green glare from the
fog-thickened sky, The Shadow shifted to gain a long, unplanted view between
the jagged fringes of the building tops.
     He was looking for the spot where the green glow was the strongest and
from this angle and this angle alone, The Shadow was able to spy the cause.
There, gleaming its symbols through the drizzly mist, was a huge neon sign
composed of Chinese characters. They were identical with the markings on the
green-stamped disk that The Shadow had plucked from the yielding hand of Koon
Wan.
     Those symbols in the fog spelled Wei Hai Wei.
     Plucking an automatic from beneath his cloak, The Shadow swirled forward
like a blackened portion of the fog itself, tracing a curved course into
Hangman's Alley, where the very paving bore the greenish hue of death.
     But The Shadow's gaze was not upon those cobbles that so resembled skulls.
His eyes were still fixed upward, looking for living heads along the cornices.
Should a menace be due, it would strike from above.
     The Shadow knew.


     IV

     FROM somewhere came a long, piping echo.
     Not a high-pitched cry, just an echo, the sort that would have been lost
amid the confused sounds peculiar to the typical Chinese city.
     Even here in San Francisco, the call was not unusual for Chinatown; but it
was isolated, hence distinctly audible. What gave it import was its lack of
traceability. It could have come from anywhere, yet nowhere.
     That meant much to The Shadow, for his own laugh carried a similar effect,
and with a purpose: namely to draw attention from a given spot and set a
listener to wondering as to what might be lurking elsewhere.
     Hence The Shadow gave no heed to the cry. Logically he sensed its source
as the courtyard adjoining Koon Wan's shop, a spot that The Shadow had not
lingered to probe. The spidery assassin could well have hidden there and later
heard the tingle of the bell denoting The Shadow's departure into the alley.
     If so, the assassin was now tipping off his own hand and - even more
important - those of his collaborators. For The Shadow, undistracted by the
call, was now doing more than watch for heads along the roof fringes; he was
expecting them.
     The heads came.
     More cautious than when Gloria had viewed them, the spies above edged
their faces very slightly from the cornices. Immediately, they began acting
like a pair of alternating pistons, one shoving forward as the other drew back,
almost as in rhythm. The reason was the puzzling sight that they viewed below,
that of a figure which seemed to weave itself in and out of the background
formed by the paving stones.
     The Shadow was performing his swirls back and forth across the alley, so
suddenly that he seemed to materialize only during pauses. Those in turn were
so brief and so eccentric that it was impossible to gauge his zigzags. The
watchers began to bob along the roof edges like puppets on invisible strings,
timed to The Shadow's actions.
     Then snarls passed from roof to roof and with them, hands crept forth with
knives. The mutters phrased the name "Ying Ko" which in Chinese parlance
signified "The Shadow". This pair, as deadly as the assassin who had slain Koon
Wan, recognized who their quarry must be, though they were unable to identify
him as more than a fleeting, black-cloaked phantom.
     Now, keeping a sort of bobbing pace, the roof men were well along the
alley and were confident that they had solved The Shadow's style of process.
Dropping caution, they craned forward, knife hands stretching, each eager to be
the first to settle this intruder who had viewed the scene of murder at Koon
Wan's. But in the green reflection from the fog, their motions were more
apparent than The Shadow's own. Freakishly, he reversed his zigzags and with
startling results.
     One knife man, stretching far from his cornice, was swinging his arm
downward as The Shadow twisted to start across the alley. Perfectly timed, the
knife would have winged directly to its cloaked target, had The Shadow's
maneuver continued true to form. Instead, The Shadow made a sudden side-step
back beneath the cornice itself and at the same instant jabbed a gunshot upward.
     The tonguing muzzle stabbed its bullet straight to the cornice, chipping
the overhanging stone within inches of the hand that swung the knife. Such a
close clip proved that The Shadow's shot was intended solely as a warning,
which would have caused the average assassin to recoil. But this present
specimen considered himself above the average - too far above.
     He was also too far above the alley for the thing he tried to do.
     Instead of dropping back, the would-be killer made a frenzied effort to
veer his knife hurl inward, even taking the location of the gun spurt as his
goal. He flung himself half from the roof edge, letting his downswinging arm
carry him into an abbreviated jack-knife dive, which he intended to brake by
clamping his free hand on the cornice.
     The Shadow's shot had purposely gone wide. The knifer's grab was the same,
but accidentally. He missed his clutch and his descending knife-hand brought him
with it, blade and all, in a sprawly plunge to the narrow curb beside the
green-tinted cobbles.
     This time the cry that The Shadow heard was no mere echo. It was a shriek
that increased its piercing volume as the hurtling figure grew in size. The
scream ended with the crumply thud that pancaked the assassin on the curb. With
the ugly thud came the clatter of a wasted knife.
     The Shadow heard but did not see the fatal descent, for he was twirling
across the alley during the scant seconds that marked the self-made victim's
fall. But as The Shadow turned, he caught the glint of speeding green darting
down from another angle toward the huddled thing that lay so crazily upon the
opposite curb. The man from the opposite roof had loosed his knife more warily
and therefore belatedly. It hadn't intercepted The Shadow because he had
crossed the alley by the time it arrived.
     Even as the second knife echoed the clatter of the first, The Shadow
stabbed a vertical shot without bothering to look upward. He could picture
exactly what was there: the green outline of a head and shoulders that
represented an amazed assassin staring down at the figure of his murderous
team-mate lying where a cloaked victim should have been. It had happened in
such few seconds that The Shadow's present gun-shot was the very thing needed
to top the surprise.
     Again, there was the crackle of stone, a howl as the man above received a
shower of chips. The Shadow wheeled out into the alley, taking a slanted aim
upward in case the other candidate wanted to dispute the issue. Only there was
neither candidate nor issue. The man on the opposite roof was making a mad
scramble for security, somewhere across the roof itself.
     A tiny flashlight flickered, focused itself on the face of the huddled
thing that flanked the cobbles. The green glow showed a flattish Oriental
visage that wore a lipless leer that seemed the epitome of frustrated evil.
Killers of this type had been common in Chinatown once; they constituted what
was practically a breed in itself. Today they were rarities, but they could
still be bought by a high bidder. Most important, however, from The Shadow's
viewpoint, was that this sample was possessed of considerable bulk and was
therefore not to be confused with the murderer of Koon Wan.
     This in turn confirmed The Shadow's theory that the strange, far cry which
had put the knife-men into action was a signal from the missing strangler
himself.
     One other factor formed a link.
     The Shadow's flashlight was playing on the two knives that now decorated
the alley, roving from one to the other. They were identical weapons, with
long, thin blades and rounded handles above broad ornamental hilts. The hilts
were peculiarly significant for at the cross-bar, each was stamped with a
green-lettered symbol.
     Again, the characters spelled Wei Hai Wei.
     Above, the green light still wavered, its fluctuations governed entirely
by the vagaries of the fog. However, that freakish mist could not account for
the hollow silence that had settled in Hangman's Alley. Leaving the knives
where they lay, The Shadow turned and moved swiftly toward the mouth of the
alley, pausing only to listen more intently.
     Silence everywhere.
     It was as if those gun-shots, the scream of the knife hurler, the
departing howl of the assassin who had witnessed his companion's death - all
those had combined to produce an unreal stillness more ominous than any amount
of defiant tumult. It was a new experience, even for The Shadow. He felt as if
he were in an area where death itself had declared a quarantine.
     This was an excellent neighborhood to leave.
     About to start a swift departure, The Shadow saw something that lay tilted
against a cobble stone. Picking up the object, he needed no flashlight to
identify it. The item was a high heel that had broken from a girl's shoe.
Placing it beneath his cloak, The Shadow proceeded on his way. Reaching the
street, he crossed it rapidly, picking the blackest stretches that he could
find. At the next corner, The Shadow turned, worked along darkened building
fronts to an alley less forbidding than Hangman's, and there probed for another
suitable outlet. Yet all the while, hovering silence was closing thicker than
the fog. Over all, that glow of ghoulish green still pervaded, as though
betokening some singular power that stood for Wei Hai Wei.
     The shrill shriek of an approaching siren shattered that Chinatown
silence. At the corner of a street, The Shadow paused and watched a police car
whizz by, turning in the direction of Hangman's Alley. As the siren trailed,
that same silence seemed to close in and swallow it, more stifling than ever.
     How the police had learned of events so soon, who had tipped the prowl car
as to the exact location, were questions that The Shadow did not even bother to
consider for the present. He had finished his chores in this neighborhood; his
business now was to be out of it - for that matter, clear of Chinatown
entirely. Some mysterious business was afoot and The Shadow's own business
answered that same definition. Until he had learned enough about the affairs of
others, he preferred to veil his own purposes in secrecy - even the mere fact of
his presence.
     But that was becoming more and more difficult within this green-hued
realm. Now The Shadow could see human figures clustering by doorways; others,
moving in the manner of mere passers-by. Simply natives of Chinatown, no doubt,
who had come out to inquire why the police car had cut such a sudden swath
through the district. That was the superficial impression, but to The Shadow it
went deeper.
     The timing was too good. Once the police reached Hangman's Alley, no one -
either murderer or intended victim - would remain there; at least no one who was
able to leave. Whoever did leave would become perfect prey for a loose-laid
human mesh that The Shadow now saw in the process of formation. And The Shadow,
alone, formed the catch that the Chinese dragnet wanted.
     Even now, as The Shadow made a quick glide to a doorway across the street,
he recognized that his passage had been spotted. Immediately a cluster formed
there, a group of Chinese who strangely did not discuss the subject, but
maintained the same utter silence. One struck a match, its glare showed what
the green glow from the fog did not quite disclose.
     It showed that the doorway was empty!
     They'd been too deliberate, those Chinese. The Shadow had picked that
doorway as a double test. It wasn't the darkest on the street; therefore it had
given him a chance to gauge how quickly he could be traced. But it was one of
the oldest and most rickety and appeared to be the entrance to an empty shop. A
few probes of a pick had done what The Shadow planned; it had opened the door
before the Chinese converged.
     Hence The Shadow was gone, into the shop itself, by the time the group
arrived there.
     Now, out through a basement window, The Shadow was in a little areaway
that ended in a high board fence. In catlike style, he scaled the barrier,
worked his way to a side street. Again he was an elusive figure, drifting from
one stretch of blackness to another, but always he was within the loose-knit
human network that seemed everywhere.
     Along the line, The Shadow must have been spotted again, at least as
something fleeting in the mist, for when he neared the outskirts of Chinatown,
the bag-strings drew tight. Turning into what seemed a passage between two
squatty warehouses, The Shadow was blocked by a steel door with a heavy,
formidable lock. He was in a little cul-de-sac, from which, when he looked
back, he could see passing flickers from the street, signifying patrolling
figures against the glow from the street lamps, which even here still had a
greenish tinge denoting the all-pervading influence of Wei Hai Wei.
     The search was narrowing here and soon this last, tight spot would be
probed. But now The Shadow's pick was in action, doing wonders. No simple pick,
the tool he used, but an instrument that opened like a pair of miniature pliers,
deep within the lock itself. Gaining a grip on the lock's mechanism, The Shadow
supplied the needed twist. The lock yielded, the door slid far enough for The
Shadow to edge through.
     Within, The Shadow locked the door again, then picked his way past an
inner barrier, found an underground passage and reached a paneled wall. There
he discovered a hole no larger than a printed dot, which he probed with a
needle-pointed implement. The panel slid open noiselessly; sidestepping an
interior screen, The Shadow found himself in a little Chinese restaurant, which
contained a few dozen diners, some Americans included.
     In one sweep, The Shadow removed his cloak, turning it inside out as he
bundled his slouch hat inside it. Thus reversed, the garment looked like a
light rain-coat, the very thing for foggy weather, as The Shadow placed it over
a chair back and eased himself into the other chair at an empty table. Only now
he was no longer The Shadow. Instead, he was a calm-faced gentleman in evening
clothes, who placidly gave an order to the first waiter that approached.
     The Shadow had become his other self, a man-about-town who answered to the
name of Lamont Cranston. The term "about-town" applied to any city, for Cranston
was familiar with them all and looked the part. Finishing the particular Chinese
dish that he had ordered in the style of a true connoisseur, Cranston strolled
from the little cafe, the disguised cloak across his arm. There was no need to
put on the supposed rain-coat, for the fog was lessening now, so Cranston
turned toward the corner that marked the limit of Chinatown.
     Green faces closed in at Cranston's shoulders. The glow from the neon sign
was closer here and stronger, because the fog had thinned. A few Chinese had
followed Cranston from the restaurant, others from the street had paused to
complete an accidental cordon. Cranston's face too had gathered the reflected
glare, but the olive shade did not disturb his calm. He saw no hostility in the
visages about him; just inquiry.
     But Cranston could sense what that inquiry might mean. The gathering was
presumably accidental, it would take but little for something more serious to
happen - accidentally.
     Dipping his fingers into his vest pocket, Cranston could detect a forward
strain in the faces about him and sense the creep of hands preparing for a
simultaneous clutch. Then, bringing up his hand, Cranston opened it, as if
merely glancing at a watch. A dozen other eyes were interested in knowing the
time too, for they all peered squarely into Cranston's palm.
     What they saw was not a watch. They were looking at a metal disk of silver
dollar size, stamped with the green symbols of Wei Hai Wei.
     As though he were entirely alone, Cranston dropped the token back into his
pocket and strolled to the corner, where he hailed a waiting cab. He was alone,
for the surrounding faces had melted like the fading fog, the moment he began
his jaunt.
     Giving the cabby the name of a hotel, Lamont Cranston looked back through
the rear window as he wheeled away from Chinatown. This time no greenish
reflection showed upon Cranston's impassive face. The word had been passed, and
swiftly, that the last unclassified stranger who could have come from Hangman's
Alley had been certified. The great sign that shouted "Wei Hai Wei" in green
had suddenly been blacked out.
     A nice touch, that The Shadow, abandoning his favorite guise of blackness,
should have caused the Company of Wei Hai Wei to adopt it. But things like that
had happened before when The Shadow played a smart hunch.
     The cab driver, swinging a corner to negotiate a steep San Francisco hill,
gave a sudden start. He'd heard the gears in this old hack make crazy sounds
when he'd shifted them too suddenly, but they'd never laughed at him before.
     It wasn't surprising that the cabby mistook Cranston's low laugh for
something too elusive to be human. It was the laugh of The Shadow.


     V

     GLORIA BRENT was worried again. But her worry was a different sort than
she had experienced in Chinatown, although her problem dated back to her
adventures there.
     Being a methodical person, Gloria was trying to classify events in their
exact order, tabulating them in her diary, as she sat by the window of her
little apartment.
     It began with yesterday, which was Monday, the Tenth. Gloria had started
for Gilmar's residence immediately after dinner, which was her usual procedure,
because she worked there evenings only. When she arrived there about seven
thirty, Gilmar had shown her the cable from Jennings, his Hong Kong agent,
which stated that Jade Dragon Number J-D-8, listing 4083 M in the Imperial
Album, was in San Francisco.
     The cablegram had been received on Sunday, the one day of the week that
Gloria never went to Gilmar's. So to keep her own diary straight, Gloria had
written on the Sunday page: "Cable sent by Jennings."
     Yesterday, Monday, when Gilmar showed Gloria the cable, he had pointed out
the code-word "Length". By the code system used in such cables, the first, third
and fourth letters formed the key, in this case L-G-T. In the cipher book, those
letters were an abbreviation for the word "Legitimate".
     This meant that Jennings must have investigated the history of that
particular Jade Dragon and found that it had a perfect right to be in America,
though he had not specified the details in his necessarily brief cablegram.
Naturally, Gilmar was much pleased, for as a man of high integrity, he would
not even consider buying rarities that might be suspected of being smuggled
goods, or which were offered for sale through under-cover channels. As a
result, Jonathan Gilmar hadn't been adding much to his Jade collection lately,
hence he had become as exuberant as a month-old colt at this opportunity of
acquiring a legitimate prize.
     Catching the fervor, Gloria had willingly consented to fare straight forth
to Chinatown and seek the Jade Dragon. It had taken her about three hours to
find it, buy it, and take it back to Gilmar's, where she had delivered the
wrapped package to Sangju, Gilmar's Korean servant, with instructions to take
great care of it. On the way to her apartment, Gloria had phoned Gilmar at his
club and he had been so delighted to learn about the Jade Dragon that he had
started right home to view it.
     All this, Gloria was entering in her diary, and the ink had begun to
waver, blurry fashion, from the tremble of her hand, which in turn came from
the shoulder shiver that Gloria could not repress.
     The girl was thinking of the horror of last night's fog, the haunted,
hunted feeling that had unexplainably gripped her during that last lap to Koon
Wan's shop and had driven her in mad flight through Hangman's Alley with the
Jade Dragon in her clutch.
     Today was Tuesday the Eleventh.
     It was late afternoon, but still too early for Gloria to be entering
today's comments in her diary, had today's details been ordinary. But they were
extraordinary.
     So extraordinary that Gloria needed a few minutes of relaxation to
recuperate from the shakes that had seized her. As a result, the girl fixed her
gaze through the window, where the scene itself was a tonic for unsteadied
nerves.
     It was one of those bright days that became all the more vivid when the
setting sun streamed its rays through those bulking portals that were
appropriately styled the Golden Gate. The sort of day that seemed to gather
strength toward sunset, giving the waves of San Francisco Bay a dancing sparkle
that delighted the eye. Gloria could see that blue flood from her window and
over and beyond it stretched the Oakland Bridge, like a chain of huge, iron
beads, all hung from the same pair of strings.
     Even the microscopic cars that plied that bridge were heartening to
Gloria. Their parade was thinning now, marking the decline of the rush hour,
but like the brilliant sunlight, they represented normalcy. This scene would be
good to remember after darkness gathered. The same people, the same cars, the
same Bay - they would all be present by night as well as day. Even fog could
not ruin this memory, provided that Gloria stayed away from Chinatown and could
forget the Jade Dragon.
     But Gloria couldn't forget the Jade Dragon.
     Grimly, the girl repressed another shudder as she turned from the window.
Picking up a newspaper, Gloria ran her finger down a column and stopped at a
headline. Beneath it was a story that was all too brief, yet pointed in the
facts which it contained. It told of the mysterious death of a Chinese merchant
named Koon Wan, whose body had been found by police when they responded to an
equally mysterious phone call regarding a gun and knife fray in Hangman's Alley.
     Apparently it wasn't entirely unusual that an obscure Chinese merchant
like Koon Wan should be found dead in his shop, with a thin red welt across his
throat to indicate that strangulation, rather than heart failure, had been the
cause of his demise. What made it news in Koon Wan's case was the finding of
another body in the alley fronting his shop. This victim, identified only as an
Oriental, apparently was a hang-over from a breed of men styled boo how doy, or
tong killers. But since Chinese tongs or secret societies, were supposed to be
extinct or at least inactive, this was sheer speculation.
     In fact, the death bore traces of a private feud, for two knives were
found beside the body. Death had been caused by a fall from a roof adjoining
the alley, so the theory was that the participants had warred across from roof
to roof. That would account for the preliminary gunfire, followed by a grapple
in which one fighter had lost his knife, the other his balance.
     The police were questioning the heads of established Chinese companies and
legitimate organizations to learn if any tong troubles had been fomenting
lately. Otherwise the case would be charged off as something that might have
happened in various parts of San Francisco, knife duels being more common along
the water-front, for instance, than in Chinatown.
     To Gloria Brent, however, this case had far more sinister aspects than
even the most exaggerated interpretation of the newspaper account would
signify. It meant that her imaginary fears were doubly real, and beyond.
     Those peering faces from the cornices above Hangman's Alley hadn't been
sizing each other for a feud. They had been watching for someone passing below.
That someone could have been Gloria herself, unless the watchers were on lookout
for a murderer. For according to the time mentioned in the newspaper story, the
murder of Koon Wan might have been under way at that very moment. Hence the
terror that gripped Gloria in Koon Wan's shop, the terror inspired by the
greenish shadow cast by the Jade Dragon, could have been a foreboding of actual
doom.
     In her mental whirl, Gloria could picture the Jade Dragon now, with its
snakish coils, its glaring eyes, and the horrendous patch of green it cast
beneath the light. Yet Gloria had reached Gilmar's safely with that trophy,
whereas Koon Wan, immediately upon parting with it, had met with final disaster.
     More and more, the Jade Dragon loomed as some evil talisman that warded
off the very menace that it threatened, but only as long as its owner remained
subject to its tyranny. What had happened to Koon Wan was an example and the
thought gave Gloria the shudders. Perhaps in parting with the Jade Dragon, she
might be putting herself in line for some sorrow that would be anything but
sweet. However, Gloria could not claim that she had actually owned the Jade
Dragon. That at least was one bright ray.
     Thinking in terms of bright rays, Gloria noted that those of the sun were
fading. There would be just time for a snack of supper before making the usual
evening trip to Gilmar's. So Gloria finished the hasty entries in her diary,
under the head of Tuesday the Eleventh, picked up her hand-bag and a package
that lay beside it, and started on her way.
     About half an hour later, while riding a San Francisco trolley, Gloria
felt a definite ease of mind. The reason was that until now, she had debated
whether or not to call the police and tell them what little - or how much - she
knew about the death of Koon Wan and the unidentified knife-man in the alley.
Now that she had postponed such a call, Gloria could let it wait until after
she talked to Mr. Gilmar. Since he was her employer and she hadn't known where
to reach him this afternoon, her action - or lack of it - would be explainable,
if not justified.
     The trolley stopped at Gloria's corner and she alighted carrying a
transfer ticket along with the hand-bag and the little package. She saw a cable
car gliding up a steep cross street and was about to head for it, when she
smiled. Almost by habit, Gloria tucked the transfer in her hand-bag.
     It was only a few blocks up to Gilmar's home, and when cable cars didn't
come along, Gloria always walked, but kept the transfer in case a car overtook
her at the next corner. She didn't realize that last night, she had dropped
just such a transfer, punched with approximately this very hour, in front of
Koon Wan's counter. The reason that Gloria didn't take the cable car this
evening, was that the little package contained her brown shoes, which she
intended to leave at a little shoe-shop near Gilmar's.
     Another thing Gloria didn't realize was that what was left of the golden
sunset was being reflected very nicely by her red hair. As a result, Gloria
answered a certain description on all three counts, a description which a
mysterious personage known as The Shadow had relayed to some trusted workers
who served as his agents.
     From the moment that Gloria ignored the cable car and started to walk up
hill, she was followed. With dusk about to gather, Gloria had become suddenly
suspicious regarding followers, even though this wasn't Chinatown. But not for
a moment did she detect the persons on her trail, for they relayed their job
with perfect teamwork.
     First to spot Gloria was a good-looking chap named Harry Vincent who
appeared to be waiting for a cable car on the down hill side of the street.
Gloria noticed him, because she couldn't well avoid it, for Harry was the sort
at whom women looked twice, the second time trustingly. In fact, if Gloria had
given that gentleman a third look, she would almost have expected him to follow
her. Gloria did glance back, but by then, the personable Mr. Vincent had given
up waiting for a cable car and was crossing the street in the other direction.
     That was Hawkeye's cue.
      Hawkeye was a huddly little man, who was always turning into doorways so
earnestly that observers really thought he had business there. The trouble with
Hawkeye - or rather, his great ability - was that he always managed to get the
wrong doorway. He seemed to be looking for something, not somebody, hence no
one ever supposed that he was trailing them.
     Harry's action tipped off Hawkeye that this might be the girl of the
street car transfer. So Hawkeye tagged along from doorway to doorway until
Gloria reached the shoe repair shop. After Gloria came out, Hawkeye suddenly
sidled around from the next doorway, slipped into the shop and accosted the
shoemaker with the heel of a brown shoe.
     "Guess the lady dropped this out of her package," said Hawkeye in an
apologetic tone. "I saw it laying there on the sidewalk."
     The shoemaker tried the heel, found that it fitted, turned to nod to
Hawkeye and discovered that he was gone. For by then, the little huddly man was
shambling across the street, with a sideward hunch of his shoulders.
     One block further up, a square-built man with a blocky strong-jawed face
started to hail a taxicab as Gloria came by. That cab was occupied so he had to
look for another. This was Cliff Marsland, third of The Shadow's agents in this
particular train. Cliff didn't need to relay the trail further. He saw Gloria
turn the corner and enter a house. Finding a cab, he rode by, noted the address
and stopped at a drug store where he went into a phone booth; Cliff dialed a
number and a quiet voice responded:
     "Burbank speaking."
     "Girl spotted," stated Cliff. "Entered house at 12 1/2 Fresno Street."
     "Report received."
     Several minutes later, Lamont Cranston answered a phone call in the living
room of his suite at the Hotel Sonora, one of San Francisco's newest. It was
Burbank and though his details on the girl were as limited as Cliff's, his
information regarding the address were quite elaborate, for Burbank was well
supplied with files on San Francisco.
     "Number 12 1/2 Fresno," reported Burbank. "Residence of Jonathan Gilmar,
importer with offices in the Sagamore Building. Gilmar is not only a collector
but an authority on the subject of Oriental Art, including Chinese jade -"
     "Report received."
     That was all that Cranston needed. As he replaced the telephone in its
cradle, his immobile lips phrased a whispered laugh, which was peculiarly
reminiscent of the strange laugh of The Shadow.
     From a corner of the room, Cranston picked up a brief-case. Opening it, he
removed some papers, laid them aside, but left others in one partition of the
case. In the other side were some small flat boxes that looked like jewel
cases. Discarding a few of these, Cranston arranged the others in careful
order, then zipped the brief-case shut.
     Dusk had definitely settled when Cranston reached the street, a few
minutes later. Brief-case in his hand, Cranston beckoned a cab from its stand,
gave an address some three blocks beyond Gilmar's residence.
     As he rode, Cranston was busy with the bottom of the brief-case, opening a
hidden compartment that tapered upward between the two normal sections, forming,
an inverted V. From within he produced The Shadow's hat and cloak; a moment
later, he seemed swallowed by those garments.
     When the cab stopped, a bill fluttered down into the driver's hand and
when he turned to give his passenger the change, he saw to his surprise that
the rear seat was empty. Silently, the door had closed and off in the dusk a
fleeting form in black was merging with further darkness.
     The driver caught no glimpse of that vanishing figure. No one ever did,
when The Shadow was on his way to complete a trail that his agents had
uncovered.


     VI

     THE residence of Jonathan Gilmar was the most imposing in a block of very
impressive mansions. It occupied so much space that he could probably have
given it any one of several numbers, hence his choice of 12 1/2 seemed the
product of a mental quirk. The house itself was much to The Shadow's liking
because its broad steps and large front door offered plenty of space for
operation without the interference of revealing light.
     On those very steps, The Shadow easily could have switched back to his
guise of Lamont Cranston and in fact that was what he had intended. His covert
approach had been for one purpose only: to make sure that no one was watching
the place. By probing the surrounding darkness where lurkers might have been,
The Shadow had eliminated that possibility.
     But now, as The Shadow turned from beside the door, he caught the slight
sound of footsteps, just as they paused. In the gloom he sighted a man close
beside the steps, who had arrived along The Shadow's own route. Satisfied that
there was no one lurking in the dark, the man moved to the steps and the dull
light from above Gilmar's front door gave The Shadow a momentary glimpse of a
bland but tawny face with a dark mustache. The newcomer never saw The Shadow.
     Darkness itself seemed to twist downward to the sidewalk as The Shadow
passed the mustached man, who was turning to come upward. They almost brushed
shoulders in the process; then, swerving from the steps, The Shadow was
suddenly a dozen paces away, his footfalls soundless. From his shoulders, The
Shadow whipped his cloak and stowed it in the brief-case that he had been
carrying beneath it. The slouch hat followed and scarcely was the secret
compartment drawn shut before The Shadow, now Lamont Cranston, was strolling
back toward the steps.
     Cranston's footfalls could be heard, though only slightly. They were just
loud enough to bring the other man about, his hand dropping from Gilmar's door
bell to reach to his own hip. Then Cranston's face came into the same light
that had revealed the other man's. The chap with the mustache exclaimed:
     "Lamont Cranston!"
     Playing it well, Cranston pretended not to recognize the man on the steps
until the latter purposely eased himself into the light. Then:
     "Hello, Vic," said Cranston, with well-feigned surprise. "What are you
doing away from Washington? Taking a leave from the F.B.I.?"
     A smile showed beneath the mustached lip.
     "What do you think?"
     "If you would like to know what I really think" - Cranston's tone carried
just the trace of a chuckle - "I would say that both Vic Marquette and the
F.B.I. have taken an unusual interest in Chinese jade."
     "An excellent deduction, Cranston," Marquette acknowledged. "And yourself?"
     "I've brought some samples." Cranston tapped the brief-case. "I'm hoping
that Gilmar can identify them. He's an authority, you know."
     "Mind if I'm present at the identification?"
     "Not at all," assured Cranston. "In fact, I'll be glad to have you
identify me. There has been so much suspicion attached to jade lately, that
Gilmar might be suspicious of anyone who owns it."
     Marquette had rung the bell again and now the door was opened by a
sharp-eyed Oriental with a bull-dog jaw. Marquette flipped open a card case to
display a badge and questioned bluntly:
     "You're Sangju?"
     The man nodded and promptly bowed the visitors into a huge hallway, taking
Cranston for granted, since he had arrived with Marquette. Then, as Sangju led
the way toward a broad marble staircase, Marquette confided to Cranston:
     "Gilmar's house man. A Korean. He told Gilmar I'd address him by name.
It's better than a password."
     At the top of the staircase, a red-haired girl was waiting. Marquette must
have checked on her, too, for after introducing himself, he added:
     "Miss Brent, I would like to introduce Mr. Cranston. Please tell Mr.
Gilmar that he is with me."
     Nodding, Gloria entered the nearest room, returned a few moments later,
ushered the visitors into the room and followed them. As Gloria closed the
door, Cranston and Marquette found themselves looking around one of the most
unusual rooms that they had ever seen, which was a large order, considering
that they specialized in the unusual.
     Jonathan Gilmar apparently was a collector of the unique. His tastes were
mostly to Oriental art and curios, but he avoided specialized fields. For
example, a fine Ming vase stood upon a gold-inlaid taboret that was equally
rare; a magnificent model of a Chinese junk reposed upon his mantelpiece.
     There was a single tapestry woven from cloth-of-gold; hanging near it on
the wall was a jewel-studded dagger with a wavy blade that identified it as a
Malay kris. But Gilmar was not a collector of tapestries nor weapons, for there
were no other samples on display.
     In a corner was a magnificent abacus or counting board, its beads
consisting of colored jewels. Near it was a chess-board, with squares of pure
gold and silver. The chess men at one end were green, being carved entirely
from jade. Those at the other end were a glossy black, being carved from jet,
and were the finest specimens of that mineral that Cranston had ever seen.
     As for Gilmar himself, he was quite as unique as the things that he
collected. He was a thin, gaunt man, who looked frail in comparison to the
bulky teak-wood desk behind which he sat. But his hands were large and his
head, though not overly big, was out of proportion to his slender shoulders.
Perhaps Gilmar's bulging forehead, and the shaggy white hair that topped it,
were responsible for the general effect.
     But when Gilmar arose and stepped from behind the desk, his feet, too,
looked blocky in contrast to his build. It was as if all of Gilmar's brawn and
power had extended to those extremities, giving footing, grip and brain, at the
expense of bodily physique. No illusion this, for Gilmar's forward stride was
swift and sure; his handshake resembled a metal clamp; his eyes were forceful,
his voice a boom, as he surveyed and greeted his visitors.
     Yet except for those keen eyes and a pair of firm lips, Gilmar's features
were drab, uninteresting. His complexion gave the peculiar effect of a pallor
implaced upon a tan, indicating that in recent years, Gilmar had foregone the
rugged life and reconciled himself to a sedentary career.
     In analyzing such individuals, Cranston always studied their associates,
which in this case gave him reason to admire Gloria Brent. Last night, as The
Shadow, Cranston had gained only occasional glimpses of the girl's face, so
except for her red hair he had been able only to describe her as an attractive
young lady with a worried expression. She was the same girl without a doubt,
and the worry was still present, though she was managing to suppress it with a
firm set of her features.
     What inspired that firmness was Gloria's confidence in Gilmar. Cranston
detected that quite easily because he saw that Gloria's expression was a copy
of Gilmar's own. That in turn defined Gilmar as a man of even disposition,
rational behavior, and above all the consistency that had gained him a
reputation for integrity. Only by establishing himself as a personage could a
man inspire imitation on the part of an associate, and Gilmar had accomplished
this in Gloria's case.
     Remarkable though Gilmar's room was because of its unique ornaments, its
greatest and most outstanding feature was the book-case that occupied one
entire wall. There the visitors saw as remarkable a collection of volumes as
had ever been assembled. All the volumes were huge and they dealt with the
various subjects represented by Gilmar's curios: Tapestries, weapons, ships and
other subjects, including Chinese jade. Nor were these merely books, in the
usually accepted sense of the word. Rather they were albums, collectors' items
in themselves.
     For it was the life ambition of Jonathan Gilmar to become a recognized
authority on any and all subjects worthy of his study, and to establish himself
as such, he had gone to great lengths to acquire source material that no one
else could duplicate.
     Tonight's subject was Chinese jade.
     Striding forcefully to the book-case, Gilmar hoisted out a mammoth volume
that would have made an unabridged dictionary look like a paper-backed
pamphlet. In the process, Gilmar's powerful hands acted like big pendulums,
swinging his frail arms along with them. Indeed, the ease with which he carried
the great album gave the impression that it was quite light. This however was
dispelled by the quiver of the solid teak-wood table when Gilmar planted the
album on it.
     Looking past Marquette, Gilmar gave Cranston an inquiring gaze, as though
taking it for granted that Cranston had come here as a jade collector. With a
smile, Cranston opened the top of his brief-case, brought out the flat boxes
and displayed two jade bracelets and a pair of ear-rings of the same material.
Studying the items closely, Gilmar opened the great album, turning to its
correct divisions.
     Every page of the Imperial Album, as the volume was titled, bore a picture
of some objet d'art of jade, in actual size and full color. Rapidly, Gilmar
identified Cranston's items as authentic, read the histories and descriptions
that accompanied the illustrations. In each case, Gilmar pointed to a corner of
the page, where a red seal had been pasted.
     "All these," explained Gilmar, "are jade items which have been brought
into America legitimately. Your items are quite rare, Mr. Cranston. I
congratulate you upon owning them."
     Cranston gave an acknowledging bow.
     "And now" - Gilmar turned to Marquette - "I suppose you are interested in
the items that should still be in the Orient?"
     "I am," returned Marquette. "I have already seen some pages from the
Imperial Album, but never the whole thing at once. People told me that you were
the only man who had a complete edition."
     "This is it," assured Gilmar. He was turning the pages as he spoke. "If
you keep count, Mr. Marquette, you will notice from the red seals that not
one-twentieth of all the famous Chinese jade ornaments are at present in
America."
     "I could have believed you a year ago," returned Marquette, "but not
today. The stuff has been cropping up from everywhere." He drew a bulky wad of
papers from his pocket. "I'd like it if your secretary here would check the
list when she has time.
     "Frankly, Gilmar" - Marquette's tone became more serious as he continued -
"we are in the grip of the biggest smuggling wave that ever rolled across the
Pacific. At the present value of jade, as it sells on the gray market, the
government has failed to collect nearly three million dollars in customs.
     "How much more we've missed, we can't even guess. How the gray market is
getting its supply, we don't know. Among the thousands of jade items, small and
large, that have entered the country illegally, we haven't been able to trace a
single one back to the smuggling ring itself."
     While Marquette was speaking, Gilmar had walked around behind the desk.
Now, seated in his chair, Gilmar was erect and his face had become alive with
purple. To top his pent-up indignation, Gilmar brought one of his powerful
fists down against the desk so hard that the blow rocked the huge Imperial
Album.
     "Gray market!" stormed Gilmar. "I am astonished, Marquette, that you, an
agent of our government, should apply such a mild term to this illicit trade in
jade. We are faced with the operations of a black market, which in my estimate
is the blackest of the black!"
     "More than granted," agreed Marquette, soothingly, "on all counts except
pure technicalities. Just because these jade articles show up in America is no
proof that they were smuggled. We have to establish the fact."
     Gilmar's face lost its flush and resumed its chalky color. Nevertheless,
he was not fully appeased. Swinging open the copy of the Imperial Album, he
gestured to a random page.
     "Take that jade snuff-box," remarked Gilmar. "It belonged to the court
favorite, Ping Lao. He took it with him when he was banished to Tonkin. It was
last purchased by an Annamese sugar planter -"
     "Who might have sold it to someone in America," supplied Marquette, "who
could have declared it legally and paid the proper duty, twenty years ago - or
more. That's the trouble with all the listings in your Imperial Album. Most of
the jade belonging to Chinese royalty was scattered or disappeared."
     Gilmar was forced to nod that Marquette was correct.
     "Furthermore," added Vic, with a gesture to the big book, "too many
dealers and collectors have copies of this album, though none are anywhere near
as complete as yours. When they get a special piece of jade, it is easy enough
to check it and prove it genuine. The smugglers are trading upon that fact."
     Another nod from Gilmar, whose face had grown very solemn. He recognized
the weakness too. The Imperial Album, or pages from it, with all their details
as to weight, markings and other features as well as precise pictures of the
royal jade, had become a cross between a mail-order catalog and a smuggler's
manual, where unscrupulous parties were concerned.
     "Too true," admitted Gilmar, sadly. "It has become impossible to import
authentic jade from China, as I should know, being an importer. If you could
locate rare items over there, then watch for them to appear here -" Pausing,
Gilmar shook his head. "No it would take too long and the smugglers would
become suspicious. However" - Gilmar's sharp eyes brightened suddenly - "I have
something which may be a lead to the smuggling ring itself. Did you ever hear of
a Chinese merchant named Koon Wan?"
     That struck right home to Vic Marquette.
     "I should have," returned the F.B.I. man. "Koon Wan was murdered in
Chinatown last night."
     "I know." Nodding, Gilmar waved a heavy hand toward Gloria. "Miss Brent
showed me the newspaper account just before you arrived. I can show you
something which concerned Koon Wan, something which may therefore concern the
jade smuggling ring."
     Rising, Gilmar tucked the great Imperial Album beneath his arm in
effortless style, turned and beckoned wisely, as he spoke one word:
     "Come."
     Lamont Cranston, watching Gloria Brent, saw a quiver pass across the
girl's face, briefly giving it the look of terror that Gloria had worn the
night before. That pang, which Gloria immediately smothered, told a story in
itself.
     It told Lamont Cranston that soon he was to gain the missing links in last
night's crime, the links which had escaped him during his adventure as The
Shadow.


     VII

     STEPPING to the rear wall of the room, Gilmar drew back a pair of crimson
curtains and called for Sangju. The Korean appeared immediately from the
hallway, drawing an oddly-shaped brass key from his pocket. The key was
obviously for the purpose of unlocking a huge brass door which filled the space
behind the curtains.
     That door was a curio in itself, for it was faced with exquisite,
hand-beaten panels, depicting scenes from a collection of ancient Hindu
writings known as the Veda.
     Swiveling a tiny tab in one panel, Sangju inserted the key in a keyhole
beneath. The door slid wide and Sangju stepped back, letting a smug smile flit
across his crafty face as though he, not Gilmar were master of these premises.
Sangju entered the room beyond the door and the others followed.
     By then, Sangju's expression was a sneer. His gaze was focused on Gloria,
who more than ever wore the determined look that was a copy of Gilmar's. This
held Cranston's interest; for here was no case of a servant imitating a master;
instead, Sangju was showing contempt for Gloria's pose. It could mean that
Sangju felt himself too much in Gilmar's graces to worry about competition from
Gloria.
     Again, it could mean something else; that Sangju held contempt for Gilmar
too. On that Cranston postponed opinion, for something more intriguing than
facial expressions had become the center of attraction.
     That something was the Jade Dragon.
     It stood in a niche set in the wall, a perfect setting for such a prize.
For the niche itself was a work of art. It formed a shelf with a half dome
above, all inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and it was evident that Gilmar must
have intended it as a show-place for something very rare.
     Green coils with a head that showed glittering eyes and forked tongue, a
thing so vivid that its sinuous body seemed alive - such was the Jade Dragon.
Catching the glow of an ancient lamp which had been modernized with
electricity, the dragon seemed to dart warning glances and bare its fangs as
the visitors approached. Pausing in front of the niche, Gilmar planked the huge
Imperial Album on a squatty, black-lacquered taboret that stood there and opened
the massive book to the proper page.
     That page was indicated by some sheets of correspondence which had been
tucked between the album leaves. Gilmar laid the papers aside for the moment.
Then:
     "Number J-D-8, the initials signifying Jade-Dragon," announced Gilmar,
methodically. "Listing 4083 M, which signifies Manchu. Unquestionably a piece
of jade art that belonged to the Imperial family itself, a fact which I have
completely verified today." Lifting his shaggy head, Gilmar turned to Gloria.
"Tell them about it, Miss Brent."
     Gloria told.
     "I went to Chinatown last night," Gloria said, in a low tone that sounded
firm despite her inward tremors. "Mr. Gilmar had learned that this Jade Dragon
was legitimately in America and it was my job to find it. I finally located it
in Koon Wan's shop, where he kept it in a red lacquered cabinet behind the
counter. I bought it for Mr. Gilmar and paid seven thousand five hundred
dollars for it."
     "It was a bargain," interposed Gilmar. "I gave Miss Brent twenty-five
thousand dollars in case it might cost more. I had her list the numbers of the
bills she took with her, so that the money could be traced if she accidentally
lost it."
     Cranston saw Sangju's lips curl at that statement. Apparently the Korean
felt that Gilmar had checked the bills for his own protection in case Gloria
skipped off with the cash.
     "Koon Wan put the money in the drawer of the cabinet," resumed Gloria,
"and he was alive when I left. But when I went through the alley, I saw men
peering down from each roof. I was frightened, so I ran."
     Marquette was thumbing his chin.
     "No money was found in Koon Wan's," he stated. "So now we have the motive
for murder, whoever the culprit was. This brings up one point though: The
killer must have wanted the cash more than the Jade Dragon."
     "Not necessarily," put in Gilmar. "There is an odd superstition about the
Jade Dragon. It is supposed to protect all persons who own it. Here are some
facts in point."
     From the papers that he had laid aside, Gilmar first produced a cablegram.
He pointed to its date, the Tenth.
     "This cable was sent Sunday" stated Gilmar, "and I received it the same
day. Yesterday, namely Monday, I sent Miss Brent to buy the dragon since the
cable assured me that it would be a legitimate purchase. Today, Tuesday, I
received this letter that Jennings, my Hong Kong agent, had sent me in advance
of the cable."
     Opening the letter, Gilmar gave its salient details.
     "The dragon belonged to Prince Tsai Hsun," declared Gilmar, "who visited
San Francisco nearly forty years ago and was saved from assassination by the
local police. Tsai Hsun had the dragon with him and believed that it was the
talisman that actually protected him. Therefore, as a noble gesture, he gave
the dragon to certain officials who had arranged for his protection, feeling
that it was their turn to enjoy its benefit. Apparently they sold it and
divided the profits."
     Gilmar was pointing to the picture of the dragon in the Imperial Album and
both Cranston and Marquette were comparing its details with the actual Jade
Dragon. Finally, Gilmar produced a pair of scales and brought the dragon from
its niche to tally its weight with the specifications printed in the album.
     "According to the tradition," continued Gilmar, while the others were
checking the weight, "the owner of the Jade Dragon being immune from harm, Koon
Wan could not have been murdered while he possessed it. That may be why his life
was spared until he parted with it. The same fact may explain why Miss Brent was
allowed to flee to safety once she had acquired temporary ownership of the Jade
Dragon."
     Gloria added a point, while Marquette was nodding to Cranston that the
weight tallied.
     "Koon Wan mentioned that Prince Tsai Hsun once owned the dragon," the girl
said. "But he said nothing about its protective power. Perhaps Koon Wan had
never heard of it. There was something though that frightened me about the Jade
Dragon -"
     Looking at the dragon as she spoke, Gloria broke off in sudden alarm. Now
resting on the closed album, the Jade Dragon was throwing that same monstrous
shadow that Gloria had observed in Koon Wan's shop. Strange devil-horns seemed
to silhouette themselves in unexplainable, uncanny fashion. Ending her
statement with a gasp, Gloria tried to point to the dragon, but her hand
quivered too unsteadily.
     Only Cranston glimpsed the peculiar stretch of green-tinted darkness that
horrified Gloria. Only briefly did he view its grotesque shape, because Gilmar,
lifting the dragon with one hand, dispelled the shaded illusion. Raising the
album with his other hand, Gilmar easily swung it beneath his arm, then set the
Jade Dragon back in its wall niche, where it was away from the direct glow of
the light and did not throw the horrendous shadow.
     As Gilmar turned from the niche Sangju was starting to lift the taboret,
in order to place it out of the way, but Gilmar halted the Korean with a
sweeping gesture.
     "Don't bother to clear the room," said Gilmar. "Tell me, Sangju" -
Gilmar's gesture continued toward the window, which had a closed shutter of
ornamental brass - "did you lock the window as usual?"
     "Absolutely, sir," replied Sangju.
     "Very good," decided Gilmar. Then, to the others: "Sangju is my trusted
servant. He alone has the key to this strong room."
     Looking toward the window, Cranston saw that its shutter was similar to
the door of the room, but on a smaller scale. When Sangju locked it, he
probably used the same key that fitted the door. The brazen shutters were held
in place by huge hinges of the same metal, but they had a peculiar bulge that
only an eye as keen as The Shadow's would have detected. But Cranston's calm
face gave no indication of certain thoughts which were occurring to him. Those
he was reserving for later consideration, as The Shadow.
     They were starting out to Gilmar's study when Marquette put a question to
Gilmar:
     "Have you heard of a Chinese company called the Wei Hai Wei?"
     "Of course," replied Gilmar. "It is one of several companies which raise
funds for worthy purposes, although their methods are somewhat questionable."
     "In what respect?"
     "Lotteries, mainly," returned Gilmar. He had reached the study and was
placing the big album on the desk. "The Chinese are inveterate policy players
and they have found that Americans are even more so. Hence the Chinatown
companies draw heavy incomes from all parts of San Francisco."
     Marquette nodded that he understood all that. Then:
     "Last night," said Vic, "the two knives found in Hangman's Alley were
stamped with the symbol of Wei Hai Wei. What would that mean?"
     "A trade-mark, probably," decided Gilmar. "The companies deal in all sorts
of merchandise, though knives would seem somewhat out of their line. There are
probably some items in the strong room that bear the Wei Hai Wei stamp."
     With that, Gilmar turned to Sangju who was about to close the strong room
door. He gestured for Sangju to wait; then, turning to Gloria, who had brought
the correspondence from Jennings, Gilmar said:
     "Would you mind looking about the strong room, Miss Brent, and bringing us
any curios that bear the symbols of Chinatown companies?"
     Gloria nodded, indicating that she would not mind and also that she was
familiar with the company symbols. Turning, she went through the curtains into
the strong room, while Marquette continued:
     "Those knives might mean that the Wei Hai Wei was involved in the murder
of Koon Wan. If it were any other company, Gilmar, I'd be inclined to agree
with you. But the Wei Hai Wei is controlled by Chung Sung, the Mandarin. At
least so they say."
     "And which," put in Gilmar, with a smile, "I doubt."
     "You doubt that Chung Sung controls the Wei Hai Wei?" queried Vic. "Or do
you doubt that there is such a person as Chung Sung?"
     "Neither," returned Gilmar blandly. "I merely doubt that Chung Sung is, or
ever was, a Mandarin."
     The conversation was beginning to bore Cranston. He wasn't interested in
Chinese companies or alleged Mandarins; at least he had no reason to be. He was
here as a jade collector consulting an authority and he had learned all that he
came to learn. So it was only logical that Cranston should be bowing out,
particularly at a moment when Gloria Brent was absent.
     For it was Cranston's part to appear interested least of all in Gloria or
her adventures. In a way that was an easy part to play, because Cranston's main
purpose in trailing the girl had been to find the Jade Dragon. In the dragon
itself, he had naturally shown interest, since it was made of jade. But
apparently Gilmar had no intention of selling the Jade Dragon even if anyone
wanted to buy it.
     So Cranston took advantage of a lull in the conversation to announce that
he was leaving. Gilmar rose to shake hands across the desk and Marquette gave a
nod as though approving Cranston's departure. However, there was something in
Vic's nod that only Cranston caught; namely, a suggestion that a later meeting
might prove mutually advantageous.
     Hence when Cranston reached the door to the hallway, where Sangju was
waiting to usher him downstairs, he paused and spoke directly to Gilmar,
treating Marquette as if he were a chance stranger whom Cranston had met for
the first time.
     "I'm stopping at the Hotel Sonora," remarked Cranston. "If you should care
to sell the Jade Dragon, Gilmar, be sure to let me know. I would be glad to
offer more than you paid for it. I'm also interested in other fine jade, if
your man Jennings cables you that any is available."
     Gilmar delivered a parting bow, indicating that he would keep the fact in
mind. Then Cranston, carrying his brief-case, was following Sangju down the
front stairs, where the servant opened the front door to show the visitor out.
     On the front steps, Cranston could hear Sangju locking the door from
within. That was Cranston's signal for another rapid change. Quick action
followed with the tricky brief-case and Cranston's figure literally melted into
blackness. Then, a cloaked figure with a slouch hat, he became a fleeting shape
as he moved toward the corner.
     Lamont Cranston was again The Shadow and minutes had become important. He
had learned enough about the ways of a certain Jade Dragon to be much
interested, not only in its fate, but in that of persons connected with it. The
present situation called for a quick circuit of the block, to find a way to the
rear upstairs window that represented Gilmar's strong room.
     Crime was due to strike again, perhaps more strangely than the night
before. Tonight The Shadow hoped to move ahead of crime.


     VIII

     EVENTS had a way of speeding themselves when The Shadow was around.
     Sometimes his mere departure, even in the nonchalant style of Cranston,
left activity in its wake.
     This was one of those occasions.
     In the brass-windowed strong room, Gloria Brent was conscious of
Cranston's departure, for she could hear voices coming through the curtained
doorway from the study. As long as the brass doors were open, Gloria felt that
she had nothing to fear, not even in the presence of the Jade Dragon.
     Indeed, the green-coiled curio looked anything but ominous, squatting in
the pearly nook where Jonathan Gilmar had assigned it. There it was definitely
tamed and Gloria was very glad. She was smiling as she looked at various
oddities on the strong room shelves: hand-painted tea cups, a set of golden
chimes, ivory chop-sticks, and numerous other items of minor consequence.
     Some of these bore trade-marks of Chinatown companies and Gloria had laid
aside enough to cover the point that Gilmar was discussing with Marquette.
Their voices, now as Gloria listened, were back on the subject of Chung Sung,
the so-called Mandarin who reputedly headed the Wei Hai Wei Company.
     Then came an interruption, the jangle of the telephone in the study.
Gloria heard Gilmar answer it and begin to talk about a shipment due from South
America. He was always getting such phone calls in the evenings and Gloria felt
sure that this one would keep him occupied for several minutes. Having that
much time to spare, Gloria was seized with a sudden inspiration.
     Boldly, the girl went to the wall niche and plucked the Jade Dragon from
its place. Turning it upside down, Gloria looked at the bottom of the base to
see if by any chance the dragon was stamped with a company mark. It bore no
such mark, so Gloria merely shrugged, wondering whether or not she should be
disappointed. Then, bolder than ever, Gloria set the dragon upright on the
taboret that stood in front of the wall niche.
     The top of the taboret was smaller than the great album on which the
dragon had previously rested, hence the dragon did not cast the shadow that
Gloria expected. She started to lift the taboret into the light, but finding it
too heavy, Gloria compromised by taking the dragon to an oval-shaped Chinese
work bench near a corner of the room.
     Placed there, the Jade Dragon cast a slanted silhouette, and as Gloria
turned the coiled figure, she again felt a twinge of terror as she saw the
shadowy stretch form itself into a monstrous shape. Frantically, Gloria seized
the dragon, darted to the niche and put it there, clutching her breast to stop
her pounding heart beats.
     At least Gloria could congratulate herself that she had tamed the Jade
Dragon.
     But had she?
     Now, as the girl stepped back, a most appalling sight held her. The
horrendous blackness that she thought she had dispelled, had now returned. It
blotted the alcove and the Jade Dragon within it. Fantastically, the outline of
a devil's head with tusky horns was spreading out upon the wall, literally
swarming into mammoth size.
     It never occurred to Gloria that something alive might have risen behind
her, to block off the light that glowed from the hanging lamp in the center of
the room. Her fear of the Jade Dragon made her think that it was responsible
for the grotesque illusion. It was that same dread which caused her to wheel
from the alcove and then halt rooted at sight of a real and terrifying menace
which had loomed behind her and which now confronted her face to face.
     Perched atop the taboret was a creature more hideous than a crazed mind
could have conjured from a spasm of madness. To Gloria's frantic gaze, the
creature was all head, for its body, dwarfed in comparison, seemed no more
human than the taboret from which the monster urged itself forward. Gloria was
looking squarely into eyes as round and glassy as marbles, matched in ugliness
by jagged teeth which spread beneath a nose as wide as the creature's vicious
grin.
     Then, things like five-fanged snake heads crawled forward from beside the
evil face, and without identifying them as hands, Gloria realized that they
must be such. Like the beat of surf, the name "Koon Wan - Koon Wan" thrust
itself with pounding force through Gloria's brain and she realized that this
was last night's killer, again unleashed upon an errand of doom.
     Doom, with Gloria herself to be the victim!
     Though totally petrified, Gloria turned, as though repelled by the
killer's very approach. Only then did she realize that her twist was
self-impelled, for Gloria's own hands, thrusting automatically, were darting
for the Jade Dragon in its alcove. Not that she wanted the object for a weapon;
as such it would be useless. Into Gloria's mind had sprung a spark of
recollection concerning the protective power that the Jade Dragon gave.
     Clawish hands moved faster than Gloria's. Something flicked lightly across
the girl's throat. The girl reeled backward with a gargly cry as the leering
killer made a gesture to tighten an invisible cord. A roaring sound flooded
Gloria's ears, then broke with a huge, clangorous crash.
     Sagging to the floor, Gloria gained a long, sustaining breath as her hands
reached her throat, to find it free. A snarl came from the creature on the
taboret.
     That clangor was the fall of the brazen shutter. Something had flung the
heavy barrier inward from the window. Now, lunging across the threshold was new
blackness, more formidable than the monstrous patch that still blotted the wall
above Gloria's head. For this blackness was alive, its cloaked shape no
illusion. The Shadow had found the window that he wanted. Discovering that its
hinges were loose as he suspected, he had eased the brass shutter inward, then
flung it as he witnessed the scene that demanded his immediate entry.
     Before The Shadow could level an automatic that he whipped from beneath
his cloak, the creature on the taboret took off with a most surprising spring.
A half-twist in mid-air carried it clear to the curtained doorway, where it was
met by a pair of men who came springing through.
     Gilmar was first, Marquette just behind him. Dodging sidewise, the
big-headed monster let them pass, then darted through the curtained door. They
were after it, Marquette and Gilmar, each taking a different side of the desk.
Sangju, coming in from the hallway, stopped in his tracks and gave a furious
cry:
     "Taka Takara!"
     That was evidently the monstrosity's name, for the spidery thing literally
shriveled into a crouch at the desk front. This, however, was no sign of defeat,
for Taka Takara delivered a most vicious snarl. Then, like a living
jack-in-the-box, the creature unleashed itself. Springing to a chair, it did
another of those quick half-turns, facing toward the desk as a lunge of
blackness surged across. The Shadow had arrived and was taking the shortest
route to reach Taka Takara.
     Again, Sangju delivered a shout:
     "Ying Ko!"
     The Shadow turned at hearing the name which meant himself. Already
Sangju's hands were performing separate operations. One was snatching the wavy
Malay kris that hung on Gilmar's wall; the other was plucking at the light
switch. The knife glittered but instantly as Sangju ripped it free, for by then
the lights were extinguished, producing a blotting darkness that absorbed all
other figures as completely as The Shadow.
     Profiting by that blackout, Taka Takara took a squirmy leap across the
desk and back into the inner room, where the lights were also off, since the
same switch controlled them. The wiggly monster brushed The Shadow's cloak in
passing and a chilling laugh told the creature that the formidable Ying Ko had
also turned and was in immediate pursuit. That brought Gilmar and Marquette
along; next, all four were dodging in the pitch darkness of the strong room.
     Gloria was out of harm's way at the start, for The Shadow, encountering
her in the darkness, tumbled her into another corner and flopped a table on its
side to serve her as a shield. Reaching the window by a swift maneuver, The
Shadow was able to block off Taka Takara, forcing him back into the arms of
Gilmar and Marquette.
     It would have worked nicely, but for Sangju. The Korean, crowding through
full tilt, was heading for the window too. Sangju's snarls told that his
purpose was murderous and treachery could well be in the deal, since it was
Sangju who had disposed of the lights. Encountering Sangju in the darkness,
Gilmar elbowed him toward Marquette with a quick warning: "Look out for
Sangju!" In response, Vic delivered a quick gun-stab that clipped the Korean
before The Shadow, finding Sangju's upraised arm, could wrench the wavy knife
away.
     Sagging backward, Sangju tried to haul The Shadow with him, but failed and
fortunately. An object came clubbing downward through the darkness and found
Sangju's head alone, for The Shadow had whipped himself away and was rolling
sideward across the floor.
     The thing that clouted Sangju was the taboret that belonged in front of
the dragon niche and the clouter was Gilmar. That powerful hand of Gilmar's
could never have served him in better stead. The blow shattered the taboret to
fragments and put the final quietus on Sangju. But the Korean's maddened spell
was all that Taka Takara needed to make his own escape. Bounding from deep
darkness, the spidery man went through the window in a single leap, huddled
like a ball. As he hit the ground he trounced off and away, his arms clutching
something to his chest.
     Vaulting through the window, The Shadow followed. Hardly had he landed on
the ground before he dived for cover, and wisely. Past a corner of the house,
Taka Takara had unlimbered to whizz an object through the air. It was the kris;
Taka Takara had scooped it from the floor where Sangju dropped it. Now Taka
Takara was away again, even while the kris still quivered, half its blade
length in a board fence just above The Shadow's head.
     Since Taka Takara could squeeze himself, catlike, through the narrowest
spaces, following him would have been almost useless. What rendered it totally
so, was the light that suddenly flooded out through the open window of Gilmar's
unbarred strong room. Down below, the ground sloped upward, making The Shadow a
visible target in the courtyard.
     Hence The Shadow was forced to wheel in a direction opposite the one that
Taka Takara had taken. All that he had gained, as he reached darkness atop the
slope, was a view in through the window of the strong room. It was Marquette
who had gone out to the study to turn on the lights, for The Shadow could see
him returning to the strong room. There, as Vic stooped, obviously to take a
look at Sangju's body, Gilmar entered the scene excitedly and gestured the
government man to the other side of the room.
     Shifting to gain a slanted look, The Shadow could see what commanded the
attention of the two men in the strong room. Gilmar was showing Marquette the
pearly niche in the wall, and it glistened white and empty.
     The Jade Dragon was gone.
     There was one logical answer as to who had taken it: Taka Takara.
     The Shadow's scanning eye caught a fluttering clue. Hooked by a nail in
the board fence, only a few feet from where the kris projected, was a piece of
silk. Moving along the fence, The Shadow stretched the silken strip which the
light had revealed. On one side it was stamped with the symbols of Wei Hai Wei.
On the other side it showed three inked drawings, all alike, representing three
pagodas.
     This was the very sort of message that a death bearer like Taka Takara
would carry. As he brushed along the fence, the nail-head could have hooked the
strip of silk from the spidery man's tawdry jacket. As proof that exactly such
had happened, a wisp of coarse denim cloth was clinging to the nailhead too,
indicating that it had ripped from Taka Takara's jacket along with the ribbon
message.
     Such details were minor at the moment.
     What The Shadow had gained was an immediate lead, a connection between the
Wei Hai Wei and three pagodas. To The Shadow, that triple drawing was quite
translatable. It referred to a tea shop on the outskirts of Chinatown, known as
the Three Pagodas, a cross between a store and a cafe, because there customers
not only bought tea but sampled it.
     The Three Pagodas was a place that attracted Americans who were versed in
Oriental ways, hence it was already being watched by The Shadow's agents while
their chief was engaged in other matters. Hence the next move was to contact
them, since the Three Pagodas was located a mile or more from Gilmar's
residence.
     It would be quicker to do this as The Shadow than revert to the character
of Cranston. Leaving the tell-tale ribbon hooked to the nailhead, The Shadow,
cleared the board fence in effective style. Using an ash can to gain one upward
step, he planted his foot on the handle of the Malay knife as a ladder rung, so
that his hands could grip the top of the high boarding. Then The Shadow was
over and dropping to the darkness beyond.
     Mere moments later, The Shadow was a fleeting, silhouetted form, passing a
corner not far from Fresno Street. The corner marked one of those sharp summits
so common to San Francisco, where streets, buildings, everything seemed to drop
away below. Framed between other slopes was a restricted panorama which included
a portion of Chinatown and The Shadow paused for a brief gaze in that direction.
     Something happened, as if timed to The Shadow's halt. Of a sudden, lights
of glittering yellow tinged with red and purple neon, were dominated by a great
green glow. It came like some sunburst from another planet, that glare which
took over Chinatown. From his vantage point, The Shadow could see what produced
it, mammoth Chinese letters spelling the name Wei Hai Wei against the sky.
     There was a low, whispery laugh as The Shadow faded in the darkness of the
hill top. The Wei Hai Wei was on the move again tonight, but this time The
Shadow was ahead of it. He had thwarted Taka Takara on one trail of death. His
purpose was to do the same upon another.
     Death's double trail could expect new trouble from The Shadow.


     IX

     A FEW blocks from Gilmar's, The Shadow found the sort of telephone he
wanted. It was just within the side door of a little drug store. The clerk was
busy at the front and never noticed the side door when it opened. As for the
blackness that glided through the door and into the phone booth, it might have
been just a shadow passing on the street.
     Once in the booth, that blackness gave the impression that the booth was
still empty.
     Dialing the Three Pagodas, The Shadow spoke in a Cantonese dialect that
convinced the proprietor of the tea shop that a fellow-Chinese was on the line.
The Shadow was profuse with apologies that he wanted to deliver in person to an
American who was waiting in the tea-shop. He had promised to introduce his
American friend to the choicest teas of all Cathay, the kind that only the
Three Pagodas could supply. Hence this caller with the Cantonese dialect wanted
to talk to the American right now and explain his delay.
     Quite naturally, the proprietor began describing the Americans who were in
the tea shop. One who seemed to be waiting for somebody, happened to be a
newspaper reporter. Immediately The Shadow became more voluble in Chinese. That
was the very man. So the proprietor went to summon him.
     Immediately, The Shadow was talking directly to Clyde Burke.
     Of all The Shadow's agents, Clyde Burke was at times the most useful on
the board. Affable, yet wise in manner, he was actually what he claimed to be,
a newspaper man always looking for a scoop or a feature story. He was the
perfect plant for a place like the Three Pagodas and the fact that the other
agents had let him take over the inside assignment, indicated that they were in
the offing. They always tipped off Clyde when such special duty became necessary.
     Thus The Shadow knew without inquiring that his roving agents had found
the Three Pagodas a focal spot. So The Shadow gave Clyde orders to be passed
along.
     "Instructions," spoke The Shadow in whispered tone. "Watch for spider man
answering to name of Taka Takara, murderer of Koon Wan."
     "Instructions received," came Clyde's reply.
     "Details," resumed The Shadow. "Taka Takara fled from residence of
Jonathan Gilmar, 12 1/2 Fresno, less than ten minutes ago. May have reached the
Three Pagodas before now. May be bringing the Jade Dragon with him but could
have detoured to leave it somewhere else. Inform agents to watch for him coming
in or going out."
     "Details received."
     There was a quickness to Clyde's response that The Shadow detected and
therewith knew that something must have just happened at the Three Pagodas,
something fitting with the facts that The Shadow had right now supplied. So The
Shadow gave Clyde the prompt word:
     "Report."
     "A customer arrived and left just before the phone rang," reported Clyde.
"Name, Artemus Kremp. Address, 3500 Hillside Boulevard. Asked for a package of
specially blended tea that he had ordered from the proprietor's partner.
Proprietor brought it from the back room. Kremp left while proprietor was
answering telephone. Took a cab that was waiting outside."
     "Report received," responded The Shadow. "Further instructions. Tip off
police that man answering description of Taka Takara was seen near Three
Pagodas. Inform agents to withdraw as soon as police arrive. Have them go to
Kremp's neighborhood and cover it. Give Burbank details and have agents contact
him for further orders."
     "Instructions received."
     His call finished, The Shadow emerged from the booth and glided out
through the side door of the drug store. Again there was that fleeting effect
of the shadow from a passing car, but this time it was no illusion. An empty
cab was passing, slowing for the next traffic light and it was just what The
Shadow wanted. Before the light changed, the surprised cabby found that he had
a passenger who slid a bill across his shoulder and calmly told him he could
keep the change if he hurried to a certain address on Hillside Boulevard.
     That cab really traveled. Its driver actually went down some of the San
Francisco slopes in second gear, instead of shifting into low. It was a
considerable distance to 3500 Hillside and that suited The Shadow perfectly.
The way the cab was clipping off the minutes and aiming for the short-cuts made
it certain that The Shadow would arrive home ahead of Artemus Kremp.
     It was further from Chinatown to the Hillside address than it was from the
drug store near Gilmar's. The Shadow was taking the shorter leg of the triangle
and was also quite convinced that Kremp's cab wouldn't be hitting such a pace.
All this was evidenced when The Shadow dropped from the cab near Kremp's to
observe the house at 3500 Hillside and find it completely dark.
     Approaching the house, The Shadow discovered more about it. The house was
a good one, though not pretentious, marking the corner of a rather modern row.
Kremp would have saved himself money if he had bought a house within the row
instead of at the end, for he had been forced to go to the expense of barring
all his side windows on both the ground floor and the one above. The bars
looked new and strong; they were upright and placed about five or six inches
apart. Working on them would prove a problem, so The Shadow decided to tackle a
side door instead.
     It was tough, that side door.
     The lock resisted all the skill of The Shadow's probe with the plier-pick,
turning the job into a game of patience. It was a full ten minutes before the
lock yielded and all that while, The Shadow, working through touch alone, was
glancing along the side of the house, watching for the flash of cab lights that
might denote Kremp's return.
     The door had a heavy latch on the inside, but The Shadow settled that with
a tiny drill no thicker than a hypodermic needle that wormed its way through the
woodwork, contacted the slanted edge of the latch and sprang it. A rub from the
thumb of The Shadow's gloved hand obliterated the tiny puncture in the wood;
then, stepping inside, The Shadow locked the door rapidly from the inside,
having gained a perfect knowledge of the lock from his probe.
     A tiny flashlight beamed from The Shadow's hand and showed him the way
along the ground floor. He came to the front door, turned and saw another door
directly opposite it, set at an interior corner of the house. The door had a
strong door, above it, a very narrow transom, which was glass and slightly
open. Working on the lock, The Shadow found it easier than the previous one,
but still the sort that would have driven even a capable locksmith almost to
despair. It took The Shadow about two and a half minutes.
     Inside, The Shadow locked the door behind him and looked around with the
flashlight. The room was fitted like an office with a fairly sizable but
old-fashioned safe in one corner. It was a rather poor safe for Kremp to have,
considering the lengths he had taken in properly barricading his premises, but
when The Shadow blinked his flashlight to another corner of the room, he saw
the answer.
     There, Kremp had converted a large closet into what amounted to a vault.
It was metal-lined and had a metal door frame. There were metal shelves, the
highest being just above the level of the doorway, so The Shadow's flashlight
did not reach the cramped space above it. As yet, the vault had no door;
probably Kremp had ordered one and was awaiting its delivery. At present, the
doorway was curtained, but the drape was drawn carelessly aside.
     Being at the inside corner of the house, the office was windowless,
offering no exit other than the door. Nevertheless The Shadow remained
unperturbed, even when he heard the clicking of a key in the lock. All The
Shadow did was step into the large closet and draw the curtain behind him. As
he did, he gave a last flick with the flashlight and saw something that pleased
him. There was a telephone resting on one of the metal shelves, its cord running
to the baseboard just outside the closet. Since there was another telephone on
Kremp's desk, The Shadow assumed that this one was used for special calls.
Probably the closet had served as a telephone room until Kremp decided to turn
it into a vault.
     That phone would come in handy, for The Shadow. It also gave him some
notions regarding Artemus Kremp. The man must be the sort who dealt in peculiar
transactions, who had the habit of excusing himself when visitors were present
in order to make calls that he didn't want them to overhear.
     The Shadow dropped his reflections on that score, because now the office
door had opened, and through the curtain The Shadow was able to view Kremp in
person. He was bulky, with stoop-shoulders, and a trifle baldish, with a long
face that looked more eager than worried, though it reflected something akin to
worriment.
     Kremp must have left his hat and coat in the hallway, but he was carrying
the package that Clyde had mentioned. It was a square package, measuring more
than a foot in each direction and from the heavy way in which Kremp planked it
on the desk, it obviously contained something that weighed much more than just
tea. Still, tea sometimes came in heavy boxes so The Shadow was willing to
reserve decision for the present.
     Instead of opening the package immediately, Kremp repressed his eagerness
and went to the safe. Edging from the curtain, The Shadow watched along the
wall and gained a fair idea of the combination. However, Kremp did not open the
safe completely. Merely leaving it ajar, he returned to the desk, started to
tear the wrapping from the package, revealing an inner wrapping of red paper;
then, remembering something else, Kremp stepped to a table at the back of the
room.
     There, he adjusted an electric fan and started it. The fan was aimed
toward the transom above the office door. Having no windows, the room obviously
tended to get stuffy and Kremp used this means to ventilate it. That ceremony
finished, The Shadow expected Kremp to open the package, but again there was an
interruption.
     Above the whirr of the electric fan came a sharp buzz that meant the front
door button, for Kremp tilted his head and listened. Apparently he recognized a
signal for he went to the office door and turned a pair of knobs below the
light switch that he had pressed when he entered. Then, grabbing the unopened
package, Kremp hurried over and stowed it in the safe, closing the latter and
twisting its knob.
     By then there was a knocking at the office door, coding the same
rat-tat-tat that the buzzer had given. With a satisfied expression, Kremp went
to his desk, sat down, and gave a sharp call:
     "Come in!"
     Apparently, Kremp was quite sure of himself, or sure at least that no
unwelcome visitor would have given the right signal. At the same time, Kremp
wasn't the sort to risk surprise. He'd stowed away his package, however
incriminating it might be, and now The Shadow could see Kremp's hand fumbling
into a desk drawer with a gesture that indicated he had a gun there.
     Friend or foe, Kremp would be ready, but he wasn't exactly ready for what
did occur.
     As the door opened, Kremp came erect and rigid. On the threshold was a man
whose identity he must have guessed, though apparently he had never seen the
visitor before.
     The man was of medium height, but he looked tall because of the robe he
wore. It was an imposing robe, woven of gold and silver, with interlaced
threads of vivid red. Long sleeves draped in pointed fashion as the visitor
folded his arms and stepped forward. With the robe, he was wearing a roundish
hat, much larger than a skullcap, woven from the same materials as the robe
itself.
     As imposing as his attire was the man's face. It was the color of old
ivory and as smooth. Perfectly round, that face had slits for eyes and mouth,
yet the features were not ugly. Rather they looked like an inspired artist's
conception of wisdom embodied in a human visage; evasive wisdom, though, that
could have run the gamut from sincerity to guile.
     Thin lips opened and spoke, producing a voice with the musical harmony of
a chime.
     "I am the Mandarin Chung Sung," the visitor said. "You have heard of me as
the head of Wei Hai Wei. I have come to discuss a subject in which we are
mutually interested. I refer to the Jade Dragon of Prince Tsai Hsun."


     X

     HOWEVER powerful the effect of Chung Sung's presence, Artemus Kremp
recuperated rapidly from his initial qualms. Instead of inviting the Mandarin
to sit down, Kremp reared to his full height and stood facing his visitor
across the desk. Above the buzzing of the electric fan, Kremp's voice came
sharp, hard with sarcasm.
     "I have had various dealings with your company," spoke Kremp, "but I did
not expect to be visited by the Great Myth in person. I had an idea that you
never left Chinatown - if you actually are Chung Sung."
     "Many people have strange ideas," returned Chung Sung, his voice still
preserving its chimy tone. "I have heard some regarding you, Mr. Kremp."
     Kremp's eyebrows lifted a query.
     "You are supposed to be a manufacturers' representative," declared Chung
Sung, "but of late you have been dealing in Chinese antiques, particularly
jade."
     "Those are manufactured products," said Kremp coolly. "Some of my
customers want them, so I supply them."
     "Illegally, of course."
     "What could be more illegal than your method?" Kremp's voice became a
half-sneer. "I have your receipts in the form of lottery tickets, delivered by
Wei Hai Wei. That's a pretty thin cover-up for the peddling of smuggled goods."
     The Shadow was watching Chung Sung closely from the curtain. The Mandarin
was here seeking something, but his expression gave no indication of his inner
purpose. At least he was leading Kremp on; perhaps that explained his patience.
It wouldn't take much to change that chiming voice into a clang.
     "Our lottery agents sometimes make mistakes," explained Chung Sung. "We
have occasionally picked the wrong agents - and they have a habit of picking
the wrong customers."
     "What's wrong about a customer?" demanded Kremp, "if he pays the asking
price?"
     "I find it best to deal with customers direct," replied Chung Sung. "You
are not a customer. You are a representative. I would like to know exactly whom
you represent."
     A slight turn of Kremp's head enabled The Shadow to detect a smug smile on
the stooped man's lips. The fingers of Kremp's left hand had a bargaining twitch
as he raised them to stroke his long chin.
     "I think I understand," said Kremp. "Your agents have been seeing me too
often. It could be simplified if I came to see you and handled a block of
transactions at one time. I suppose that would give me something of an inside
track?"
     "It would give you inside knowledge of the workings of Wei Hai Wei,"
returned Chung Sung. "Most of the things you would learn would surprise you.
But for the present, I have two requests. First, I want a list of your
customers and the items that you sold them. Second, I want the Jade Dragon - at
your price."
     Kremp tilted his head back in a long laugh.
     "A list of my customers! Then you could deal with them direct and pocket
my profit along with your own. That's pretty ridiculous, unless" - Kremp
settled his gaze on Chung Sung - "unless you'd pay plenty high for the return
of the Jade Dragon. By that I mean a price much higher than I think you would
pay."
     Chung Sung simply waited with folded arms, as though willing to accept the
price. But Kremp had become too canny to name it.
     "What's wrong with our present system?" queried Kremp. "I've been covering
up well enough. I buy lots of stuff in Chinatown and never ask where it came
from. Your outfit is the only one that delivers jade, but if I ever get
questioned, I'll pin it on somebody else. The one name nobody has ever heard me
mention is Wei Hai Wei."
     "You have mentioned it just now," interposed Chung Sung. "Let us get back
to the Jade Dragon. I want it - at your price."
     "Because you've found a bigger customer," declared Kremp. "I paid you
twenty thousand dollars for it and you probably think you could get fifty.
Wait, though: I'm not settling for fifty thousand. Perhaps it's worth even
more. Suppose I see first how high my customers will bid for it -"
     The Shadow wasn't listening to Kremp's harangue. It was loud, rising above
the insistent buzzing of the electric fan and the combination gave The Shadow an
opportunity he wanted. Crouching toward the lower shelf, The Shadow picked up
the telephone, intending to put in a confidential call to Burbank. Here was a
chance to solve the question of the Wei Hai Wei and its connection with
smuggled jade. It would be an opportunity for the law, as well as The Shadow.
Not only would it be a rare thing to find Chung Sung outside of Chinatown, but
to surprise him in conference with an admitted dealer in smuggled jade would
prove a gala event.
     Obligingly, Kremp was having his loud say all for The Shadow's benefit.
The way Kremp was wound up, neither he nor Chung Sung would have a chance to
hear sounds from the little inner room.
     That went for more than the sound of The Shadow's whispered voice. Before
he could even dial Burbank's number The Shadow met with catastrophe. Two hands
slicked down from that high shelf at the closet top, from the cramped space
which was the only spot that The Shadow had not found a chance to probe. With
them came the leering, cunning face of Taka Takara. Viciously, the monstrous
killer whipped one of his deadly strangle cords about The Shadow's neck.
     There were few brands of attack against which The Shadow had no antidote.
This was one of them. The Shadow let the telephone fall from his clutch, for
even its clatter would be welcome now. Such clatter would have brought Kremp
springing to the closet, berserk enough to have distracted Takara's attention
from The Shadow.
     But the telephone didn't clatter. The Shadow's cloak muffled its fall. Now
The Shadow was fighting furiously, silently, his gloved hands groping upward for
a grip on Takara's own neck. It was like handling a squirming bull snake, except
that Takara's neck was slimier. Still, The Shadow gained his hold, but not in
time to prevent Takara's deft hands from twisting the deadly knot in the cord
at the rear of The Shadow's neck.
     Kremp's voice was haranguing on, telling his opinions of Wei Hai Wei and
the proper handling of smuggled jade. He was commending at moments, stormy at
others, and all the while Chung Sung listened. If sounds could be heard from
the closet, only Chung Sung could have heard them. If the strugglers within
stirred the curtain, only Chung Sung could have seen it move. But Chung Sung
gave no sign if he heard or saw.
     All that Chung Sung did was pick up the conversation the moment Kremp left
off. Then Chung Sung's voice no longer chimed, but clanged, drowning what feeble
sounds might still have come from beyond the curtain.
     For by then, The Shadow's hands had loosened sufficiently for Takara to
fling them aside. Sprawled motionless. The Shadow had all the semblance of
Takara's usual victims. The strangler's own actions bore testimony to that, for
Takara spat silently as he glared at the black-cloaked figure, then took the
place that The Shadow had occupied at the curtain in order to watch
developments in the larger room.
     "We have spoken enough," Chung Sung was telling Kremp. "You have your
purposes and I have mine. You can not harm Wei Hai Wei, because you do not
dare. If you told the police what you have said tonight, that Wei Hai Wei
through its lottery agents, has been selling smuggled jade, your only proof
would be to admit yourself a trader in such goods.
     "You would have to deliver the lists I spoke about, along with the Jade
Dragon. The police will pay you nothing for them, but Wei Hai Wei will. When
you are ready, you can come directly to me. Say nothing of this to any lottery
sellers with whom you have dealt, but come to my own headquarters."
     Strangely, The Shadow heard those words like something in a very distant
dream. Despite the cutting pressure on his throat, he was still alive, but the
effect of the strangling cord was paralyzing on his muscles.
     Also distant came Kremp's rejoinder:
     "Meanwhile Chung Sung, what about our present arrangement? I have
customers, you know, and I do not care to lose them. If you cut off my supply,
I will have no reason to stay in San Francisco and if I leave here, I won't
care what the police learn about Wei Hai Wei."
     "The present arrangement will continue," decided Chung Sung, "but only for
a reasonable time. This is Tuesday. I shall give you to the end of the week - no
longer."
     For the first time, Chung Sung's lips formed a smile that The Shadow was
no longer in a position to see. Only The Shadow might have interpreted the
significance of that brief smile; on Kremp it was lost. Then Chung Sung turned
and stalked from the office, closing the door behind him.
     The Shadow heard neither the footfalls nor the sound of the door. His eyes
were closed and a rushing blackness was surging through his brain. Yet amid that
surge was one whirling thought. This wasn't the way that victims died from the
strangle cord. Their breath would be cut off suddenly, not suppressed only to a
trickle. Despite his mental tumult, The Shadow knew that he must be breathing in
order to be still alive.
     An eager hiss reached The Shadow's ears. Something brushed him; the
backward flap of the curtain. In those signs The Shadow sensed the departure of
Taka Takara. Feebly The Shadow lifted a hand to his throat and clutched at
something which he felt there. It came away, a fold of the collar of his cloak.
Gasping a breath, The Shadow felt new pressure on his neck. Plucking with his
fingers, he caught something far thicker than the strangling thread and tugged
it. What pulled away was a loop of the telephone cord.
     That loop had tangled with the cloak collar when Takara applied the
strangle cord. Together, they had bundled under the cord, preventing it from
pulling deep into The Shadow's neck. The effect had been like a garrote, which
produces death through a slow, choking torture; not strangulation. In fighting
off the clutch of The Shadow's hands, Takara hadn't observed that his favorite
treatment had been partially obstructed.
     Reaching with one hand, The Shadow found the telephone. Takara had
replaced it on the cradle. As he gripped the phone, The Shadow found something
in his hand, another of those disks that symbolized the power of Wei Hai Wei.
His numbed thoughts reverting to their former purpose, The Shadow lifted the
phone and dialed Burbank. An answer came:
     "Burbank speaking."
     "Kremp's." The Shadow's words came in a gaspy whisper. "Agents -
immediately. Chung Sung here - and Takara -"
     Cutting off the call, The Shadow came to hands and knees, realizing for
the first time that there were no voices from the larger room. Steadying, The
Shadow drew an automatic and edged out past the curtain. There he reeled,
caught himself against the edge of Kremp's desk.
     In the far corner, The Shadow saw a singular scene in which the
participants were too engrossed to recognize his presence. Kremp had opened the
safe and was lifting out the squarish box that he had not yet opened. Inside the
safe were various Chinese antiques, but all were pottery or crockery. The front
portion of the safe was shallow; the back half consisted of compartments with
doors, along with some metal drawers.
     Behind Kremp was Takara, a stalking, monstrous figure, despite his puny
size. Kremp's nerves must have been acute, for suddenly he turned his head,
then thrust the box back in the safe, slamming the door, as he had when he
admitted Chung Sung. As he spun the knob, Kremp faced the office door again, as
though fearful that the Mandarin might return.
     An imaginary notion, but it served a real purpose. Kremp turned just in
time to escape an attack from Takara, who was ready with a fresh strangle cord.
However, as Takara made a sideward dart, Kremp blocked off the aim which The
Shadow was directing toward the strangler. To avoid Kremp's notice, The Shadow
dropped half behind the desk, intending to come up again as soon as Kremp
turned toward the safe.
     Takara's sudden speed changed all that.
     Before Kremp could turn, the strangler bounded to the top of the safe,
whirled and made a downward swoop for Kremp's neck. The Shadow came up to aim
at the killer, but at the same moment, Kremp hoisted upward, hauled by the
sudden force of Takara's arms.
     Takara was literally snatching Kremp toward a swift death, but The Shadow
wasn't here to merely watch the outcome. Gathering strength, he drove forward,
pitched himself into the tangle and drove a hard swing of his automatic for
Takara's misshapen skull.
     The snakish killer lost his strangle cord as he twisted away from the
blow. Takara wasn't foolish enough to believe that The Shadow had come back
from death. He recognized that his adversary had simply recuperated and
therefore would be groggy. Pouncing in, he clutched for The Shadow's throat,
gained it and shook The Shadow's aim wild.
     Reeling, The Shadow used instinctive counter-measures. He swung Takara
against the desk and wrested from the killer's grip. With one of those rubbery
bounces, Takara landed on the desk top and grabbed for Kremp's telephone to
fling it at The Shadow. At that instant, the telephone began to ring and Takara
dropped it as if he had received an electric shock. The killer took off again,
this time for the door.
     Amid the phone's jangle, The Shadow wheeled to block off Takara, but
instead of turning, the killer made a headlong dive out into the hallway. There
was something in that mad haste that warned The Shadow of the unexpected. He
swung and beckoned to Kremp to come along, but the crooked merchandiser
answered with an ugly, defiant snarl.
     More than that, Kremp opened fire with the revolver that he had brought
from his desk. A crook at heart, he wasn't trusting The Shadow. Fortunately,
Kremp's aim was bad; but The Shadow played a ruse which carried himself to
safety and should have caused Kremp to follow. Taking a sprawl, The Shadow did
a dive through the door and staggered across the hall.
     Only Kremp didn't follow. Perhaps he was hoping that The Shadow and Taka
Takara would cancel each other off. Deliberately Kremp planted his back against
the safe, waved his revolver and snarled new defiance to anyone who dared
return. But Kremp didn't play the hero long.
     A mighty quiver shook the office; with it, a muffled blast lifted the door
from the safe and sent Kremp flying with it. In fact the whole safe opened
upward, outward, like a trick box with a snapping spring. Hurled forward, Kremp
landed midway across the office. The metal door, overtaking him, fell with
crushing force upon his head and shoulders.
     Chunks of pottery, pieces of metal came flying from the safe and smoke
poured wide, carrying floating bits of paper. The force of the explosion had
twisted the safe's interior, but the main power had packed itself against the
door. Spreading like a pall, the smoke settled over Kremp, the only victim of
the blast.
     Doom's iron might, in the form of a flying safe door, had forever silenced
Artemus Kremp, current owner of the Jade Dragon.


     XI

     CONFUSION reigned outside of Kremp's house as The Shadow came reeling
through the front door and down the steps. It was difficult to determine
whether danger had been heavier within the house or without, for the boulevard
and the side street were alive with gunfire. Wheeling from the front steps The
Shadow took shelter in the darkness behind the house.
     It was a good maneuver because bullets promptly pinged the doorway through
which The Shadow had come. Other slugs were peppering the house walls and
punching the glass panes behind Kremp's barred windows. But until he could
analyze this fray and learn the factors involved, The Shadow didn't care to
join it.
     Suddenly the answer came.
     The Shadow himself had caused all this by that call to Burbank. His agents
must have been close enough to head straight to their chief's aid. Therefore
they would have met a cluster of Wei Hai Wei men, here to cover the departure
of the Mandarin, Chung Sung. By now Chung Sung was certainly away in a
bullet-proof car, but his crew had kept on shooting to prevent him being
followed.
     Naturally The Shadow's agents had returned the fire to drive back the Wei
Hai Wei crowd, who were trying to keep them from entering Kremp's house and
using it as a stronghold. It was one of those merry occasions where nobody knew
what the others were after and therefore were trying to prevent them from
accomplishing it, on a strict policy of good riddance. But the shooting was
pleasantly wild and with good reason. Nobody wanted to clutter up the scene
with bodies over a quarrel that might have no purpose.
     It just happened that The Shadow had dived out of Kremp's at a time when
the Wei Hai Wei contingent were laying a leaden curtain around the doorway, to
let their opponents know that it was taboo.
     But now the Chinatown contingent was scattering under an urging fire from
The Shadow's agents. That barrage ceased as The Shadow delivered a commanding
laugh from the darkness that he had chosen while his agent were fronted the
other way. Knowing that their chief was with them, The Shadow's operatives
dropped back, slackening fire, since they no longer had to cleave a path into
the house.
     Again The Shadow's laugh arose, this time in strident challenge to the
spreading Wei Hai Wei crew. The Shadow was by no means sure that Chung Sung
hadn't detected what occurred behind the curtain of Kremp's shelved closet. The
fact that Taka Takara had been planted there with strangle cords and Chinese
tokens reflected directly on the Wei Hai Wei, but at the same time served as a
clever cover-up for Chung Sung. Certainly if the Mandarin had sent the spidery
killer to deliver murder, he wouldn't have come there himself.
     That at least would be the logical assumption of the law. A neat trick,
for Chung Sung and Taka Takara to cross trails purposely. The Shadow was
probing the question right now, with his challenge to Chung Sung's gunners. He
wanted to find out if they were really anxious to get into the house. Should
such be the case, it would prove that they were covering for Taka Takara as
well as Chung Sung.
     Figures shifted from rather distant doorways and guns gave a few spasmodic
barks. It indicated withdrawal by the host of Wei Hai Wei, but that might be a
bluff. The Shadow's laugh trailed in shivery fashion. Then came silence. Calm
silence, a fitting prelude to the storm that suddenly broke.
     Again, it was The Shadow who actually precipitated it. Only he could have
detected the thing that provided the issue.
     From above The Shadow and to his right came the slightest of scraping
sounds. Making a quick turn, The Shadow gazed upward to the darkest window of
Kremp's second floor. Through the bars of that window, a pliable figure had
squeezed itself as cunningly as a rat and was now dropping into a quick slide
to the barred window just below.
     Taka Takara.
     The Shadow launched for the spidery strangler intending to clout him in
the darkness. But Takara had heard The Shadow's challenging mirth and wasn't
taking any chances. Using a variant of one of his old tricks, he turned the
lower bars into a springboard, somersaulting himself clear out across the
sidewalk, where he bounded as he lighted and was off, past a lamp post and a
mail box, which he hoped would shield him briefly from gunfire.
     Wheeling, The Shadow stabbed an angled shot at Takara, then sprang after
the murderer, dodging the improvised obstacles by the curb. The Shadow's shot
was a signal to his agents; they laid a barrage ahead of their chief hoping to
clip the elusive spider man. Curiously, Takara's speed was not great on the
straight-away, dodging being his favorite way of flight. The Shadow had almost
reached him by the middle of the boulevard and the agents therefore ceased
their brief fire, so their chief could grab the killer alive.
     But at that moment, the guns of the Wei Hai Wei came into action,
sizzling, a furious cross-fire that literally whistled its way across The
Shadow's path, cutting his chance to make the final lunge that would have
overtaken Takara.
     The Shadow's agents saw their chief spin about, delivering shots like a
gun turret as he wheeled back to his side of the street. Those jabs were meant
for Takara, but the creature had gone into one of his crazy darts, hence
escaped the bullets. Then cars were shrieking to a stop along the boulevard,
with The Shadow disappearing one way and Takara the other. The Shadow's agents,
guessing what had happened, opened an earnest long-range fire at the Wei Hai Wei
crew.
     Those first shrieks came from automobile brakes, but were immediately
drowned by the louder scream of sirens as police cars poured through the gaps
in traffic. The police opened fire wherever they saw gunbursts. Witnesses
huddled in their cars, thought that this was the beginning of a three-way gun
battle that would make the days of Frisco's Vigilantes be forever forgotten.
     Instead, the fray quelled itself instantly, amazing the outnumbered
police. The Shadow's agents had simply been holding forth until the law arrived
and the Wei Hai Wei crew wanted no part of the police, particularly this far
from Chinatown. Both groups were gone, in opposite directions, before the
police could climb from their cars to start a chase.
     Now, louder and more impressive than the police cars, the fire trucks were
rumbling up. That was the boast of San Francisco, the fire department, and the
report of an explosion on Hillside Boulevard had brought the equipment at full
speed. The smoke that was trailing out from Kremp's front door took precedence
over vanished gunners. Along with the fire fighters, the police piled into the
house to learn the situation there.
     Meanwhile, The Shadow had contacted his agents, more than a block away.
Congratulating them on their prompt service, he dismissed them from duty for
the night. The only one who remained a few minutes longer was Harry Vincent and
when he left, he was carrying a brief-case back to the Hotel Sonora.
     The Shadow had again become the leisurely Mr. Cranston and was strolling
to Kremp's house to learn what the commotion was about. As he strolled, Lamont
Cranston gave a far off look toward Chinatown. It was too far away to
distinguish individual lights, but a greenish glow was evident against the sky.
Even as Cranston gazed, that glow blinked off.
     The Wei Hai Wei had decided to call it a night, too. A strange laugh
whispered from Cranston's lips, an echo of the mirth that typified The Shadow.
     Glancing at his watch, Cranston estimated that more than an hour had
elapsed since he started on this expedition. He had taken fifteen minutes to
come by cab from near Gilmar's on Fresno Street. Another fifteen minutes wait
before Kremp had arrived from his longer and slower trip from Chinatown. The
conference between Kremp and Chung Sung had stretched more than a quarter-hour,
while the kaleidoscopic events of the explosion, gunfray and other trimmings -
Takara's flight included - had tacked on a final fifteen minute period.
     It might not be long before other persons arrived, so Cranston waited on
the outskirts of the crowd which had gathered in front of Kremp's house. The
fire trucks were already clanging away and soon a car pulled up. Recognizing
the people in it, Cranston stepped forward to meet them: Vic Marquette and
Jonathan Gilmar.
     Both were momentarily surprised to see Cranston, but he was as good as
ready with a story, for he noted that Gloria Brent had not come along. Just for
policy, Cranston let the others open up.
     "How did you get here, Cranston?" queried Marquette. "You weren't coming
back to Gilmar's."
     "He must have called the house," put in Gilmar. "We left Miss Brent there
to handle any special calls. That's my guess, Cranston."
     Cranston nodded, indicating that Gilmar was entitled to a guess if he
wanted one.
     "You know about Sangju, then," said Marquette, "and the strangler, Taka
Takara -"
     "Who made off with the Jade Dragon," added Gilmar. "I only hope we've
really traced it here."
     Cranston nodded that he knew the details. Showing a badge, Marquette
crashed the police cordon and entered Kremp's, explaining a few more details on
the way.
     "We found a clue to a place called the Three Pagodas," stated Vic. "We
went down there and quizzed them. They didn't know anything about the Jade
Dragon but they said Kremp had picked up a special package. Looks like he ran
into some trouble after he got home."
     It was characteristic of Vic Marquette to treat the most unexpected
situation as commonplace until he learned the details. Vic probably expected to
see a murder scene since the police were so ardently in charge of Kremp's house,
but he wasn't prepared for the sort of death that lay on display.
     Kremp's crushed figure, with the demolished safe in the background, told a
graphic story in itself. So graphic that Marquette jumped right to conclusions.
     "They really wanted that Jade Dragon," commented Vic. "So badly that they
blew the safe to get it. But wait" - Vic swung about, his expression puzzled -
"if they wanted it that badly, why did they let Kremp pick it up?"
     "He had probably paid for it," expressed Gilmar, dryly. "I understand that
the Mandarin Chung Sung is very honest in all business dealings."
     "If that's so," asserted Marquette, "why would he have his gang steal it?"
     "They stole it from me, didn't they?" retorted Gilmar. "Of course, I
bought it from Koon Wan, so that made the situation different. I wonder -"
     Pausing, Gilmar approached the safe. Noting the chunks of broken Chinese
pottery, he observed that there was no jade among them. The condition of the
safe then captured his attention. Its back, leaning against the wall was almost
intact and showed quite plainly that it contained special compartments. Turning
to one of the policemen, Gilmar received a nod even before he put an inquiry.
     "We're waiting for the homicide man to open it," the cop said. "He's here
now."
     A burly man with a police lieutenant's badge was entering the room. He
waved his hand and two officers propped up the back portion of the safe. They
pried it with short crowbars and results were immediate. Loosened metal plates
groaned apart and from one of the compartments slid a greenish object
ornamented with gold. With a happy cry, Gilmar sprang forward and caught it,
lifting it into the light.
     It was the Jade Dragon, perfect in every detail, undamaged in the steel
nest which had protected it from the impact of the explosion.
     Trails had crossed again: Those of Jonathan Gilmar and the Jade Dragon. It
was as if luck belonged to anyone who obtained that rare trophy in legitimate
fashion. Taking the antique from Gilmar's trembling hands, Marquette smiled.
     "We'll take good care of it for you," Vic promised. "What we'll do now is
pick up whatever clues we can to Kremp's death - and to Kremp himself. Want to
stay here while we do?"
     Gilmar shook his head.
     "I'd better go back to the house," he said. "Miss Brent will probably want
to leave. Of course you put police on guard outside, but Miss Brent may be
feeling worried there."
     Marquette looked at Cranston as though expecting him to stay, but Cranston
also shook his head. All he said was:
     "I'll go along with Gilmar."
     As the two men left, Marquette began to think over Cranston's parting
remark. A light dawned suddenly on Vic. It was just another case of two trails
crossing; those of Lamont Cranston and Gloria Brent.
     It was rather smart of Cranston to arrange that sequel to this evening's
series of events. As Vic Marquette considered it, the more he felt that it was
the smartest idea that anyone had had tonight.


     XII

     IT WAS Wednesday afternoon and Gloria Brent was leaning back in the front
seat of a sports roadster with her hair streaming happily in the wind. All the
glory of a golden day was reflected in that burnished hair and appropriately
so, for the car was spinning along the broad boulevard past the Presidio on the
way toward the Golden Gate itself.
     From the driver's seat, Lamont Cranston was easing occasional glances
toward Gloria, but his calm demeanor did not change. It never did, not even
when something as glorious as Gloria challenged his complacency. That was, not
when Cranston had crime to consider. Yet he was actually doubting that, in this
case, crime would have come first, but for the fact that it threatened Gloria
herself.
     A sportsman at heart, Cranston considered that dodging guns, knives,
strangle cords and exploding safes were strictly masculine pastimes. Women
could be adept at such things, but they couldn't afford much companionship
while so engaged. Gloria, however, wasn't the sporting type - not when the
going became too rough. Right now, Cranston didn't even like to remind Gloria
of such subjects.
     The girl must have known it, for she breathed a glad sigh.
     "It's so nice being with you, Lamont," said Gloria. "I know that nothing
is going to happen - like murder."
     "Quite right," assured Cranston. "I always stop short of murder."
     "I wasn't meaning you," laughed Gloria. "It's this business of the Wei Hai
Wei and that terrible Taka Takara. When I think of Sangju and realize that he
was in it" - the girl shuddered - "well, it makes me feel that I can't trust
anybody except you and Mr. Gilmar. I mean anybody without a badge."
     "You don't mind talking about all that's happened then?"
     "No. Right now, I feel relaxed." Gloria rubbed her throat lightly, gave a
little quiver as she remembered the choking ordeal of the night before. Then:
"I want to help and maybe I can, if I recall important details. But tell me,
Lamont - have you ever met this terrible Mandarin, Chung Sung?"
     "I have seen him," replied Cranston. "He is a very imposing personage in
his Mandarin robe."
     "Why does he call himself a Mandarin?"
     "Because he claims that the future of China depends upon its past. The
Mandarins were the bulwark of the old Imperial regime. Chung Sung thinks they
should have taken over when the Empire fell."
     "So that they could murder everybody, I suppose."
     "That's one thing that will have to be proven where Chung Sung is
concerned," Cranston declared. "But the basic thing to get at is this smuggling
racket. It has to be linked to the Wei Hai Wei in order to abolish that company."
     "But why?"
     "Because to abolish one, it would be necessary to abolish all. In that
case the others would be unfairly treated. The Wei Hai Wei, if it is as
powerful or insidious as is claimed, could probably exist in secret. It would
then attract the resentful members of the abolished companies and become all
the stronger."
     This all made logic to Gloria, even though she didn't like it. In a
troubled tone, she asked:
     "But can't the Wei Hai Wei be easily incriminated?"
     "Not too easily," stated Cranston. "Let's see just how it operates. First
of all, it is a properly incorporated company, claiming to be a beneficial
organization. It raises funds through contributions, business financing, the
sale of legitimate merchandise -"
     "And lotteries," added Gloria, "which are illegal."
     "Like all the companies," said Cranston, "the Wei Hai Wei confines its
drawings to its members. It happens that certain of those agents act as
voluntary policy sellers who let their friends buy chances, but without the
company's approval. Here is a sample sheet and you will notice that the other
companies are included with Wei Hai Wei, which comes right back to the problem
of stopping all in order to stop one."
     The lottery sheet interested Gloria. It was printed on rice paper and
contained several rectangular blocks, each bearing the name of a company, Wei
Hai Wei being one. The blocks contained six rows of Chinese characters, ten to
each row, and Cranston explained that they were the words of Chinese rhymes.
     Gloria noted that some of the characters had been punched out and when
Gloria asked why, Cranston handed her a small sheet containing only a single
rectangle, with the name Wei Hai Wei. Gloria saw that a dozen characters on the
little slip had been crossed out with a pen.
     "Lay the master sheet over it," said Cranston, "so that the Wei Hai Wei
block comes exactly in place. Through the punch holes, you can count any
corresponding characters that have been marked off. If you hit enough of them,
you win."
     "How much?"
     "From fifty cents to five hundred dollars. The agent signs the little
sheet and lets you keep it until he comes around with a big one the next day.
Thousands of these tickets are sold daily in San Francisco. Every lottery
peddler has his own private route and takes a commission on each sale."
     "And some of those agents are selling smuggled jade?"
     "Exactly," replied Cranston. "But to find which agents, to track them back
to Wei Hai Wei headquarters, and finally to prove that Chung Sung is really
behind it - well, there's the problem, or I should say problems."
     Cranston was swinging left from the road that went to Golden Gate and
taking a tunnel route toward Seal Rock. As he drove along, he recapitulated
further.
     "The lottery stunt may help to crack the case," Cranston said, "but the
actual delivery of the smuggled jade is a stronger point. Of course the Jade
Dragon wasn't actually smuggled, but it ties in with the selling end of the
racket."
     "Of course," agreed Gloria. "Chung Sung must have learned that the Jade
Dragon was in San Francisco, so he promptly offered it for sale and sent Taka
Takara to get it. But in that case" - Gloria's forehead showed a puzzled frown
- "why didn't Takara take it?"
     "You arrived too soon, perhaps," rejoined Cranston. "But we can also
assume that Takara knew you were on your way."
     "That's true," nodded Gloria. "I did stop at other shops before I reached
Koon Wan's. But I didn't identify myself at any of them."
     Cranston gave one of his slight smiles.
     "You apparently did a good job," he said. "I doubt if I could have learned
who you were, myself, if I had been crossing your trail in Chinatown, Monday
night."
     There was more to that than Gloria realized. Cranston was actually paying
her a tribute in behalf of The Shadow, that mysterious figure who had really
crossed her trail, but had been forced to use chance clues to discover Gloria's
identity later.
     "Of course there was the money I paid Koon Wan," remarked Gloria. "Taka
Takara picked it up and was still able to steal the dragon at Gilmar's later.
Of course he ran into a lot of trouble -"
     "Which he didn't expect," inserted Cranston. "But there is more to it than
meets the eye."
     "You mean Sangju," said Gloria. "He was working with the Wei Hai Wei, of
course."
     "I mean more than Sangju," declared Cranston. "Let's take the simple
aspects of the case. Forget all the weird factors. Consider the participants -
even Taka Takara - as governed by ordinary motives. In that case, everything
was set up for you to buy the Jade Dragon. Am I right?"
     "Why - yes!"
     "And when you left Koon Wan's," continued Cranston, "the only reason you
passed through Hangman's Alley safely was because the knife men were there to
cover your departure, but to stop anybody who might follow."
     "You mean I was being protected by the Wei Hai Wei?" exclaimed Gloria.
"Why, that's incredible!"
     "Let's say you were being ignored," amended Cranston, with another slight
smile. "But let's act to the purpose behind it. Certain things were
established: First, that you bought the Jade Dragon from Koon Wan; again, that
Jonathan Gilmar became the owner of the Jade Dragon and was able to compare it
with the listing in the Imperial Album."
     Gloria was nodding, highly interested. Cranston swerved the car into the
broad esplanade beside the famous Cliff House, which overlooked Seal Rock.
However, as he parked, he preferred to sit in the roadster until he finished
his theme.
     "Your testimony being given," Cranston told Gloria, quietly, "you became
expendable. You had proven that Koon Wan not only owned the Jade Dragon but
knew it was the genuine one brought to America by Prince Tsai Hsun. Beyond
that, you should have learned nothing more."
     "But what more could I have learned?"
     "Some of the things that I have just told you," replied Cranston. "You
could have reasoned them out for yourself, you know. Your policy is to play
dumb from now on."
     "That shouldn't be hard," mused Gloria. "I think I have played dumb. But
since I did -"
     "You may have slipped without realizing it," interposed Cranston. "We'll
test that theory later. But we know now that Takara's first duty at Gilmar's
was to silence you permanently."
     The thought gave Gloria a shiver, so she brushed it away quickly.
     "You must be right," the girl said. "Then Takara was to get away with the
Jade Dragon and send it along to Artemus Kremp. But if Kremp had bought it, why
was he murdered?"
     "For the same reason you almost were," returned Cranston. "Because he knew
too much."
     "But the explosion might not have killed him."
     "It only did through accident. From reports that I have heard today" -
Cranston's tone was strictly matter-of-fact - "it appears that Takara fled from
Kremp's just after the blast."
     "If Takara belongs to the Wei Hai Wei," said Gloria, with a head-shake,
"Chung Sung is certainly asking for trouble."
     "Not exactly," corrected Cranston. "A man-hunt is on for Takara and it is
diverting attention from the lottery sellers who were Kremp's actual contacts.
It will be easier for the Wei Hai Wei to disown Takara than to disown them."
     Paradoxically, Cranston had evidence to the contrary in his pocket, in the
form of two metal disks which, like the knives found in Hangman's Alley, bore
the imprint of the Wei Hai Wei Company. They were the tokens that Takara
planted on his victims when he found time and The Shadow personally had been
the recipient of one. But if the police had found these, they would only have
gone on Takara's trail the harder. As positive evidence against Chung Sung and
the Wei Hai Wei, they wouldn't count until the final reckoning came.
     They were leaving the car now, Cranston and Gloria. They were walking to
the Cliff House, perched on a precipice above the beating waves, a spread out
building with its numerous concessions and glass windowed sun rooms. As they
walked, Gloria put another question:
     "What about Sangju?"
     "He not only knew too much," replied Cranston, cryptically, "but knew that
he knew it. When Gilmar and Marquette rushed in and surprised Takara, Sangju
knew he would be blamed unless he could tell a plausible story."
     "And couldn't he?"
     "Not if Gilmar remained alive. He would have tripped up Sangju's
testimony. So Sangju put out the lights and tried to finish off Gilmar with the
kris. It was a murderous attempt, but basically an act of self-preservation.
However, it justified Marquette and Gilmar in giving Sangju the limit."
     By "limit" Cranston meant "death" and Gloria had heard enough of that
subject. She needed to refresh her mind with something pleasant, so Cranston
took her to a window of a big sun room in the Cliff House, where they gained a
pleasant view of Seal Rock. There, on rugged, stony chunks that jutted up from
the ocean, sea lions as well as seals were basking peacefully in the sun and
catching the sprays from waves that slapped about their rocky refuge.
     It wasn't as peaceful as it looked, nor was the Pacific itself to be so
defined, though its very name erroneously meant peaceful. Such were Cranston's
thoughts, but he didn't burden Gloria with them. Those seals had been driven
here by human hunters, who in turn could quarrel among themselves, just as the
seals and sea lions could. In fact, Cranston was hoping that a fracas wouldn't
start and give Gloria another case of nerves. Looking about, Cranston gave a
nod. A few moments later, a girl's voice spoke, as though in surprise:
     "Hello, there!"
     Cranston and Gloria turned to meet a sparkling-eyed brunette, whose smile
impressed Gloria as one of the most genuine that she had ever seen. Cranston
must have felt the same, for his return smile actually made a change in his
usually calm expression.
     "Hello, Myra," said Cranston. Then: "Miss Reldon, I would like you to meet
Miss Brent. Miss Gloria Brent."
     Myra Reldon rode back into San Francisco with them. On the way, she
chatted mostly with Gloria Brent, who rapidly found this chance acquaintance
growing into a friendship. Perhaps because Myra was a friend of Cranston's,
Gloria was willing to accept her on the same terms. But that in itself was
rather surprising.
     When Cranston dropped Myra at a corner where the car was to turn off to
Gilmar's, both Myra and Gloria remembered that they had decided to meet for
cocktails later this very afternoon. It seemed as if the chance meeting at the
Cliff House had been something with a purpose. At least that was Gloria's
impression, while the roadster was crawling up a hill toward Gilmar's. Gloria
wondered if Cranston could explain it, though she didn't ask him.
     Cranston could have.
     It happened that Myra Reldon was one of the most trusted agents of a
mysterious personage known as The Shadow, a fact which Gloria Brent was to
learn under the stress of singular events that lay ahead.


     XIII

     VIC MARQUETTE was in Gilmar's study when Cranston and Gloria arrived
there. With Vic was the lieutenant of the San Francisco homicide squad, who had
been at Kremp's. Vic introduced him as Lieutenant Wade, then gave a nudge toward
Gilmar's desk, where the Jade Dragon squatted in all its green glory.
     "We're custodians of this," explained Vic. "We brought it here and we're
waiting until Gilmar gets back from his office. I'm glad you came, Cranston,
because we're going to discuss the Kremp case. But meanwhile we can talk about
Sangju."
     With that, Marquette turned to Gloria.
     "Did Sangju ever behave suspiciously?" quizzed Vic. "While you were
around, I mean?"
     Gloria shook her head.
     "How far did Gilmar trust him?" persisted Marquette. "Did he give him full
charge of the strong room?"
     "Absolute charge," replied Gloria. "He even had Sangju prepare the key and
keep it. Mr. Gilmar was afraid that if he kept a key of his own, he might mislay
it. Then if somebody picked it up, even somebody like myself" - Gloria was
speaking quite impartially - "Sangju might have been blamed for something that
wouldn't be his fault."
     "That's what Gilmar said himself," nodded Vic. "He likes to accept
responsibilities and believes that others should have the same privilege. But
did Sangju ever leave that door open - say when you or Gilmar were here in the
study?"
     "Never. That is, not until last night."
     "That was so you could look for some things in there," reminded Vic. "Like
items stamped with the Wei Hai Wei trade-mark. Did you ever take other things in
and out of the strong room?"
     "Of course," replied Gloria, "but Sangju was like a watch-dog; though, now
I know it was only pretence. Often Sangju carried things in and out himself; but
when there were big batches of curios, I took the light ones and Mr. Gilmar took
the heavy ones."
     "Such items were delivered here often?"
     "Only occasionally," recalled Gloria. "I hadn't been in the strong room
for a week before last night. A few new things had been brought in there,
meanwhile. One was a small Oriental clock; another was that heavy taboret, the
one Takara jumped on when he sprang at me. Of course there was the Jade Dragon,
but we know that it was put in there night before last, which was when I brought
it here. You'll have to ask Mr. Gilmar about the other items."
     "They won't matter," rejoined Vic. "I only wanted to know if Sangju had
sole access to the strong room. He had, so therefore only Sangju could have
loosened that brass shutter so Takara could get in."
     "I'm positive," said Gloria, "that only Sangju could have."
     Cranston was standing by the desk while Marquette talked with Gloria.
Cranston was turning the Jade Dragon under the glare of a desk lamp, studying
it closely. Now, a police car was giving a siren signal outdoors, so Lieutenant
Wade decided to go down and find out what it wanted. Catching a slight nod from
Cranston, Marquette decided to do the same.
     Promptly, Cranston turned to Gloria.
     "How are the nerves? All settled?"
     Gloria nodded.
     "You won't let them slip?" queried Cranston. "Not even if I bring up a
grueling question?"
     "I'm full of confidence," replied Gloria. "It's daytime and you're around.
You decide which is more important."
     Momentarily, a smile traced itself on Cranston's lips. As it faded, he
said seriously:
     "There is something about the Jade Dragon that frightens you. Something I
recognized from the horrified way you looked at it last night. You were about
to mention it at the time."
     "It was probably my imagination," expressed Gloria. "It - well, it came
alive in a weird way. Not the Jade Dragon itself, but the shadow that it casts.
Directly in the light, the silhouette becomes monstrous. Like a horned devil -
like Takara's shadow when he lifts his hands in back of you. Like - like, well,
I think I'd have to show you."
     "Show me."
     Bravely, Gloria turned to the Jade Dragon and started to adjust it in the
light, only to find that it was already fixed properly. The dragon did cast a
shadow, but it was neither weird nor grotesque. Just an elongated shadow that
might have belonged to almost any other ornament. Puzzled, Gloria pushed the
dragon back and forth, turned it one way and the other, then gave up with a
laugh that was definitely not nervous.
     "It was my imagination," the girl said. "Unless" - her blue eyes showed a
troubled flash - "unless Taka Takara was already at Koon Wan's, like he was
here. But it seems that every time I looked at the Jade Dragon, I saw that same
horrible shadow, even when Takara couldn't have been near. Still, that could
have been a recollection - or could it?"
     "It could have," supplied Cranston. "Therefore, don't try to bring it
back. Just forget it, and completely, unless I happen to mention it some time
again. I seem to have taken the shock out of the thing. Any time you want to
think of shadows, remember the one that barged in through the brass window to
your rescue."
     Cranston's hand was resting soothingly on Gloria's shoulder and somehow
the light pressure inspired the same thrill that had come with The Shadow's
arrival. Then Cranston's hand moved away, dipped into his pocket and brought
out a cigarette case. He was proffering Gloria a cigarette as Marquette and
Wade arrived back from downstairs.
     Jonathan Gilmar was with the representatives of the law, having arrived by
cab as the police car pulled away. By coincidence, Gilmar's first words to
Gloria were a pick-up of the conversation that Cranston had left off.
     "Still worrying about shadows, Miss Brent?"
     "Not worrying," returned Gloria. "I'm just feeling grateful toward The
Shadow. I only wish I'd had a longer look at him when he came through the
window that Sangju left unbarred. Who can he be?"
     Gilmar shrugged.
     "Nobody seems to know," he said. "Not even Marquette here. Well, let's
complete our own affairs, so we can get to the Kremp case."
     From the desk, Gilmar brought a bill-of-sale, showed it in passing to
Marquette.
     "For the broken taboret," said Gilmar, with a grimace. "It was delivered a
week ago and already it's a total loss. I can have it pieced together, but it
won't be worth much."
     Gilmar gestured to the corner where the broken segments of the taboret lay
in a heap. Gilmar had really demolished it when he felled Sangju. Marquette gave
a recollective head-shake.
     "That was a timely wallop," declared Vic. "I only tried to cripple Sangju,
but I didn't know how he could fight. I guess I'd have had to unload my whole
gun into him if you hadn't cracked his skull. It took plenty of force to
shatter that heavy taboret, but Sangju deserved all he got."
     "He deserved worse," returned Gilmar, dourly. "If he were still alive, we
could have made him talk. We might have forced a confession out of him, in time
to have saved Kremp. Of course there's a question whether Kremp deserved to be
rescued, but he could have talked too."
     Realizing that the conversation was getting on the morbid side, Gilmar
turned to Gloria and told her it would be all right for her to leave. He added
that he was giving her a vacation, at Cranston's suggestion, since Cranston had
said he could supply a competent man to handle Sangju's work and Gloria's
secretarial tasks.
     When Gloria had gone, Marquette opened a portfolio and brought out
evidence in the Kremp case. Wade supplied another packet that had just come in
the police car and soon the exhibits were spread across Gilmar's desk, where
the Jade Dragon seemed to be studying them along with the four investigators.
After all, if it could have talked, the Jade Dragon might have supplied more
facts than any person present.
     Yet Cranston, when he eyed the Jade Dragon, gave it a half-smiling,
doubting look. If anyone had noticed Cranston right then, they would have
realized that he felt that this glaring dragon could only have told a portion
of the story.
     "Let's start with the Three Pagodas," suggested Marquette, referring to a
police report. "Kremp went there and picked up a package that must have
contained the Jade Dragon, since nobody knows how it got here.
     "We've quizzed the two Chinese partners who run the Three Pagodas and it
seems that Kremp had picked up packages there before. But he always told one
partner that the other had left a package for him. They never had reason to
mention it back and forth. So the obvious conclusion is that somebody was
slipping into the back room and leaving packages for Kremp."
     Looking about, Marquette received nods of agreement, so he resumed.
     "In this case it was Taka Takara who planted the package," said Vic.
"Lieutenant Wade here says the police were tipped off that he was around the
Three Pagodas. He just about had time to get the package there before Kremp
picked it up."
     There was no objection on Cranston's part when Marquette voiced this
opinion. It happened that The Shadow had ordered the tipoff even though Takara
hadn't been seen near the Three Pagodas. But Marquette wasn't basing his
opinion on the tip-off. The package was the all-important thing.
     "We've found the driver of Kremp's cab," resumed Marquette, referring to
another report. "He says he took Kremp right home and that the place was dark
and locked. Kremp thought he was safe in his office, but he wasn't because
Takara was on his trail. We know that because Takara was spotted near Kremp's
after the explosion.
     "The trouble was" - Vic turned to Wade - "your men didn't recognize him.
Apparently The Shadow reached Kremp's too and was taking a shot at Takara. But
there were some other gunners messing into it and they drew the police fire.
I'd like to prove that those gunners were working for the Wei Hai Wei and were
covering Takara's flight, but it's too late to do that now."
     "Agreed," returned Wade, "but don't blame it on my men. Those dopes in
those prowl cars didn't belong to the homicide squad."
     Marquette bowed an apology. Then:
     "Takara squeezed his way in through Kremp's window bars," decided Vic,
"because he was skinny enough to manage it. The same applied to the transom
over the office door. Kremp was at the safe, but may have heard him coming.
Anyway, Takara gave him the strangle treatment. This was picked up from the
floor."
     Out of the exhibits, Marquette plucked a slender thread, the very strangle
cord that Takara had been using on Kremp when The Shadow intervened. It happened
that Vic's details were wrong, but Cranston didn't try to correct him. It was
better not only to get the law's version, but to let it stand. Certain persons
might prefer it that way for the present: Chung Sung for one, Taka Takara for
another. There were others who might definitely feel the same and Cranston was
counting himself, as The Shadow, as one such.
     If Marquette picked his own trail and kept to it, any flaws would make
evil-doers over-confident. That in turn might lead them to play into the hand
of The Shadow and his agents, who could thereby crack the case and let the law
pick up the pieces.
     "I figure that Takara strangled Kremp outright," continued Marquette.
"There's a cord mark on Kremp's throat, but his chest was crushed so badly,
it's hard to tell what happened to him before that. But if Kremp had been
alive, Takara could have tortured him into opening the combination. As it was,
Takara had to soup the safe and blow it."
     Souping the safe meant that Takara would have had to drill some holes, a
comparatively easy process with an old safe like Kremp's, but a slow job. Too
slow in this case, had Marquette given it sufficient thought. However, to have
suggested that, would have meant a lengthy discussion of the time element,
which in turn would have brought up new theories and twisted everything about.
Cranston couldn't suggest that Chung Sung might have been at Kremp's,
bargaining over the Jade Dragon. Vic wouldn't have believed it, since there was
nothing to support the claim.
     Only as The Shadow could Cranston have sold that story and then only by
means of a show-down with Chung Sung, the Mandarin. The future might provide
such an opportunity.
     "Takara let the safe blow Kremp with it," analyzed Marquette, "but he
didn't have a chance to rifle the safe because The Shadow arrived too soon. We
found some smuggled goods beside the Jade Dragon, but most everything else was
gone, including Kremp's records."
     From an envelope among the exhibits, Marquette slid some bits of toasted
paper. The writing on them was totally illegible. But there was one slip that
bore significance. It was of thick red paper, the sort that could have made the
cover of a special folder. On it was printed the single word:

                                  MANDARIN

     "This could have been the cover of a ledger," declared Marquette,
"containing the records of Kremp's transactions with Chung Sung. Otherwise,
we're licked" - Vic gave a short laugh - "unless we start doing business with
Chung Sung himself."
     To that, Cranston put an unexpected rejoinder:
     "Why not?"
     Marquette grimaced at what he thought was a forced sense of humor, but
Gilmar caught the idea instantly.
     "Of course!" exclaimed Gilmar. "Chung Sung murdered Kremp because he
didn't trust him, but now Chung Sung is cut off from Kremp's customers. Suppose
we let Chung Sung think he has found some of them!"
     "Exactly my thought," said Cranston, with a bow toward Gilmar. "You're a
big jade collector. Why not start bidding for some smuggled items?"
     "For once," returned Gilmar in his dour style, "I regret the reputation I
have gained for honesty. It would scare off Chung Sung and the whole Wei Hai
Wei."
     "They handle legitimate items on occasion." Cranston gestured to the Jade
Dragon as a sample. "You could start selling off some choice items. Chung Sung
might send some of his purchasing agents around, for spite if nothing else."
     "Very good," agreed Gilmar. "I'll do it. But on the buying end" - Gilmar's
eyes sparkled in sharp contrast to his chalky face - "you're a perfect choice,
Cranston. You collect jade too - remember?"
     Cranston did remember. He'd been thinking in just such terms, but wanted
someone else to suggest it. So, after a show of proper hesitancy, Cranston
finally capitulated.
     "It would make me look crooked," Cranston said, "but most collectors are
supposed to have warped minds. I'll only do it, though, if Marquette here is
sure that it will have the approval of the F.B.I."
     "More than that," assured Marquette, "it will have our blessing. Anything
to get our teeth into this smuggling racket. We're desperate. But tell me one
thing" - Vic looked from Cranston to Gilmar and back again - "how did you two
hit on the same run of good ideas, so suddenly? Does it go with collecting
jade?"
     Cranston arose before he replied.
     "It goes with chess," he explained. "Gilmar plays the game too. I've been
wanting to tackle him ever since I saw this magnificent chess-set."
     The statement referred to the chess board resting on the taboret in the
corner of Gilmar's study, where jade-green men confronted those of jet-black on
a board of gold and silver squares. Stepping toward the corner, Cranston reached
to lift the taboret and the board that was on it. Gilmar reached out a quick
hand to restrain him.
     "Just lift the board and do it carefully," said Gilmar, helping with the
action. Then, placing the board level in Cranston's hands, he added: "There,
set it on the desk. I'll clear it for you."
     All Gilmar had to clear was the Jade Dragon. He planked it on the taboret,
braced his shoulders for a lift and moved to the door of the strong room, the
taboret wavering weightily between his gripping hands. There, Gilmar unlocked
the brass door with Sangju's key.
     "You might have spilled the chess men," said Gilmar to Cranston. Then:
"This taboret is a duplicate of the broken one so I'll keep it in the strong
room. The Jade Dragon belongs there too, in the niche I arranged for it."
     Gilmar waddled into the strong room, taboret and dragon with him. When he
returned and locked the big door behind him, he found that the conversation had
wandered from chess. Marquette and Cranston were discussing how to approach the
Wei Hai Wei, with Wade an interested listener.
     "Suppose we drive down to the F.B.I. office," suggested Marquette. "We'll
go over all the files on the smuggling racket. That will get you started as a
buyer, Cranston." Then, turning to Gilmar, Marquette added: "I'll see you this
evening, Gilmar, so we can discuss the selling end."
     With that, the visitors departed, and from his window Jonathan Gilmar
watched them drive away. Gilmar's expression, as he stroked his chin, was more
that of a keen chess player than an eager collector of jade.
     Between himself and Cranston, Gilmar could well picture Chinatown as a
chess-board on which they could move the pawns of the Wei Hai Wei to suit their
respective fancies. That could even apply to the king-piece in the game: Chung
Sung, the Mandarin!


     XIV

     VIEWED from atop the Mark Hopkins Hotel on Nob Hill, San Francisco lay
stretched like a toy city amid the first vestiges of dusk. It was the best
place from which to view the town and the bay, for here were broad windows
commanding every vista, an important feature of the restaurant styled the
Top-O'-the-Mark.
     Dining with Lamont Cranston, Gloria Brent had felt quite happy until now.
The reason for her change was the fog that she saw creeping in from Golden
Gate. It was more a pour than a creep, for the head of the fog was mushrooming
itself against an island and spreading to submerge the hapless chunk of land
that interrupted it.
     A hapless chunk, indeed, for that rocky isle was Alcatraz, the permanent
dungeon of some of America's most formidable criminals. Yet Gloria, even by the
wildest stretch of her imagination, could not compare the occupants of Alcatraz
with certain creatures who were still at large in San Francisco, most notably
Taka Takara.
     Perhaps it was the side creep of the fog toward Chinatown that made Gloria
feel that way. Her memory of one fearful night had still left scars despite
Cranston's argument that she had merely been overwrought.
     Now Cranston was attracting Gloria's attention by a mildly deliberate
action. From his pocket he had drawn some lottery tickets bearing the symbol of
Wei Hai Wei and was tearing them to pieces.
     "No luck," remarked Cranston. "I'd do better with the ponies out at
Tanforan."
     Gloria knew what "no luck" meant. This was the fifth day of her vacation
and therefore the fifth of Cranston's new purpose: namely, to be approached by
the smuggling ring as a prospective purchaser of illegal jade. He'd told Gloria
about the plan, and for five days he'd been buying chances on Wei Hai Wei from
every lottery peddler he'd met. But none had proven to be of more consequence
than any ordinary policy ticket.
     "At least Gilmar is making out," observed Cranston. "He's had some healthy
nibbles from Chinatown antique dealers who are willing to buy legitimate jade."
     "You've seen Mr. Gilmar?" questioned Gloria, eagerly.
     "Of course not," replied Cranston. "I'm not even supposed to know him,
otherwise people might wonder why he didn't sell his jade to a collector like
myself. You're not to see him either."
     "Why not?"
     "Because we don't know who may be watching his place. Even Marquette
doesn't go there. All information comes out through Gilmar's new secretary,
Vincent."
     "The man you recommended?"
     "Yes. He seemed a capable chap who was willing to take a tough assignment.
It is tough, considering the game that Gilmar is playing to feel out Chung Sung."
     Cranston didn't add that Harry Vincent was playing a brisk game on his
own. As The Shadow's most experienced agent, he was the right man to spot
important clues that might slip past Gilmar. It wouldn't be too healthy for
Harry if the wrong people found out that connection.
     "I may have luck tonight, though," remarked Cranston, drawing a roundish
object from his pocket. "This came in the mail today, right after I received a
phone call from someone who said 'Chinatown - eight o'clock' and then hung up."
     Gloria was staring fixedly at the disk which Cranston handed her. It was
stamped with the symbols of Wei Hai Wei. Gloria's eyes lifted suddenly, almost
frantic.
     "You're not going there - to Chinatown!"
     "Certainly," said Cranston. "Right to the headquarters of the Wei Hai Wei.
Don't worry" - he gave Gloria's hand a reassuring pat as he took back the token
- "because this will be my passport. I only hope I get in to see Chung Sung in
person."
     "Then Chung Sung knows now that you were one of Kremp's customers -
supposedly."
     "I'm sure he must by this time," declared Cranston. "Marquette gave out
some lists in Chinatown, to places like the Three Pagodas and particularly some
antique shops and auction houses. Mine was the only safe name on the list, the
others were people already in trouble over smuggled jade."
     "And the list must have reached Chung Sung -"
     "It couldn't help but reach him. It's his business to know everything that
goes on in Chinatown."
     Somehow, the conversation had quieted Gloria's alarm. It was Cranston's
confidence, of course - that plus his way of explaining things so
satisfactorily that they lost all semblance of menace. It just happened that
Gloria couldn't trace Cranston's inner thoughts through the masklike expression
that controlled his features.
     Cranston right now was thinking of himself as The Shadow and when such
pictures leaped to his mind, he knew that his own instinctive foresight was at
work. Premonitions of danger were one of Cranston's specialties and they never
failed to materialize into reality.
     That danger might apply to Gloria, for reasons that Cranston had already
intimated. Hence Cranston glanced across the restaurant to make sure that one
of his agents was on hand. He saw Clyde Burke over near the elevators, but by
then Gloria had noted the rove of Cranston's gaze.
     "You're looking for someone, Lamont?"
     "I was wondering if Myra might be dropping by," replied Cranston. "You've
been seeing her lately, haven't you?"
     "Daytimes, yes. She has a night job, though I don't know just where. But,
Lamont" - reluctantly, Gloria lifted her wrist watch - "it's eight o'clock -"
     "Not quite," interposed Cranston. "Your watch must be a trifle fast."
     "About a minute fast," admitted Gloria. "But how did you know?"
     "Look out there and you'll see why." Cranston gestured through the great
window to the blocks of toy-sized buildings that represented Chinatown. "Keep
watching -"
     Trying to forget the creepy way the fog was still uncoiling itself, Gloria
watched and suddenly a glow of lurid green burst through the gathering mist.
Down below, at almost the exact center of Chinatown, the colored symbols
representing Wei Hai Wei etched themselves above the roofs.
     "I'm late," said Cranston in a tone of self-rebuke. "Well, I mustn't keep
the reception committee working overtime. Go see a movie and don't worry. I'll
phone your apartment later."
     "They're playing a revival of Frankenstein and Dracula over in Oakland,"
was Gloria's parting thrust. "It ought to make a good double comedy bill,
compared with your night's outing. I think I'll go and see it."
     Cabbing it to Chinatown, Cranston alighted at the outskirts and began a
weaving stroll toward the center of the quarter. He looked like a casual
tourist, the very impression that he sought to create. But Cranston was noting
both places and people as he strolled along.
     Pausing in the middle of the first block, Cranston struck a match to light
a cigarette. As he did, he faked a chance glance toward the building at his left
and gave a sudden start, hastily shaking out the match. The building was an old
brick structure that was neither sinister or picturesque, but its sign read:

                          LOO TING FACTORY FIREWORKS

     Naturally no one should be lighting matches near a fireworks factory,
particularly one that displayed its wares in the window. So Cranston shied
across the street and lighted his cigarette on the other side. Walking directly
west, he kept glancing at other business places, but now he was looking for
people and he saw them.
     The same drifting clusters as the other night. Chinese who became voluble
in doorways or appeared around corners with laundry bundles. All carrying Wei
Hai Wei tokens, no doubt, all crossing Cranston's trail as they had stalked The
Shadow, but less fervidly. They were keeping greater distance, but were more
open in their task, which was obviously to close a mesh with their own
headquarters in the center.
     Reaching a corner a few blocks along, Cranston paused to read a street
sign. He knew very well where he was and that was why he halted. Only a few
doors away was the Three Pagodas and two Americans were seated at a window
table tasting the shop's most luscious tea. They were two of The Shadow's
agents: Cliff Marsland and Chance LeBrue. Cranston didn't look in their
direction; he merely wanted them to see him. Turning the corner to his right,
Cranston resumed his stroll due north.
     From Loo Ting's factory west to the Three Pagodas was approximately the
same distance as from the Three Pagodas north to the headquarters of Wei Hai
Wei. All along the second leg of the route, Cranston was conscious that he was
being followed, for now the mesh was tightening itself. But he was quite sure
that his trailers didn't know that they were being followed too.
     A hunchy little man had come from an alley and was sidling across the
street. It was Hawkeye and he was using the same tactics as when he trailed
Gloria on the way to Gilmar's. Hawkeye's system was always good and
particularly in Frisco's Chinatown, which wasn't too different from Manhattan's
Bowery, where Hawkeye had learned his art.
     Invariably when he was noticed, Hawkeye looked to be going the other way.
If someone looked again, he was gone. Right now he was doing a door-to-door
canvass without stopping to sell anything; just fooling the sharp-eyed spotters
who represented Wei Hai Wei. Further back, Cliff and Chance had left the tea
shop and were coming along as reserves. But for the present, all this was
hardly more than an experimental measure on Cranston's part, particularly so
early in the evening.
     For there was nothing menacing as yet in the behavior of the Wei Hai Wei
crowd. Quite to the contrary, they had all the semblance of a protective cordon
ready to spring instantly to Cranston's aid. That wasn't surprising, since they
probably knew that he carried a Wei Hai Wei token. Cranston had done very
nicely, one night in Chinatown, by flashing just such a coin at the most
appropriate time. But that night, the men of Wei Hai Wei had been closing in on
The Shadow, not Cranston. What might have happened if they'd netted The Shadow,
was still a matter of conjecture.
     Now, directly under the green glow that tinted the entire street, Cranston
had reached the headquarters of the Wei Hai Wei. It occupied a building all its
own and considering its importance in Chinatown as well as its location, it
should have had the architectural design of an ornate pagoda. Instead it had
the style of a Carnegie Library. Nothing Oriental; all strictly American.
     This applied to the stone steps, the big doorway, and the first floor. The
foyer and its desk were exactly like a branch Y.M.C.A., including the
inquisitive clerk. When Cranston gave his name, the clerk bowed, picked up a
telephone, spoke in Chinese and asked Cranston please to wait.
     While he waited, Cranston looked into the other rooms. They could have
passed as library reading-rooms, except there were lots of people and very few
books. The people were Chinese seated at tables counting out bundles of lottery
tickets, handing them to sellers who pocketed them and came out through the
lobby. The few books were being used by clerks who were making entries in them.
     Inasmuch as the lottery tickets were sold on as low as a dime basis, there
was a great deal of bookkeeping to be done. Also if the Wei Hai Wei wanted to
keep tabs on its policy peddlers, it would have required about half the company
to watch the other half. That, like the cordon business, was something that
could work two ways. If some of the lottery sellers did something out of order
- like fencing smuggled jade - Chung Sung could disclaim all knowledge of it.
     The polite Chinese clerk had come from behind his desk and was beckoning
Cranston to an elevator. Bowing Cranston into a tiny car, the clerk told him to
press the only button. Cranston did so, anticipating a very short trip. Instead,
the elevator crawled up and up through a solid-walled shaft. At last it halted
and Cranston slid back the door to step into what seemed the living room of a
compact penthouse.
     There, a bowing Chinaman in a fancy Oriental jacket extended his hand as
if to shake a greeting, only to spread his palm and show a Wei Hai Wei token
lying there. Having his own token ready, Cranston displayed it in return. Then,
with a sweep of his hand, the Chinese usher indicated a robed man with bowed
head who was standing in the center of the room and announced:
     "The Mandarin, Chung Sung."
     As Cranston stepped forward, the robed man suddenly raised his head. The
face that Cranston saw was thin and hollow, with trailing mustache and wispy
beard that looked like gray spinach. To anyone who had ever seen the real Chung
Sung, this aged face came as a sharp and startling surprise. For it lacked age
only in the eyes; they were like boring gimlets.
     It was Cranston's habit to take surprises in reverse; inwardly. He'd been
ready for surprises before he even reached this place. The look of quiet
greeting on his features did not flicker in the slightest. Holding those gimlet
eyes just long enough to impress them fully, Cranston gave a short bow and said:
     "I am privileged, Chung Sung."
     The Chinaman bowed deeply, stepped aside and waved his hands toward a pair
of curtains which opened. From between their spread stepped Chung Sung, the same
Chung Sung that Cranston had seen at Kremp's, and clad in the same gorgeous
trappings. With a fixed smile, he announced:
     "I am Chung Sung, Mr. Cranston."
     A neat ruse this, to trap a visitor into revealing if he had ever seen
Chung Sung before. Yet in this case it still left an open question. The
question was if Chung Sung, in trying to trick his present visitor, was
thinking in terms of Lamont Cranston or The Shadow.
     In either case, the trick had failed.


     XV

     HAVING dismissed the elderly Chinese stooge, Chung Sung retained the
crescent smile that suited the contour of his roundish face, then spoke in an
indulgent, chiming tone.
     "We call him the Old One." The Mandarin unfolded an arm to gesture to the
door through which his stooge had left. "The old deserve consideration. It
makes him happy to think that he is Chung Sung, the Mandarin, though only long
enough to give greeting to a guest."
     The smile on the Mandarin's ivory-hued features was practically stating
that if Cranston didn't believe a word of this, Chung Sung wouldn't care. Then,
bowing Cranston into a small conference room, Chung Sung closed the door and
studied his visitor with straight lips and sharp eyes.
     "I have heard that you buy rare jade," stated Chung Sung. "I can sell you
some if you are willing to meet the price. My company, Wei Hai Wei, is
interested in making honest profit through such business."
     "Fair enough," acknowledged Cranston. "Of course you are prepared to prove
that any of your jade antiques are genuine?"
     For answer, Chung Sung pulled open the deep drawer of a flat-topped
teak-wood table and brought out a copy of the Imperial Album that compared
favorably with Gilmar's in size.
     "You may check any purchases by this," stated Chung Sung. "I assume you
are familiar with this book."
     "I have seen portions of it."
     As he spoke, Cranston was turning the pages of the album. Half across his
shoulder, he heard Chung Sung say.
     "Not only will our rarities be genuine; we shall give you the history of
each item with proof that it was legitimately imported. Our stock will
necessarily be small at first" - Chung Sung gave a shoulder shrug that Cranston
could feel against his own - "but that is to be expected."
     Cranston nodded as though he knew.
     Then came a query from Chung Sung:
     "You dealt with a man named Artemus Kremp?"
     "Only briefly," replied Cranston. "I was doubtful regarding him."
     "You were wise. If he ever said he represented Wei Hai Wei, his statement
was false."
     That was a neatly worded truth on Chung Sung's part. Kremp could have
purchased goods from the Chinatown company without representing it. Chung Sung
pressed the point to further advantage.
     "Be careful of all who claim they represent Wei Hai Wei," the Mandarin
said. "If there is any question in your mind, on any point, you are always free
to call on me."
     Cranston turned with an acknowledging bow. Then:
     "How soon," he asked. "will I hear from you again?"
     "Very soon."
     With that, Chung Sung bowed Cranston out from the conference room and into
the elevator. During the down trip, Cranston had ample time to review his first
official visit with the self-styled Mandarin. Though brief, it had been pointed.
     Chung Sung talked in terms of legitimate deals but left the rest open to
Cranston. He disowned not only Kremp but any unauthorized representatives. It
could be that Chung Sung suspected that Cranston was here in behalf of the law
and therefore the Mandarin was covering himself for a start.
     Also his promise of legitimately imported jade could mean that he intended
to buy some of Gilmar's and offer it to Cranston at a profit. This too could be
bluff on Chung Sung's part. The Mandarin's veiled wordage left it reasonably
clear that in the final event, Cranston could expect anything and might act
accordingly.
     This in Cranston's mind produced the certainty that he would be checked
quite closely by actual representatives of the Wei Hai Wei, so they could gain
his reactions.
     The Wei Hai Wei was to have its chance, immediately.
     Reaching the lobby, Cranston strolled out. He was promptly followed by
eager policy sellers who flocked about him, babbling that it was good luck to
buy a lottery ticket after visiting Chung Sung. Cranston bought himself a
handful at small-change prices, then broke loose from the throng, stuffing the
papers in his pocket. Turning a corner, he waved back in friendly fashion, thus
gaining a long look upward to the top of the Wei Hai Wei Building.
     Cranston could locate the elevator shaft. Oddly, it was installed in a
great square chimney, which was obviously no longer in use. From the chimney,
he could estimate about where the penthouse nestled beneath. Yet all this was
below the great, green-lighted sign that flashed the symbols of Wei Hai Wei for
all Chinatown to see. There was something about that sign that brought a low,
significant laugh from Cranston's lips.
     Here was a singular opportunity for The Shadow, a stunt as unique as any
he had ever attempted.
     Crossing the street at an angle, Cranston could tell by a corresponding
shift of figures along the sidewalk that men of Wei Hai Wei were still watching
him, but loosening their mesh. His act of crossing the street, however, was a
signal to his own agents in the offing.
     Down by the next corner, two men were arguing what part of Chinatown they
should visit next. They came suddenly to an agreement and one said he would
wait while the other picked up a package of laundry. The man who waited was
Chance LeBrue, the other was Cliff Marsland. Going a few doors down the street,
Cliff entered a basement laundry and showed a ticket to a Chinaman who was
gathering bags of wash.
     In high tone, the Chinaman called "Ming Dwan!" and a Chinese girl appeared
to take the ticket. Promptly finding the bundle beneath the counter, Ming Dwan
handed it to Cliff and their eyes met steadily. It could have been a romantic
moment between Cliff Marsland, a rugged American type, and this Chinese beauty,
whose dark eyes and black hair contrasted sharply with her clear yellow
complexion. But Ming Dwan's trustful look brought only an undertone from Cliff:
     "Hawkeye will report back, Myra. You can contact Burbank then."
     Nobody could have recognized Ming Dwan as Myra Reldon, planted here close
to the Wei Hai Wei headquarters. Playing a Chinese part was Myra's specialty
and her laundry job was the night work she had told Gloria Brent about.
     In the next few minutes, three of The Shadow's agents staged a neat
criss-cross in which Lamont Cranston participated as the all-important extra.
Coming out of the laundry, Cliff parked his package beside some steps and
started across the street, waving to Chance, who came to meet him:
     From beside the steps, Hawkeye scooped the package and eased along to the
mouth of an alley, which he reached unnoticed, while Cliff and Chance were
attracting attention. Then Hawkeye was gone and the other two agents were
coming back across the street, beginning an argument. They were jostling each
other as Cranston came along and quite naturally he side-stepped them to avoid
the quarrel.
     The spot where this happened was the mouth of the alley. Suddenly starting
to use their fists, Cliff and Chance completely covered Cranston for several
seconds, then carried their brawl out into the street. It was neat business,
for they were bothering no one but themselves and when they separated suddenly,
they went their opposite ways.
     Other figures had stopped by doorways and shop fronts. Now they started to
move again, but halted puzzled. Then, forming quick clusters, they rapidly
pushed themselves into the alley, too late. Cranston had made quick work with
the contents of a pretended laundry package that Hawkeye had ripped open.
Garbed and gunned as The Shadow, he was already emerging from the far end of
the alley.
     Hawkeye, waiting there in shelter, caught quick whispered words from his
chief. Watching The Shadow drift away, Hawkeye ducked around the block; when he
arrived there, Cliff and Chance were gone. Shambling along, Hawkeye entered the
laundry where Cliff had gotten the package from Myra. Immediately a few of the
Wei Hai Wei men eased up to the laundry window. They were suspicious of
everybody, now that Cranston had disappeared. They saw Hawkeye talking to the
proprietor and the Chinese girl who worked there. Then the watchers suddenly
moved away.
     The little hunchy man was merely selling Wei Hai Wei lottery tickets to
the people in the laundry. It would be foolish to disturb a worker in such a
noble cause.
     Meanwhile The Shadow had gotten free of the loosening cordon by the simple
expedient of gliding back to its very center. Finding a darkened inner corner
behind the Wei Hai Wei Building, he began to scale its old-fashioned wall. The
task was swift and easy for the building had alternating stones that allowed
finger-grips and toeholds. When The Shadow reached the roof, however, he saw
that the penthouse would not be so simple. Its walls were smooth, the windows
set high, as on a second floor. But The Shadow did not intend to attempt entry
through those windows.
     Instead, he moved around the square old-fashioned chimney and found its
brick surface to be an ornamental sort, matching the stonework of the lower
wall. For The Shadow, the slight juts of the alternating bricks were as
satisfactory as a ladder. He reached the top, a matter of more than thirty
feet, and poised there for a long look to the streets below.
     Everything beneath was a glow of green, thanks to the glare of the great
electric sign that was mounted on struts higher than the chimney. The Shadow
could spot fully a dozen figures moving like ants contacting one another,
sometimes forming momentary clusters. They were right out in the open, as
viewed from The Shadow's vantage spot, those workers for Wei Hai Wei, who were
more than ever baffled by Cranston's disappearance.
     Occasionally they looked up toward the windows of the penthouse as though
wondering what to report to Chung Sung. Yet despite the great glow from the
giant sign, they caught no glimpse of The Shadow, perched on the chimney top.
The Shadow had chosen the best hiding spot in all Chinatown, thanks to his own
keen observation when below.
     The lights of the great, green sign were set to throw a widespread glare
and were backed with metal reflectors for that purpose, the one place that
their power did not reach was the chimney and the roof-top just beneath. The
glare produced a blinding effect upon anyone looking upward, rendering only the
vague outline of the chimney discernible. Clad in black, The Shadow was entirely
invisible, but it was doubtful if he could have been spotted even without his
cloak.
     The fog had lessened to only a slight mist, but it swirled like a
miniature whirlwind as The Shadow lifted a covering from the chimney and
lowered himself within. The inner walls were only an arms-spread apart so The
Shadow did a diagonal stretch and levered himself downward to penthouse level.
The elevator car was at the bottom of the shaft, so there was no difficulty
opening the door that led into Chung Sung's place.
     Nevertheless, The Shadow had to operate swiftly, for he heard the car
starting up. Finding the anteroom empty, he glided over to another doorway and
found a screen placed just inside it. Closing the door softly, The Shadow used
the screen as shelter, then peered past its edge to view two men whose voices
he could hear.
     Those two were Chung Sung and the Old One.
     This was the apartment living room and it was furnished in the grand style
befitting a Mandarin. Even the screen was representative of ancient Chinese
custom, for it was placed to prevent imaginary devils from entering the room,
the tradition being that legendary devils could only move in straight lines.
     Chung Sung and the Old One were talking in Chinese but The Shadow
understood them clearly, being familiar with that tongue. Chung Sung was seated
at a desk in the corner; behind him was a large, square tea chest, measuring
some three feet in each direction, resting upon a high, triangular shelf. The
Old One was standing in front of the desk, watching Chung Sung thumb through
some account books.
     "Leave me, Old One," Chung Sung was saying in a tone that lacked all
chime. "After I have finished these accounts, I shall go to the shipping office
myself, and check the latest delivery."
     "You will not be wise, Chung Sung," the Old One protested. "The less they
know, the better it will be."
     "The more I know, the better," corrected Chung Sung. "Open the window, now
that the fog is past. Then go, and you need not summon me. I shall receive a
phone call as soon as the trucks arrive."
     The Old One opened the window, which consisted of tiny, metal-rimmed
panes. The window itself was heavily clamped, making this as good as a strong
room, for the thick panes were obviously bulletproof. With the Old One at the
window and Chung Sung studying the accounts, The Shadow easily edged in past
the screen to the darkness cast by a mammoth idol that towered at the side of
the room.
     It was a timely move, for by then, there was a sharp rapping at the door
which The Shadow had closed. As the Old One started to answer it, Chung Sung
sprang to his feet and strode ahead. Both went beyond the screen; The Shadow
heard the door open and listened to the talk that followed.
     Some one who had just come up in the elevator was reporting Cranston's
disappearance. Chung Sung clanged an angry reply; then his voice faded, while
the door slammed. The Old One had gone along too, so The Shadow emerged quickly
from the darkness and took the place behind the corner desk, to study the
account books.
     The books were bound in red cloth, but they bore the symbols of Wei Hai
Wei; not the word Mandarin. On the open page, The Shadow saw the name "Gray
Star Shipping Company" written in English, with listings in Chinese characters
and numerals beneath. They were coded which made their deciphering all the more
difficult, so The Shadow began copying the notations. He wasn't checking the
passing time, but merely listening for the door to open.
     Minutes had run into minutes when an interruption came, the ringing of the
telephone on Chung Sung's desk. The Shadow had anticipated this, since Chung
Sung had spoken of an incoming call, and had intended to let it ring, since it
could not be heard beyond the thick door.
     What changed The Shadow's whole plan was a sudden recollection which only
the sound of a phone bell, not the mere thought of it, could have induced.
Without an instant's hesitation, The Shadow flipped back, shot his hands
straight up like pistons and came to his feet with an even more powerful force.
     The timing was perfect, the result amazing. The Shadow caught the snaky
figure of Taka Takara as it came lunging forward in mid-air. The tea chest on
the shelf behind The Shadow had spread wide open and it was from that hiding
place that Takara had launched himself, this time armed with a knife instead of
a strangle cord.
     Thanks to The Shadow's grab, Takara's intended stab had gone high and far.
Takara himself went further still, hurled by a forward heave of The Shadow's
arms. He struck the screen and toppled it, then came up with it, driving it
blindly like a battering ram as The Shadow came swinging around from behind the
desk.
     Takara's drive was lucky. To avoid it, The Shadow had to swerve. Luckier
still was the spidery man's chance glimpse of The Shadow's side-twisting
figure. Takara whirled completely with the folded screen, finally giving it a
heave. Taking a wide circle to avoid those maneuvers, The Shadow had no chance
to aim, for Takara had already reached the open window.
     Diving over the sill, Takara must have taken one of his patented bounces,
when he struck the roof a dozen feet below, for by the time The Shadow arrived
at the window, the thin-limbed killer was taking another catlike leap from the
roof-edge to a lower building across a narrow alley.
     Turning, The Shadow saw that the tricky tea-chest had closed on spring
hinges and automatically locked itself, immediately after Takara's lunge.
Ignoring the telephone which still was ringing, The Shadow picked up the
screen. Just then, the ringing stopped. The Shadow set the screen where it
belonged.
     Going out through the door, The Shadow left it open, moved through the
hall and pried his way into the elevator shaft - for by now the car had gone
down again. As he closed the shaft door, The Shadow heard the telephone begin
to ring again, and through the crack he saw the Old One hurrying to the living
room.
     A hollow laugh, low but weird, came up from the chimney top and its echoes
seemed to cling there as The Shadow himself emerged.
     The Shadow's return to Chung Sung's preserves had proven highly
profitable, for it had clinched the last doubts that The Shadow held regarding
the Jade Dragon and its chain of crime.


     XVI

     GETTING out of Chinatown was The Shadow's immediate problem when he
reached the street, and he went at it more swiftly than he had on a previous
night, for he was confident that the Wei Hai Wei mesh-work had spread wide in
its hunt for Cranston.
     In fact, The Shadow was inviting trouble, the way he ignored darkened
patches along green-lit streets, but he was all prepared for it. He was
spotting low, ornamental roof-tops that certain types of lurkers might choose,
and he wasn't disappointed. From one, a long figure unlimbered with a hand that
hurled a knife, but that hand went high as The Shadow delivered a speedier
gun-stab.
     A falling knife, a shriek, a figure clattering back along the roof; these
merely caused The Shadow to change course crazily and spot the next likely
place where an assassin would be. There, a knife was already winging on its
way, but the throw was wide. Firing before the knife-man could dodge, The
Shadow brought him tumbling to a lower roof.
     Shooting for another bat's roost, The Shadow brought a prompt howl and
continued on his way. The shots would be bringing in the Wei Hai Wei cordon,
but it would now be easy to weave through it. The Shadow's pressing problem was
his agents, but that was settled when Hawkeye suddenly appeared from an alley
and gave a quick beckon.
     "Recognized your shots, chief," panted Hawkeye, as The Shadow joined him.
"I've got a cab waiting on the next street. If we hurry it will still be there."
     The cab was still there, for its driver had heard the shots and was
somewhat petrified. The Shadow climbed in with Hawkeye; the cab wheeled a few
swift blocks and Cranston dropped off, leaving the black cloak and hat with
Hawkeye. The cab circled back to pick up the other agents, whose locations
Hawkeye knew. Pressure was off, however, for as Cranston, The Shadow could
settle it, and did.
     Making a quick leap to the doorway of an auction gallery, Cranston came
strolling out in leisurely style, looking curiously about. It was only a block
to the edge of Chinatown and as he headed that direction, Cranston met a pair
of Chinese who paused as though they recognized him. He flashed the Wei Hai Wei
token and continued on, retracing his original route past the fireworks factory,
where he glanced in interested fashion at the big red packages of fire-crackers
that were in the window display.
     Word must have spread rapidly that Cranston hadn't disappeared but had
just been overlooked and had now finished his Chinatown tour. For in the
International Settlement adjoining Chinatown, Cranston looked back and saw the
Wei Hai Wei sign do a blackout. Singular, that change from green to black, as
though they could not mix. It was only as The Shadow that Cranston encountered
trouble in the preserves of the Wei Hai Wei.
     Outside Chinatown, Cranston picked a route that he had outlined to Hawkeye
and soon the cab overtook him, bringing Chance and Cliff along with Hawkeye.
Keeping Hawkeye, Cranston dropped the others off with new instructions, then
resumed the cloaked costume of The Shadow. Near the waterfront, The Shadow left
the cab himself, telling Hawkeye to retain it.
     A half-block brought The Shadow to a dimly lighted building that bore the
name Gray Star Shipping Company. Outside, two trucks were standing, apparently
awaiting something or somebody. They weren't expecting The Shadow, for he
glided unnoticed through a gloomy doorway and up some stairs to an office,
which bore the title: MANAGER. The door was open and, inside, a worried man was
pacing back and forth.
     The Shadow waited until slow footsteps sounded from the stairs. He drew
back into darkness as Chung Sung appeared, wearing a robe that looked quite
plain in contrast to his usual garish costume. Chung Sung entered; the manager
stopped pacing, and closed the door. The Shadow inched it open a half minute
later and saw Chung Sung beginning to compare his account book with bills of
lading that the manager was spreading on the desk.
     "They're all there, Mr. Sung," the manager insisted. "All shipped and paid
for, every load that's come in on the trucks."
     "They still aren't right," returned Chung Sung in a discordant tone.
     "If you mean the whole thing isn't right," the manager insisted, "I agree.
This business of shipping stuff from nowhere to nowhere without knowing what it
is - well, to be fair, I'll say it's only irregular."
     "Nothing is irregular that's paid for," chimed Chung Sung, in more
pleasant tone. "I merely want the payments to tally. They add up but they don't
break down."
     The shipping manager shrugged.
     "They come in on your trucks," he said, "and they're picked up by others
in small lots, just the way you ordered. We know what trucks they're to go in,
so they go."
     "You're positive they're labeled right?"
     "Positive. Only we had trouble with those Chinese labels of yours. One
trucker complained he couldn't read the characters, so he got some saying
"Mandarin" in English, which means the same thing."
     "Not exactly," objected Chung Sung. "The Chinese characters stand for Wei
Hai Wei. But that may be the very trouble. I'll have labels printed both in
Chinese and in English to avoid future mistakes. Have those trucks outside
unloaded?"
     "Yes, because you were late getting here. I guess the drivers are waiting
to talk to you, Mr. Sung."
     The Shadow was gone by the time Chung Sung came down stairs with his
account book under his arm. Around the corner from Hawkeye's cab, The Shadow
was contacting Chance and Cliff, who had arrived in a speedy car.
     "Instructions," undertoned The Shadow. "Trail the trucks out front to
wherever they came from. If urgent, stay on ground. Report back through
Burbank."
     When the truck drivers left after their conference with Chung Sung, they
were promptly followed by a skillfully driven car that could taxi them anywhere
unnoticed. Meanwhile, the cab drove to the Hotel Sonora, where The Shadow
alighted as Cranston, leaving his cloak, hat, and guns with Hawkeye for another
trip to the laundry.
     Reaching his room, Cranston phoned Gloria, to suggest a midnight snack
with Myra, who would probably be through her job by that time. There was no
answer, so Cranston decided Gloria wasn't back yet from the movies. Hanging up
the phone he went to the window and listened to the sound of distant police
sirens. They were trailing off toward Chinatown, probably to investigate some
recent excitement there.
     Musingly, Cranston spoke half-aloud:
     "Mandarin - tea-chest -"
     Going to the telephone, Cranston called up Burbank and relayed
instructions through the contact man.
     "Have Hawkeye take up early duty," Cranston ordered. "Check trucks going
out from the Gray Star Shipping Company and learn the destinations of their
loads. He knows the place."
     Back at the window, Cranston resumed his musing tone:
     "Mandarin - tea-chest -"
     A neat trick, that tea-chest planted at Chung Sung's where The Shadow,
whether expected or unexpected, had set himself where he would have received
Takara's quick knife, but for his own quicker skill. But The Shadow had
remembered twice when a telephone call had signaled Takara to action. Once when
it had rung at Gilmar's, causing Takara to attack Gloria. Again, at Kremp's,
where a ringing phone had warned Takara into flight, just before a deadly
explosion.
     One more link was all The Shadow needed. It came suddenly to Cranston's
ears, a ringing of the telephone bell in this hotel room. Instinctively,
Cranston wheeled from the window to make sure Takara wasn't lurking somewhere.
Though he had clipped some high-perched knife-men while leaving Chinatown as
The Shadow, Cranston was unfortunately sure that Takara hadn't been one of them.
     Picking up the phone, Cranston spoke in his own calm tone. A crisp answer
came:
     "Check special lottery sheet tomorrow. You may be a big winner. If you
are, wait for another phone call."
     The receiver clicked at the other end and Cranston promptly dipped his
hand into his pocket to bring out the few dozen tickets that he'd bought from
the persistent sellers who had thronged around when he was leaving the Wei Hai
Wei headquarters.
     All the slips bore the name of Wei Hai Wei, but there were four that
lacked the scrawly signatures that lottery sellers always put on their slips to
identity them. Four worthless slips, according to the usual lottery rules; but
these could prove to be winners in another type of game.
     Evidently they'd been shoved into Cranston's hand along with others. But
this still didn't mean that he'd received them from any of the lottery peddlers
whose signatures were on the other slips. Anybody could have included these in
that mad rush. For that matter, some of the ticket peddlers might have handed
Cranston slips signed by some other Wei Hai Wei seller, just to cloud the issue
further.
     "Mandarin - tea-chest - lottery -"
     Cranston was repeating his former theme with a new addition as he put on
his tuxedo in preparation for the midnight date that he intended to make with
Gloria and Myra. It might prove important to Myra Reldon particularly, because
Cranston intended to have her seek a new job as Ming Dwan, a much nicer job
than passing out laundry packages.
     Tomorrow would mark the beginning of a final trail, of that Lamont
Cranston was sure. But he could foresee that it would be fraught with
unexpected dangers which might make all previous experiences seem mild, both
for Cranston and others.
     Again, The Shadow's foresight was at work.


     XVII

     AT SEVEN o'clock the next morning, Lamont Cranston strolled into a
basement cafe called Coffee Joe's. He'd been out doing the night spots until
two, with Gloria and Myra, but early rising was his habit. In Cranston's life,
sleep was something he could turn on and off. He could accumulate it, to have a
reserve for times when he might have to go for days without it.
     All this was the result of long, intensive training in auto-hypnosis among
the Masters of Tibet, during the same period when Cranston had gained his
extensive knowledge of Oriental ways, lore, and languages. Hence when he came
into Coffee Joe's this morning, Cranston looked like an alert business man
ready for a brisk day.
     This was the breakfast hour in every San Francisco restaurant except
Coffee Joe's. There weren't any special hours in this place; it just operated
around the clock. Unusual even in a unique city like San Francisco, Coffee
Joe's was basically a sober-up club. When all the regular night-spots closed,
people came piling in here, particularly those who didn't have a hotel room, or
want one. They gorged on coffee, maybe ordered eggs or hamburger on the side,
then gradually collapsed.
     All during the wee hours that this went on, Coffee Joe's provided free
platform entertainment with a relay of piano pluggers and a string of comedians
who alternated as singers and masters of ceremony, calling talented members of
the audience to the platform and getting them to do their stuff. But the show
always quit by dawn and from then on the place looked like a barracks, with
inert figures flopped in chairs and across tables.
     In arriving at this hour and in such fine condition, Cranston could only
be searching for some wayward friend. A lone waiter escorted him obligingly
from table to table, lifting heads by their hair to show Cranston their faces.
Finally, the complacent visitor nodded, sat down and handed the waiter a bill.
     "Four cups of coffee," ordered Cranston. "One for me" - he nudged to the
hunchy figure sprawled beside him - "and three for him. Make them black."
     As the waiter left, the hunchy man tilted his head to show the wizened
face of Hawkeye. Opening one eye, he looked at Cranston, who spoke in the
Shadow's undertone:
     "Report."
     "The stuff went out," whispered Hawkeye. "Big crates of it. Different
pick-up trucks took it and the drivers paid over cash before they started.
Plenty of cash in big bills."
     Hawkeye licked his lips more in recollection of the money he had seen than
in anticipation of the coffee that was coming to give him a sobering treatment
he didn't need.
     "How were the crates marked, Hawkeye?"
     "With crazy Chinese characters," Hawkeye replied. "Except for a few that
somebody plastered with a red label that said 'Mandarin.' I didn't manage to
tail any of the trucks, but I came across one down at a wharf. They were
unloading a few of the crates - ones marked with the Chinese letters - and they
were going on a boat for Hong Kong. I saw a purser stick his tags on them. It
said "Minerals" but I don't know whether that was right. I'll show you why."
     From his pockets, Hawkeye began to disgorge lumps that looked like coal,
big lumps, some of which smeared his fingers. The waiter was coming with the
coffee, so Hawkeye quickly wiped his hands and went into a slouch, while
Cranston laid a morning newspaper over the exhibits on the table.
     With coffee cups lined up and the waiter gone his way again, Hawkeye
opened an eye and asked:
     "Is coal a mineral?"
     Nodding that it was, Cranston began to examine the chunks. Hawkeye added a
bit of information:
     "They're different kinds of coal. That's why I picked them."
     Superficially, Hawkeye was right. Some of the lumps were very smudgy and
black. Others gave only the faintest smudge and showed a trifle brownish when
Cranston tilted them into the light. A third variety gave a brilliant black
glisten, which was curious, because it did not smudge at all. Taking one of
Coffee Joe's table knives, Cranston scratched the surface of such a lump. The
black stuff scraped away, showing the color of apple-green beneath.
     "Jade," defined Cranston, while Hawkeye gawked. "Raw jade, painted black
to look like coal so people won't be too curious about it when they see it with
these other lumps."
     Hawkeye gave his lips a puzzled lick.
     "I thought jade comes from China!"
     "It does," returned Cranston, "but this shipment is going there."
Significantly he added: "There's no law against that, even if somebody doesn't
want it known."
     Gesturing for Hawkeye to pocket the various lumps, Cranston clapped him on
the back and shoved a few cups of coffee in front of him. As he arose, Cranston
undertoned, Shadow style:
     "Instructions. Join agents Marsland and LeBrue at Longview Tourist Camp,
ten miles from Stockton. Trucks were trailed to Hilo Ranch, near there. The
ranch is heavily protected with electrified barbed wire. Use extreme care in
any investigation."
     Stuffing his pocket with one hand, lifting a coffee cup with the other,
Hawkeye mumbled:
     "Instructions received."
     From the coffee joint, Lamont Cranston went directly to 12 1/2 Fresno
Street. He had been ignoring Gilmar's purposely, but Marquette had received
assurance, through Vincent, that the place was not being watched.
     Arriving there, Cranston was admitted by Harry, who conducted him to
Gilmar's study, remarking on the way that Marquette had not yet appeared.
Gilmar was seated behind his desk and on it still rested the Oriental
chessboard with its beautifully carved chess-men of clear green jade and dull
black jet. Finishing a hand-shake, Cranston gestured to the board.
     "What about our promised game, Gilmar?"
     "This early in the morning?" laughed Gilmar. Then, his expression
sobering, he decided: "It may be a good idea. Chess stimulates the mind. We can
talk while we play."
     The board was set with the green men toward Gilmar, the black toward
Cranston, so Cranston suggested that Gilmar open play with the lighter color,
as was customary in chess. Watching as the game proceeded, Harry Vincent found
his admiration balanced between the chess-men and the players. Apple-hued jade
and sable jet, both types of chess-men were matchless. But the play too was
faultless, and to make it all the more remarkable, Gilmar and Cranston
discussed other matters over the board.
     "The Wei Hai Wei is willing to buy," asserted Gilmar. "I met their
purchasing agent in one of the Chinatown shops where I had offered jade for
sale."
     "Did you learn his name'" asked Cranston.
     "No," replied Gilmar. "They speak of him only as the Old One. Oddly
enough, I'd seen him around Chinatown often before, but I never connected him
with the Wei Hai Wei."
     "At what time did you meet him?"
     "Late in the afternoon. I sometimes detour home from my office by way of
Chinatown."
     "Did he specify what kind of jade he wanted?"
     "Any that could be proven rare and fully certified as legitimately being
in America. The Wei Hai Wei wants only honest jade with a pedigree."
     Gilmar finished that remark with a dour, knowing smile; then shaking his
shaggy head slightly, he added:
     "I think the Wei Hai Wei has found a customer. One that they want to
encourage, perhaps as a build-up to underground transactions later."
     "I know they have a customer," responded Cranston. "I called on Chung Sung
last night and met the Old One whom you mention."
     Bushy eyebrows raised to show that Gilmar's interest was keen. Briefly,
Cranston related his interview with Chung Sung, ending with an account of how
the lottery sellers had almost mobbed him while peddling their tickets.
     "In with the regular slips," added Cranston, "I found these." He brought
out the slips that bore no signatures. "All are marked identically, you may
notice."
     "But being unsigned," reminded Gilmar, "they are worthless."
     "Perhaps not." Cranston moved a chess piece. "I received a call, saying to
watch for a special lottery sheet, one of those overlays that indicate your
winnings."
     As Gilmar moved one of the green chess-men, a voice spoke from beside the
board. The tone was Marquette's; he had entered without the players noticing
him and had caught the last part of the conversation.
     "It sounds like the same old stunt," voiced Vic. "Using lottery slips to
cover jade delivery. Only this time the Wei Hai Wei will play it safe, to bluff
us. I've just been talking to this Old One that you mention. He plays goofy,
pretending he's Chung Sung, then admitting he isn't. But I think he's smart -
at least except for that."
     From his remarks, Vic had obviously been to the Wei Hai Wei headquarters.
Promptly Cranston asked:
     "You saw Chung Sung, too?"
     "No," replied Marquette. "The Old One says he went out of town. What I
went to ask about were some wounded knife-men that we rounded up last night.
Their knives bore the Wei Hai Wei symbols, but they won't say whether or not
they belong to the Wei Hai Wei."
     "Naturally not," boomed Gilmar. "If they do belong, the Wei Hai Wei would
eliminate them for telling the truth. If they don't belong, it would eliminate
them because they lied. What did the Old One say about them?"
     "He said flatly that they didn't belong," returned Marquette. "He showed
me the registration lists of the entire Wei Hai Wei, as if that meant anything.
He gave the usual story about the knives; they were just regular merchandise
that the Wei Hai Wei trade-marked and put on the market, but recalled months
ago."
     From his pocket, Vic brought some folded bills and spread the money on the
desk, with a typed list.
     "We found this cash on one of the knife-men," stated Marquette. "Some of
the money you paid for the Jade Dragon, Gilmar. The serial numbers tally with
this list of yours. So we know that Taka Takara is linked with the knifemen,
but we can't hook him up with the Wei Hai Wei."
     Cranston might have, considering how Takara had been stationed in Chung
Sung's own living room, as if in expectation of The Shadow. But that wasn't
part of the Cranston story - not yet. Cranston moved another black piece on the
chessboard and pointed it out to Gilmar, who gave a nod. The game was over, it
had ended in a stalemate, a draw between the men of jet and jade.
     "The Wei Hai Wei has forced us into just one channel," opined Cranston,
"so why not follow it? Offer them legitimate jade, Gilmar, and I'll buy it.
They'll make a profit, but I'm willing to afford it."
     Gilmar nodded that the idea was good. Certainly it would prove something
of the way in which the Wei Hai Wei operated. Nobody had to express that
self-evident fact.
     "To make it attractive," continued Cranston, "offer them the Jade Dragon
as Item Number One."
     Gilmar gave a horrified blink, his chalkish face actually gaining color.
     "My most cherished possession!" he exclaimed. "You couldn't ask me to risk
it, Cranston!"
     "There's no risk," returned Cranston, "the Wei Hai Wei will be paid by me
to deliver."
     "He's right, Gilmar," put in Marquette. "Besides, there's luck in that
dragon for the person who owns it. That keeps the good luck between you and
Cranston and gives the bad to Chung Sung."
     Gilmar relaxed with a smile.
     "I like to drive away bad luck," he admitted, "otherwise I'd have let this
house keep its proper number, thirteen. I'll offer the Jade Dragon -"
     "And this chess-set," added Cranston, with a gesture toward the board and
its two types of chessmen. "I assume of course that it is listed in the
Imperial Album."
     Gilmar pressed his fingers to his big forehead as though trying to recall
the chess-set's status. Harry Vincent promptly referred to some records that he
had compiled.
     "Item C-H - 4-2," announced Harry, "listing 853 M-D. A direct gift from
the Empress Dowager to Commander Rufus Niles, who helped train the Chinese
navy. Sold by the Niles Estate to Mr. Gilmar."
     Now, Gilmar was nodding that he remembered, but his forehead showed a
frown as he glanced at the chess-set.
     "Some of those pieces might be damaged in transit," said Gilmar. "I'd hate
to see that happen."
     Just as a convincer, Cranston brushed a few of the black men to the floor,
doing it very artfully with a side-gesture. The Jet men bounded from the bare
hard-wood and so did Gilmar. Then Cranston was picking up the chess-men and
holding them in the glare of the light. Not one of the carved chessmen was
nicked, nor was the dull-black finish even slightly marred.
     Gilmar gave a half-way happy laugh. Then:
     "I guess they will stand the strain," he said, slowly. "Very well,
Cranston, the chess-set is Item Two. Now will you kindly let me choose
something for a change?"
     Cranston agreed that he would. Noting that it was approaching nine
o'clock, the time when Gilmar was due at his importing office, Cranston decided
to leave before he managed to upset any of Gilmar's more perishable bric-a-brac.
One reason for his leaving was that he wanted to go to his hotel. That in turn
reminded Gilmar that he would have to go to the office by way of Chinatown, to
leave word for the Old One that legitimate Chinese antiques were up for sale.
     Starting by cab from 12 1/2 Fresno, Cranston changed his destination as
soon as he was over the hill. He wasn't going back to the Hotel Sonora - not
yet. He had decided to go to Chinatown instead.
     Lamont Cranston had just come to the opinion that he might learn as much
in Chinatown by day - as himself - as he did by night when he traveled in the
guise of The Shadow.


     XVIII

     LAMONT CRANSTON saw a lot in Chinatown.
     He saw Jonathan Gilmar stop at an antique shop and leave a note. Harry
Vincent was with Gilmar, evidently accompanying him to the downtown office.
     Also, Cranston saw a girl who didn't look like Myra Reldon, but who was,
toddling along in Chinese style in her character of Ming Dwan. Ming Dwan had
landed a new job. Cranston saw her go into the Three Pagodas and when he
strolled past the place later Ming Dwan was serving tea to a customer at a
table window.
     Soon after, Cranston saw the Old One.
     It turned out that the Old One covered quite a route by day, which was
probably why he liked to stay in nights. One of his stops was at the Three
Pagodas; another at the antique shop were Gilmar had left the message.
     Later, the Old One went into the Loo Ting Fireworks Factory, and there
Cranston followed him. This was simple enough, because the factory had a
display room where Cranston could look about unnoticed, whereas the Old One
went into a private office which belonged to a man named Junius Ambridge.
     Various Chinese enterprises were American-managed, especially those on
Chinatown's outskirts, or the kind which handled nation-wide sales. From behind
a rack of skyrockets that ranged from ten-centers to a five dollar size,
Cranston got a good look at Ambridge as he opened the office door and rather
brusquely nodded the Old One out. Ambridge was tall, sallow-faced and
shirt-sleeved. He seemed tired of his job because as he nodded one Chinese
customer out, another promptly bowed his way into the office.
     This kept on for half an hour. All the interviews were brief and Cranston
soon gathered that the customers, like the Old One, were purchasing agents for
Chinese companies and associations. One of the numerous Chinese celebrations
was almost due and it would be no celebration at all, without plenty of
fire-crackers and pyrotechnics.
     Cranston left while Ambridge was dismissing his final customer. At the
next corner, Cranston found a phone booth, called Burbank, and asked for a
switch-in to the Hotel Sonora. Inquiring if there were any telephone messages,
Cranston learned that a call was just coming through, so he took it.
     The voice was the same as last night. It said:
     "Policy sheet is ready. You pick it up at Three Pagodas."
     Taking a long detour to the Three Pagodas, Cranston passed near the Wei
Hai Wei headquarters and saw the Old One trekking homeward. He'd tracked the
Old One rather well, Cranston had, yet there was another man he'd seen more
often. That man was Vic Marquette. Cranston had crossed Vic's path about
everywhere, but Vic hadn't crossed anybody else's.
     There was a peculiar art in strolling unnoticed during daylight. Cranston
understood it, while Marquette didn't.
     Reaching the Three Pagodas, Cranston took a deep table and called for a
round-trip. This meant that Myra would have to pour a dozen tiny tea-cups of
different blends of tea, so that the customer could sample and compare them.
Also, as Ming Dwan, she had to stand by and give refills on brands the customer
wanted to taste again.
     The two partners who owned the Three Pagodas were both present behind the
counter, engaged in an argumentative babble over a batch of unpaid bills and
order sheets. Their excited palaver covered Myra's undertone.
     "They are really mixed up," Myra told Cranston. "About the only thing they
could agree on, was giving me a job. Half the time, they deliver the wrong brand
of tea to a customer, and an old Chinaman with whiskers was just in a while ago
to tell them that they had actually sent him an empty tea-chest by mistake."
     With a gesture, Cranston listened to the babbling proprietors, while Ming
Dwan politely poured some tea. They were talking about the Old One now. He'd
said to send the tea in packages; that he'd keep the chest. They'd sent the
packages already, in a delivery truck; now they were arguing whether or not
they'd dispatched the brands that the Old One actually wanted.
     Finishing his tea-sipping, Cranston ordered a few pounds of one blend from
Ming Dwan; then went over to the counter. The partners stopped their argument
and bowed.
     "I've already bought some tea," said Cranston. "You wouldn't have today's
lottery sheet would you?"
     One partner started for the back room, saying there would be a sheet in
the desk drawer. The other called after him that there wasn't any there,
because he'd looked. The first man returned, triumphantly waving the sheet.
Cranston took it and strolled out, collecting his tea from Ming Dwan as he
passed.
     "Check the office and the store room," Cranston undertoned in parting.
"Find out what you can, but be careful unless you have Burke outside. Contact
Burbank when you need him."
     Myra bowed a nod as she handed over the tea in Ming Dwan style.
     Riding to the hotel, Cranston tallied the overlay sheet with the four
unsigned slips that had found their way into his pocket the night before. Every
character crossed out on the little slip showed through a punch hole on the Wei
Hai Wei section of the overlay, scoring four perfect wins for Mr. Cranston. But
this wasn't the regular overlay, giving last night's lottery winners. It was a
special that had been left at the Three Pagodas just for Cranston's benefit.
     The phone bell was jangling as Cranston reached his room. After taking a
quick look to make sure that Takara wasn't lurking in the waste-basket,
Cranston answered the phone. The voice again:
     "Big winner, Mr. Cranston. Four tickets worth twenty-five thousand
dollars, special, all together. You take it, pay later if you like it."
     "Good," agreed Cranston. "I'll pick up my winnings tonight."
     "May take longer. Three days maybe."
     "Tomorrow."
     "Maybe day after."
     "Where?"
     "Pick up bundles same place," the voice said. "Three Pagodas. Each package
in your name."
     The call chopped off and again Cranston tried to define the voice. It was
American, definitely, faking choppy English. It couldn't be Chinese because the
pronunciation was too accurate. That mental verdict brought a light laugh from
Cranston.
     Phoning Gilmar's office, Cranston was answered by Harry Vincent, who gave
a prompt report.
     "The Old One called Gilmar," stated Harry, "so Gilmar went home to get the
dragon, the chess-set, and two jade caskets. He's taking them to the antique
shop."
     "What about the price?" asked Cranston.
     "The Wei Hai Wei offered twenty thousand," replied Harry. "Gilmar is
holding out for twenty-five. He thinks it's better to bargain, rather than have
Chung Sung get suspicious. He called Marquette, who agrees."
     Finishing the call, Cranston considered Gilmar's decision. He'd expected
things to work that way; in fact Cranston had hoped for it. Marquette had
probably agreed because it would allow time for further Chinatown investigation
before the case came to a boil. Cranston was pleased for the same reason except
that he was planning his own investigation elsewhere - as The Shadow.
     At dusk, Cranston took off in a plane for Stockton and as he looked down
into the gloom that shrouded San Francisco, he saw no green glow among the
glittering lights of Chinatown. That was a good sign in itself - or rather,
lack of a certain sign. The Wei Hai Wei was taking a night off.
     A car was waiting to pick up Cranston and his luggage at the Stockton
airport. Chance LeBrue was at the wheel and some ten miles out of town, he
veered the car from the highway up along a slope where there was no road at
all. There were turns on the shaggy hillside where Chance hung one wheel off
the edge, but neither Cranston nor the back seat passengers - Cliff Marsland
and Hawkeye - were at all perturbed.
     LeBrue had gained his nickname "Chance" by driving cars through walls of
fire and flame, a career which had indirectly gotten him into The Shadow's
service.
     Now, catching a pair of ruts, LeBrue slithered the car into a gully,
rocked it at an angle, and skimmed it beneath a cross-stretch of wire. This was
the outer barrier of the Hilo Ranch.
     "It was Hawkeye who spotted that arroyo," commended Cliff. "By getting
under the fence, we can drive right to the main ranch house."
     "Cliff thought of digging out the gully," returned Hawkeye. "That's what
made it deep enough."
     Chance had flipped off the lights and was working the car up a wiggly
slope. Catching a rutted road again, he put the lights on, drove a full mile to
the ranch house and parked the car in back. After everyone was out, Chance
slammed the door loudly. Other cars were parked about the place and apparently
the more noise they made, the less suspicion they created.
     Flashlights were probing the darkness around the ranch house, indicating
that regular guards were watching for prowlers. But The Shadow's agents were
within that circle, and their chief was really with them, for Cranston had now
become The Shadow. He was here for a task that the others had realized they
could not perform.
     Set in the rocky hillside just behind the ranch house was a formidable
iron door. Pacing nearby were two Chinese guards, each with shot-guns crooked
across their arms. Any approach to that door would have to be swift to escape
detection, but that was only the first problem. The guards came pacing back so
frequently that they could spot anyone working at the door itself.
     Anyone except The Shadow.
     Gliding between the guards, The Shadow blacked himself against the door
itself, forming an absolute motionless figure every time the guards paced by.
But between those times, he was working on the huge lock, and after what seemed
interminable minutes, it yielded. Timing the patrols to just the right second.
The Shadow blinked a flashlight.
     Stooped low, the three agents reached the open door and scooted through as
The Shadow eased it shut, just before the pacing Chinese returned.
     Within the door, a distant light dimly marked the turn in a slanted shaft
that led below. Following it, The Shadow and his men passed walls that showed
brownish chunks among the drab rock of white and gray. The Shadow identified
those brown patches as lignite, a substance akin to coal. Then, as the corridor
wound more sharply, with lights more frequent, deep patches of green appeared
amid the rock.
     Those streaks were jade, a whole mine full of it, here in the heart of a
California hill. Whoever had made this discovery must have already mined a
fortune, for large chunks and slabs of the green mineral were piled along the
walls. Then, just past a false shaft that poked upward, the corridor dipped to
the left. There, down the final lighted slope, was a gorgeous vista of glowing
green, a passage that terminated in a lighted chamber even more colorful.
     A true El Dorado, this sight was sufficient to lure even such veteran
explorers as The Shadow and his agents. They reached the spot where the passage
formed a narrowed arch above its rocky, green-sprinkled floor; then they were in
the larger chamber, where the walls reflected their splendid green upon the
faces of the men who viewed the scene.
     In this chamber was a stock-pile of jade already mined, so stony in color
that it dyed The Shadow's cloak to a dark green as he approached its spreading
glare. Yet the very glow of the jade breathed warning, a warning that The
Shadow suddenly heeded.
     Wheeling, The Shadow noted something that he had not observed before,
purely because the light from within the chamber had been stronger than that of
the passage. Now, with the darker tunnel as a background, he could see a faint,
streaky beam that denoted the glow of an electric eye across the rough-hewn
doorway. It was indeed a doorway, for in a vertical slit of rock, The Shadow
could see a straight line that looked like a thin edge of metal.
     Suddenly whipping himself between his startled agents, almost shouldering
them to the floor as he went, The Shadow made a swift dash back for the tunnel.
He had more than forty feet to go, for this chamber was large and ample. Too
ample. Hurrying after The Shadow, the agents could see that the space was too
great to allow their escape.
     Up the slope where the false passage turned, Chung Sung the Mandarin had
stepped into view, clad in one of his fancy robes. Apparently on inspection
tour, he had heard the intruders coming down the shaft. He'd gone into the
false passage; there he had caught a buzzing signal, repeated thrice over by
the broken beam from the photoelectric cell.
     Stepping out to the main shaft, Chung Sung had dipped his hand deep into
the rock and pressed a switch. Out across the mouth of the great jade chamber,
a huge steel door was slithering shut to seal The Shadow and his aids in with
the treasure trove that they had uncovered.
     Only The Shadow would have dared make the final lunge he did, right for
the narrowing side of the slowly sliding door. His gun ahead of him, he blasted
a shot as a warning to Chung Sung, but the Mandarin merely stepped back with
folded arms, to watch his own work complete itself.
     Then, the space between the moving door and solid wall seemed to squeeze
The Shadow into its folds, but as it tightened, The Shadow delivered a fierce,
defiant laugh that came ringing up through the passage. He flung himself
forward as he gave that challenge, so forcefully that he came popping through
the cramping space like a cork from a bottle.
     But with that, The Shadow did more.
     Landing hard and headlong, his knees just beyond the slow slithering
barrier, The Shadow bent his legs up from the scant space that immediately
dwindled into nothing. His laugh rising to a furious crescendo, he cut it off
in the midst of its strident defi, by whipping his cloaked arm across his face.
     The self-choked mirth was timed to the dull clang of the great door as it
finished its sealing of the chamber. To Chung Sung's ears, it sounded exactly
as though the barrier had blocked The Shadow, bouncing him backward, just as it
completely closed.
     From where he had sprawled on the uneven rocky floor, The Shadow could
have reared up and opened fire at Chung Sung. But with his agents still inside
the chamber, it was preferable to let Chung Sung himself ease the way for their
rescue and ultimate departure. So motionless that he seemed but a shaded portion
of the dimmed passage, The Shadow preserved his present invisibility until Chung
Sung departed.
     Rising then, The Shadow hurried up to the switch in the rocky wall,
pressed it, and saw his agents appear in the light of the chamber as the great
door slid back. Sending a whispered command down through the passage, The
Shadow waited until his men joined him; then slid the door shut again.
     Next, they were all following Chung Sung's route up to the iron-doored
mine entrance. The Shadow opened it, beckoned his agents out, and locked the
door again. Chung Sung had sent the guards to spread the alarm and had gone to
the ranch house himself, to give word there that he had sealed The Shadow and
some companions, but that other prowlers might be about.
     The only prowlers were the very men that Chung Sung thought he held as
hostages; but they did not prowl long. Getting back to the car, they pulled
away in it, apparently the first squad to start out on the hunt Chung Sung had
ordered. Chance LeBrue retraced the route down through the arroyo and out to
the hillside pathway.
     It was then that The Shadow laughed again.
     Not only had The Shadow uncovered Chung Sung's greatest secret, that
hidden jade mine in the hill; he had tricked the Mandarin into believing that
the secret was still buried and The Shadow with it!


     XIX

     A SECOND night had passed and The Shadow was still up among the Stockton
hills with the agents whom he had joined there. Chung Sung was there too, which
was why The Shadow stayed, since things could be regarded as somewhat static in
Chinatown while the Mandarin was absent.
     Working as a lone investigator, but with his agents ready in the offing,
The Shadow was making secret trips by dark to the premises that were called a
ranch, but really contained a remarkable jade mine.
     The Shadow's purpose was twofold: To make sure that Chung Sung still
thought he had his hostages tucked away until the time when he might need them;
also to learn facts about the mining enterprise, such as the number and
character of the personnel.
     From his visits, The Shadow learned that Chung Sung was still fooled about
the prisoners. He also discovered that the jade was mined by Chinese, who worked
in a single shift and lived quite regally at the ranch house. They were not
confined to the ranch premises, though they never left there except in small
groups. That indicated, however, that Chung Sung had been smart enough not to
run afoul of the immigration laws in bringing workers from China. All would
certainly have to carry bona fide passports.
     Meanwhile, in Chinatown, all was going splendidly at the Three Pagodas.
Myra Reldon had made but one mistake, but it had not occurred while she was
playing the part of Ming Dwan. Her mistake had been in taking two packets of
tea to her apartment. It was a brand called Golden Jasmine and Myra had given
one packet to Gloria Brent.
     Totally unaware of what terrific consequences such a slight action might
produce, the coy Ming Dwan had meanwhile gained the full confidence of the
distressed partners who owned the Three Pagodas. As a result, she was able to
spend considerable time straightening the store room. However, she remembered
The Shadow's admonition to keep contact with Clyde Burke and on this day, Ming
Dwan was very glad she had obeyed it.
     Clyde was writing a series of articles on Chinatown and liked the Three
Pagodas as a place where he could sit quietly and transcribe his notes. So Myra
had found time to go into the black room, with its stacks of chests, boxes,
bags, and all sorts of miscellaneous stuff that the brainless proprietors
wouldn't throw away because they were afraid it might be worth something.
     As Ming Dwan, Myra had probed through everything except an orderly stack
of great, metal-bound tea chests that made a pyramid of six in all, in the most
remote corner of the store room. It would take two people to lift each chest and
a climb would be needed to reach the top one. So Myra had left them alone,
noting that they were dust-covered and rusted. Maybe they were worth something,
too, as they obviously dated from the days of the clipper ships that had brought
great cargoes of tea across the Pacific Ocean.
     Today, Myra had been starting for the front shop when she remembered some
papers she'd intended to look at. So she stepped behind a cluster of boxes and
paused. Myra was hearing a slight sound which she thought at first might be
rats until she looked. Then, any horror that she could ever have of rats
dwindled into complete insignificance.
     A strange thing was happening with the metal-bound tea chests. The middle
row of two was lifting itself, the pair spreading wide on hinges. The top
chest, the single one, was also hinged, for it was easing down between the
other two, the whole affair acting like a set of giant lazy-tongs.
     There were three chests in the bottom row; the outer two remained
stationary, like pedestals from which the upper chests operated. That left the
middle one completely free of any weight above it; hence its top could hinge up
backward, and was doing just that. Popping up from the open box was the most
hideous creation of human monstrosity that Myra could ever have wished not to
see.
     Taka Takara!
     Myra had heard about this thing from Gloria, and a thing was all it
properly could be called. Even the thought of the snakish eyes that glittered
from Takara's apology for a face, was enough to freeze the girl who was called
Ming Dwan. She stood there rigid, trying to gather voice for a frantic call to
Clyde Burke, before Takara came close enough to make a leap to the boxes and
get busy with a strangle cord.
     Taka Takara didn't see Ming Dwan.
     What Takara was looking for was an opening in another wall, which Myra had
inadvertently blocked by moving an old tea-cup rack. Turning past Myra, Takara
missed her completely because of intervening boxes. Clawing his finger nails
along the wall, Takara found the crevice he wanted, slid the rack a few inches
aside, and swiveled a panel in the wall.
     A singular panel that Myra had never noticed. It was cut in the brick wall
itself, hence when it pivoted, the alternating bricks formed jagged projections.
Once opened, Myra knew that the panel led into a narrow blind alley behind the
Three Pagodas. Takara slipped through and as the panel closed, Myra slumped to
her knees, waited for her brain to stop its swirl, then went out to talk to
Clyde.
     The keen-eyed reporter knew instantly that something was wrong, for he
could see that Myra had gone pale right through the yellow dye that gave her
the complexion of Ming Dwan. The partner on duty was looking moodily from the
front window, so Clyde slipped Myra a cup of strong tea.
     Myra gulped it. Then:
     "Taka Takara," she whispered. "Out through a brick panel into an alley. Go
around and come back through, but make sure Takara isn't still in the alley!"
     A few minutes later, Clyde came through the wall of the back room and
found Myra peering from the connecting door to the shop. She joined him and
they planked some boxes to keep the panel shut against Taka Takara, should he
return. They moved over to the pyramid of chests and when Myra explained how it
had opened and closed, Clyde gained a sudden idea.
     "Nobody would be dumb enough to try to lift the lid of that one," avowed
Clyde, pointing to the middle chest of the bottom row. "So I'm going to do the
dumb thing and try it."
     As Clyde lifted on that bottom lid, the rest of the stack behaved
automatically in the way that Myra had witnessed before. When the big lid was
up, it kept the outspread chests apart on their building hinges. Handing Myra
an automatic, Clyde told her to keep guard while he went down some steep steps
that showed below the bottomless box.
     Gone about three minutes, Clyde came back, lowered the bottom chest lid,
bringing down the well-counterbalanced pyramid. Taking back his gun, Clyde
shook his head.
     "Too creepy for me," he decided. "We'd better contact Burbank. There's a
passage down there, but I didn't follow it far. It made too many tricky turns
and there were too many doors along the way."
     They moved the boxes away from the brick panel then Clyde slipped out by
that route to phone Burbank, while Myra went back to her duties as Ming Dwan,
determined to confine her work to the front shop for the present.
     The Shadow was still out of town when Burbank received Clyde's call, but
the afternoon was well along and this was the day when Cranston's Jade
purchases might be delivered by the Wei Hai Wei. In fact, The Shadow had
suspended communication from the Stockton area, so Burbank assumed he was on
his way to San Francisco. Therefore, he simply gave instructions to stand by.
     Everything would have then gone nicely if Gloria Brent hadn't liked the
Golden Jasmine tea.
     In her apartment. Gloria had just finished the last of the little packet
that Myra had given her and now wanted more. She looked at the label on the
empty packet and saw the stamp of the Three Pagodas. Looking from her window,
Gloria decided there was still enough daytime for a trip to Chinatown and back.
     This, despite Cranston's strict advice, which had been thinning gradually
in Gloria's mind and which, she now decided, meant that she should only avoid
Chinatown after dark.
     So Gloria set out for Chinatown.
     Taking the street that led directly west to the Three Pagodas, Gloria
didn't know that she was following one of Cranston's favorite routes. She did
feel that the street was a trifle sinister, even in daylight, and she wondered
why.
     It could have been because eyes were watching her, eyes from a little
cubicle atop a brick building that squatted like a monster awaiting prey. If
the watcher had not been so remote, Gloria would have done a rapid
disappearance right then. For those eyes were much uglier than the building
from which they peered.
     They were the eyes of Taka Takara.
     There was a way in which Takara could pass the word along, and did. For
now that Jonathan Gilmar had sent the Jade Dragon on the move, Gloria had again
become a person who might know too much. The Shadow had anticipated that fact,
balanced it, and discounted it. Otherwise, as Cranston, he would not have urged
Gilmar to produce a situation that might prove menacing to Gloria.
     But Gloria out of the picture, compared to Gloria in it, were too very
different things. The Shadow had counted on her staying out; instead she was
walking in, and doing it in the one way that would surely bring her trouble.
Gloria's importance in the problems of the Jade Dragon, the Wei Hai Wei, or any
other factors had dwindled to the point where any thrust at her might prove a
boomerang.
     But in Chinatown, there were other ways of working than by thrusts, even
in daylight.
     When Gloria entered the Three Pagodas she was startled by a sharp gasp
from a Chinese waitress named Ming Dwan. When Gloria asked for Golden Jasmine,
Ming Dwan brought it, but all the while she eyed Gloria as though she
recognized her. Nevertheless, Ming Dwan did not speak. It was an absolute rule
that she should never reveal her Chinese disguise to any one other than The
Shadow's agents.
     This rule was working badly at the moment, where the safety of Gloria
Brent was concerned, but it was to prove its real worth later.
     Rather than give Gloria too many warning looks, Myra decided to wait for
Clyde to appear. The reporter had been strolling about, hoping to spot Takara
somewhere. But Gloria, looking from the tea-shop window, was gaining qualms of
her own as she saw daylight lessen. Without buying a pack of tea, as Myra
expected she would, Gloria rose suddenly and left the Three Pagodas.
     Worried about going east on the street that led past the ugly building,
Gloria turned a corner. That was her bad mistake. Sounds of Chinese music
attracted her attention and as she looked ahead, she didn't see a stoopish
Oriental come slouching toward her. Her shoulder jogged heavily, Gloria made an
instinctive recoil into a narrow alley. There, the hands of another crouchy
lurker grabbed her.
     The pair were on the order of the roof-top clan that The Shadow had a way
of clipping frequently. They were the sort who dealt in ugly but efficient work
which they would deny when questioned. Never acknowledging any mastery, but
always accepting it, such lurkers were too often in demand. In this case, that
tact was not surprising. They spirited Gloria through the swiveling brick wall
and down into the tea chest passage in the back room of the Three Pagodas, all
so swiftly and silently that ordinarily no one would have even guessed what
happened to Gloria Brent.
     It happened though that Clyde Burke came down the street where Gloria
Brent had vanished, only a minute or so later. From the front window of the
Three Pagodas, Myra Reldon had watched Gloria turn the corner, so she was sure
that Clyde must have seen the red-head. But as she questioned Clyde, Myra
suddenly caught the answer from the reporter's blank expression.
     In Ming Dwan style, Myra hurried to the back room, while Clyde, striding
through the front door, again circled around through the alley. Shoving through
the twisting brick, Clyde found Myra trying to lift the lid of the tricky
tea-chest. Clyde grabbed her.
     "We can't give ourselves away," said Clyde. "I'll contact Burbank again.
We'll do a better job, playing this slow. If nothing has happened to Gloria, it
won't for a while yet."
     Five minutes later, Burbank was relaying a call from Clyde Burke, sending
it along to Harry Vincent. With The Shadow and the remaining agents still out
of town, this was the most that Burbank could do. But a call to Harry was a
means of obtaining other and valuable aid.
     Such aid, indeed, was right beside Harry in Gilmar's study, in the person
of Vic Marquette, who was awaiting Gilmar's return from the downtown office.
     "It's about Gloria Brent," declared Harry, grimly, as he hung up the
telephone. "She's just disappeared in Chinatown."
     Marquette didn't ask how Harry knew. He just waited to hear more.
     "I've found out something about the Three Pagodas," added Harry. "There's
a secret entrance to an underground passage beneath the place. That may be
where they've taken Gloria."
     Vic simply arose and asked:
     "Shall we go?"
     "Yes," replied Harry. "But if anybody asks where the information came
from, it's better to put it in your department."
     "Naturally," nodded Vic. "I'll call the office first and tell them where
I'll be."
     Hardly had Marquette started his call when Gilmar came up the stairs and
into the study. He caught enough of Vic's conversation to realize its
importance. At mention of Gloria, Gilmar's eyes opened in a worried stare.
     "Be careful, Marquette!" exclaimed Gilmar. "The girl's life may be at
stake! Where did you say this passage was found?"
     "Under the Three Pagodas," returned Vic. "We thought the place didn't mean
anything very much. But those dopey partners who own it came across some kind of
an entrance to a maze. Where it leads, they don't know."
     Gilmar gave his shaggy head a serious shake.
     "If it's really a maze," he said, "there's only one way of finding where
it leads. That's with a compass. If you check your direction constantly, you
can pace the distance. What's more you'll be able to find your way back."
     "A good suggestion," agreed Vic. "We'll buy a couple of compasses down in
Chinatown. Come along, Vincent."
     As Harry and Vic sped away in a cab, Gilmar watched from his study window.
He saw the cab's tail-light disappear in the dusk which had begun to gather.
Beyond that, he saw the lights of Chinatown gradually twinkling into being.
Then, against a sky that was still partly bright, there appeared a sudden blaze
of green.
     The Wei Hai Wei sign had come to life, at a surprisingly early hour. It
meant, for one thing, that Chung Sung had returned to Chinatown, wherever he
might have been. But it could mean more, and very much more. It worried
Jonathan Gilmar.
     No wonder it worried Gilmar. Even The Shadow had encountered sinister
situations on evenings when that great green sign blazed its message!


     XX

     THE SHADOW, too, saw the green light flash.
     Just arrived by the Oakland Bridge, The Shadow ordered Chance LeBrue to
drive the car to Chinatown. On the outskirts, The Shadow alighted as Lamont
Cranston and began a zigzag stroll toward the headquarters of the Wei Hai Wei.
     Cranston was allowing Chance, Cliff and Hawkeye the opportunity to place
themselves at salient spots, as well as planting The Shadow's cloak and
accouterments in the little laundry where Myra Reldon had recently worked as
Ming Dwan.
     Loitering figures kept tabs on Cranston, as usual, until he reached the
Wei Hai Wei headquarters. There, he was promptly ushered into the elevator.
Riding up to the penthouse, he was bowed into Chung Sung's living room. There,
Chung Sung was seated at the big desk, while behind him, the Old One was
standing on a low ladder, dipping tea from the big chest and pouring it into a
large teapot.
     As Cranston sat down, the Old One descended the ladder and politely bowed
out of the room. Chung Sung smiled indulgently.
     "The Old One thinks himself very busy," Chung Sung said. "He still has
little purchases to make, even this late in the day. But speaking of purchases
- have you made any big ones?"
     With the question, Chung Sung eyed Cranston more narrowly than was needed.
     "Not yet," replied Cranston. "That is, if you mean have I bought rare
jade. I am planning to accept some on approval, however."
     "You have met persons who claim to be my representatives?"
     Cranston shook his head to that one.
     "Remember our agreement," said Chung Sung, his eyes still narrowed. "I
know a certain friend of yours who will appreciate it if you play fair with me.
I rather think" - the Mandarin's voice struck a discordant chime - "that you
have not heard from that friend very recently. You like to hear from your
friends, of course."
     "Of course."
     With that, Cranston left. He could guess one reason why Chung Sung had
started glaring the green lights as an invitation for Cranston to call on him.
It was only logical that Chung Sung should have connected Lamont Cranston with
The Shadow. Thinking he still held The Shadow captive, Chung Sung may have
wanted to find out if Cranston and The Shadow were one and the same.
     Since Cranston had appeared, Chung Sung now considered him merely as The
Shadow's friend and had played his game accordingly. As yet, Cranston hadn't
contacted Burbank to learn that another friend - Gloria Brent - was a prisoner
right here in San Francisco.
     The two men most immediately concerned with Gloria's plight were Vic
Marquette and Harry Vincent. While Cranston was strolling Chinatown's streets,
they were working the same territory underground. Armed with guns and
compasses, they were pacing a series of low, jointed passages and pacing their
course.
     There were numerous short turns that proved confusing, but all the
straight passages led due north. When they came to the end of the final
passage, Harry was able to calculate where they were. Grimly, he told Marquette:
     "We're right where we should expect to be. Directly under the headquarters
of the Wei Hai Wei."
     Vic checked his compass, pocketed it, and nodded. He knew that the Wei Hai
Wei headquarters lay due north from the Three Pagodas. Then, gun in hand,
Marquette thrust open the door that blocked their path.
     They came into a little anteroom, furnished in Oriental style. Looking for
hiding places that might hold such creatures as Takara, they saw none large
enough. But a door ahead swung open; hearing it, Vic and Harry both aimed with
their guns. They relaxed their trigger fingers when they saw the man who bowed
them greeting.
     He was the Old One. Politely twitching his mustachios and stroking his
spinach beard, he spoke in a cackly voice, while he rolled his eyes:
     "I am Chung Sung, the Mandarin."
     "It's all right, Old One," soothed Marquette, pressing the robed man
aside. "You've done your bit. We'll see Chung Sung himself, right now."
     Marquette pushed into the next room with Harry right behind him. Two
cowery servants in pantaloons and jackets dropped back to the sides of the
room. Ahead was another door and both Harry and Vic were covering it, when each
felt a sharp knife point press his neck, as a sharp voice commanded:
     "Do not move!"
     As Vic and Harry froze, the two cowering servants sprang forward like
vicious cats and snatched their automatics away from them. The pressing knife
points relaxed, the voice commanded the two prisoners to turn about. They did
and found themselves staring at the Old One, who was smiling foolishly again
and dangling the two knives in his hands.
     The Old One gestured a knife and the jacketed men used the captured guns
to march Harry and Vic into a side room, where other guards promptly flanked
them. From the snarls this tribe gave, it was easy to define them. They
belonged to the group of prowling knife-men that The Shadow had been thinning
during his Chinatown excursions. Until now they had admitted no allegiance to
anyone other than themselves, but at present they were taking orders from the
Old One.
     Since Harry and Vic had gauged their present location as directly under
the Wei Hai Wei headquarters, it followed that the knife-men actually belonged
to that company and that their overlord was therefore Chung Sung.
     Conducting the captives through other little rooms, the Old One finally
opened a door that led to a narrow balcony, with a large room beneath. There,
despite their predicament, Harry and Vic viewed the lower scene with amazed
interest. The room was a workshop, and at benches, rows of sickly looking
Chinese were at work, carving ornaments of jade.
     They were chained to their benches, those unfortunates. They represented
slave labor, skilled artisans who had been taken prisoners in their native
China and brought into the United States under false passports. Quite a
contrast to the situation that The Shadow had uncovered at the jade mine near
Stockton, where the workers were legally in the country and therefore
well-treated.
     But the jade mine, though kept hidden, was a legal enterprise; whereas
this secret work-shop was not.
     Familiar with the Imperial Album that depicted all forms of rare and
costly Chinese jade, Harry Vincent recognized the finished objects that were
racked along the benches. These slave laborers were working from full-sized
photographs and blue-prints, duplicating Chinese antiques almost to perfection,
for sale on the American market!
     Vic Marquette recognized this too.
     "No wonder we couldn't crack the smuggling rings," Vic expressed to Harry.
"There isn't any. Chung Sung is saving smuggling expenses along with import
duty!"
     "And his labor costs him practically nothing," added Harry. "Look at the
way those overseers are handling those poor devils. They're even keeping them
hungry!"
     The overseers, a half a dozen of them, were moving from bench to bench,
keeping constant eye on the thirty-odd jade workers. Beside each worker was a
bowl of rice which he was not allowed to touch until an overseer inspected a
finished carving and then gave a nod.
     Receiving such a nod, a worker would grab his bowl and devour its rice as
if eating his last meal on earth, as well he might be. For Harry and Vic saw
others who reached for their bowls too soon. Then, whips began to crack on the
bare backs of the half-clad unfortunates, until they writhed in the chains that
clamped them to the benches. They were spared further lashes, only that they
might get back to work.
     On shelves in a corner of the room, was the supply of raw jade, but Harry
noticed that it was very small. Considerably larger was a batch of finished
products, on shelves in the opposite corner. Jade figurines, lamps, caskets,
even necklaces and more-delicate ornaments, were there in abundance. Sold as
genuine antiques, those could bring a million dollars - or more, if the market
would bear it - for Harry knew that many of those curios were rated as
priceless in the Imperial Album.
     Lost treasures brought to life!
     That was how they would be represented when they were put up for sale.
Actually, though, their cost was scarcely more than the price of raw jade.
     The Old One cackled happily as he watched his captives drink in the
work-room scene. There was much in the chortle that Harry and Vic did not like.
They noted that overseers were beginning to pack all the finished jade curios
that were on one corner shelf. That, plus the fact that the raw supply was so
low, indicated that the work-shop was soon to be abandoned, enough fake
antiques having been accumulated to last for years.
     What would happen to the slave workers, Harry and Vic could well imagine.
That made them think of what soon might happen to themselves, now that they had
learned the details of the real racket.
     The Old One ordered the knife-men to march the prisoners along. Coming
into another little room beyond the balcony, Harry and Vic sat down grimly when
the Old One gestured to a pair of chairs. This room was a little office, with a
telephone in its corner. The phone was already ringing, so the Old One picked
it up, grunted answers to some questions and hung up the phone with a chuckle.
     With that, the Old One went back into the work-shop, leaving Harry and Vic
in control of a pair of glowering guards, who were holding long knives as
threats should the prisoners attempt a move.
     Those knives bore the handle stamp of Wei Hai Wei.
     Meanwhile, The Shadow was thinking in terms of Wei Hai Wei. For Lamont
Cranston had become The Shadow again, by another quick change in the alley near
the laundry, his agents abetting him in the action.
     From there on, The Shadow had filtered amazingly through Chinatown,
keeping to spots completely free from the green glow that spelled Wei Hai Wei.
For tonight, The Shadow didn't want it even to be guessed that he was in
Chinatown. If Chung Sung believed The Shadow to be a prisoner in the jade mine,
he was welcome to hold that opinion. Whatever Chung Sung's plans, they were
based on a false premise. The Shadow liked it when some person's plans were
gauged that way.
     After Cranston's present disappearance in Chinatown, the Wei Hai Wei
street men had closed in very rapidly. Expecting that, The Shadow had aimed for
a likely break in the cordon, had found it, and was now in the clear. In fact he
was almost out of Chinatown, for he was beside the squatty building that housed
the Loo Ting Fireworks Factory.
     Moving in beside the building, The Shadow found a loose side window and
pried it open. With his tiny flashlight, he probed his way into the manager's
office. There, on Ambridge's desk, The Shadow saw four packages wrapped in red
paper. One was more than a foot square, forming a cube. Another was flat,
except for a high bulge at one end. Two others were oblong, not very large.
     Beside the packages were labels, ready to be pasted on them. Each label
bore the same name. The Shadow laughed in whispered tone as he read the name.
     There were some big sheets of red paper in the corner of the room. The
Shadow blinked his flashlight over the sheets, laughed softly again as he noted
they bore no printing. Then, picking up two sheets, he did some rapid work.
     Stacking the two oblong packages together, The Shadow wrapped them in a
single sheet. Then, peeling off his hat and cloak, he rolled them into a bundle
with his two automatics, and wrapped the lot into the other sheet of red paper.
Thus there were still four packages to go with the labels.
     Out through the window, The Shadow, now in Cranston's guise again, moved
back into Chinatown to let himself be seen. Reversing his course for a stroll
that would attract attention, he had a Wei Hai Wei token ready as his passport.
Probably some Chinese would jostle him and apologize, but they would manage to
frisk him in the process. That was why Cranston had disposed of the automatics
that he carried as The Shadow.
     All Cranston now had in the way of a weapon was his pencil flashlight and
almost anyone might carry one of those around Chinatown or anywhere.
     Contrasted to The Shadow, Vic Marquette and Harry Vincent had been kept
extremely idle, but now their turn was at hand. The Old One had returned to his
office to answer another phone call in his usual combination of grunts and
cackles. Now he was leaving, gesturing the guards to follow him for a
conference. They followed, looking back disdainfully at Vic and Harry.
     Obviously, the prisoners couldn't attempt a break. They were in the very
heart of these underground headquarters and would be bagged by guards or
overseers, no matter what way they tried to flee. But there was one thing that
the Old One apparently overlooked: the telephone.
     The moment the door closed, Vic Marquette snatched up the telephone and
dialed hungrily. He got F.B.I. headquarters and spoke rapidly:
     "This is Marquette. We're prisoners under the Wei Hai Wei headquarters. We
measured the distance directly north in the underground passage from the Three
Pagodas. Try the passage but if you run into trouble keep bluffing there, while
you crack down through the cellar of the Wei Hai Wei Building. It's urgent
because we've uncovered the whole racket -"
     That was all Vic managed to say. He wasn't even able to specify that he
meant something different from the smuggling racket.
     Through both doors of a room surged a crowd of jacketed guards, who
snatched away the telephone and pinned Vic Marquette and Harry Vincent to the
floor.
     Standing in a doorway, the Old One cackled in his happy, senile fashion,
while his guards bound the prisoners in tight ropes, hand and foot.


     XXI

     THE Old One was standing in a corner of a squarish, stone-walled room,
directly beneath the underground workshop where the slavish jade carvers were
finishing their last labors.
     In that same corner stood a metal tripod with a circular ring at the top.
On the ring rested a large hour glass and sand was trickling down from its
upper cone, through the neck into the lower.
     But the sand was not halting in the lower half of the hour glass. That
lower half was bottomless and the sand was falling straight through into a bowl
that constituted one half of a pair of scales. The other side of the scale was
weighted, hence it hung lower than the bowl that received the trickling sand.
     Three grim prisoners were bound in heavy chairs which in turn were braced
to the walls. Those prisoners were Vic Marquette, Harry Vincent and Gloria
Brent. The searchers had found Gloria, only to share her plight.
     "When the bowl fills with sand," the Old One said solemnly, "the scales
will balance. When the scales balance, the mechanism will operate in the box
below" - he gestured to a blocky object on which the scales stood - "and the
walls all about this room will explode."
     The Old One made a broad, graphic sweep with his robed arms and cackled
cheerfully. Then:
     "That will demolish the workshop and the artisans will die, since we no
longer require them. You will all be buried here permanently."
     Bowing as though he were doing his prisoners a great favor, the Old One
crossed the room to a doorway that led up a flight of stone stairs. There he
paused to mention a few minor facts:
     "We have already packed the jade ornaments that have been carved," said
the Old One. "The overseers will take them with them. But not by the passage to
the Three Pagodas" - the Old One gave a final chuckle - "because I have just
ordered it to be blasted. There are magnetic controls in the end of each
straight passage. They will work automatically."
     On each side of the doorway where the Old One stood, there was a bowl of
fire, flaming in flambeau fashion. Those fire bowls not only illuminated the
room, though gloomily; they also gave the Old One a demoniac appearance as he
stood within range of their strongest flicker.
     A smile actually seemed to writhe across the lips that supported the
drooped mustachios and the trailing beard. Then, the Old One turned and his
figure ascended the stairs, his hollow footsteps fading with it.
     The Old One meant it, when he said he had ordered the long passage to be
blasted.
     At the Three Pagodas, Ming Dwan was worried as she served tea at a table
where Clyde Burke sat. Outside were F.B.I. men, watching both the front door
and the side alley. They were keeping away from the store room, as yet. One of
the Chinese proprietors was in the tea shop, but nobody had tipped him off to
anything. Looking for an order blank that he couldn't find, he went into the
back room.
     Coming out, the proprietor not only brought the slip, but some large
packages from his desk. He set them behind the counter, and a sudden thought
struck Myra Reldon. However, before she could express it to Clyde Burke, the
door from the street burst open and a couple of F.B.I. men charged through to
the rear room.
     Since Ming Dwan worked at the tea shop and Clyde Burke was known to be a
reporter, the pair shouted as they came:
     "We've got to find an underground passage back here! Our chief operative
and another man have been captured under the Wei Hai Wei headquarters. That's
where the passage leads!"
     Following the G-Men, Clyde and Myra saw others come swiveling through the
brick panel from the alley. Clyde reached the middle tea chest of the bottom
row, hoisted it, and followed the first G-Man who dropped through. At the
bottom, Clyde and the Fed pulled up against the wall, yelled for the others to
stay back.
     A series of muffled explosions could be heard from the passage, though the
results could not be seen because of the zigzag turns. Each boom was coming
closer, like the heavy footfalls of an approaching doom. As they loudened,
quivers could be felt along the stone floor; then, as Clyde and the Fed
scrambled for the ladder, the last and nearest blast occurred. It was very
close to the Three Pagodas, for the turn in the first passage suddenly crumbled
into a chunky debris of stone, brick, and cement.
     The underground passage that led from the Three Pagodas had been reduced
to a length of about twenty feet. There would be no use tapping for it along
the street to the Wei Hai Wei Building. Other sectors of the passage had been
ruined, through its entire length.
     That left only one course for the Feds.
     "We've got to raid the Wei Hai Wei headquarters," one decided, as Clyde
and the G-Man with him came up to report what happened below. "It's built like
a bastille and probably has a concrete cellar a yard thick. But maybe we can
find a way down into it.
     "We'll have to arrest Chung Sung and round up most of the Wei Hai Wei.
That's too big an order for the number of men we've got. We'll call the police
and have them give us a hand, even if they have to bring out every patrol and
all their riot squads."
     The call went through to police headquarters and a few minutes later the
San Francisco force was on its way to Chinatown.
     Shrieks of approaching sirens greeted Lamont Cranston, who had just then
passed the outskirts of Chinatown, after a most leisurely stroll. Having wanted
his departure to be well chaperoned by the Wei Hai Wei, Cranston had taken
plenty of time for it. Now, however, he regretted his loitering tactics.
     Siren shrills were coming from so many directions that Cranston knew
Chinatown must be the focal spot, with a riot to follow. He'd intended to go to
the Hotel Sonora before calling Burbank, but there was no time for that now.
Finding a handy phone, Cranston put in a prompt call to the contact man.
Rapidly, Burbank poured the news.
     First: News of the finding of the secret passage; next, how Marquette and
Vincent had gone there with compasses to guide them; then, how they had been
captured, but phoned out word; finally, how the passage had been blown between
the Three Pagodas and the Wei Hai Wei Building, which meant that the law would
have to invade the latter in order to rescue the captives.
     In with that, Burbank mentioned Gloria's disappearance and how it had
forced Marquette and Harry to begin the search that ended so disastrously.
     Lamont Cranston doubled right back into Chinatown along with the flood of
police cars, patrols, and miscellaneous equipment that was now arriving there.
Fire engines were also heading into Chinatown, in case further explosions
produced a conflagration. They were screaming into the heart of the Chinese
district to converge on the headquarters of the Wei Hai Wei.
     Cranston didn't follow them.
     His trip into Chinatown was abbreviated, ending at the side window of the
silent, brick-walled fireworks factory. As Cranston, not The Shadow, he entered
there; but did not need his flashlight to reach the office. A light was already
burning there, at the desk; and Ambridge, the tired-faced manager, was dialing
a phone number.
     The red packages were no longer on the desk.
     Easing around into the display room, Cranston found another telephone. It
was part of an inside system, so Cranston pressed the button marked "Manager"
and listened. He heard a woman operator's voice say:
     "We'll try his room for you."
     Cranston gave a calm "Hello" and Ambridge's voice came over the
inter-office system.
     "Prizes all ready," said Ambridge, in choppy style. "You pick them up at
Three Pagodas, Mr. Cranston."
     "You'll want the lottery tickets?"
     "You keep them," replied Ambridge. "Maybe if you want to keep prizes, we
can take tickets for receipts."
     "Wait a moment," suggested Cranston. "I want to see where I put those
lottery slips."
     Leaving the phone off its hook, Cranston sneaked into the office and made
a quick dive for Ambridge. He'd guessed right in picking Ambridge as the man
who had been making those fake phone calls. There were specific reasons why
Ambridge tied in with the trade in supposedly smuggled jade, which Cranston
already knew was not smuggled, though he'd kept that to himself.
     Ambridge made a wild claw as Cranston caught him around the neck and
hauled him over the back of his chair. He managed to snatch the handle of a
desk drawer and with it the whole drawer came flying out, a revolver dropping
from it as it hit the floor. Writhing in Cranston's clutch, Ambridge got hold
of the gun and began to shoot.
     Four times Ambridge fired, but every spurt was wide, for Cranston was
twisting the fellow's arm. Now the gun was coming loose in Ambridge's hand and
Cranston was just about to pluck it when a fighter came to Ambridge's aid.
     The fighter was Taka Takara.
     Bouncing into the room, the spidery strangler jumped to the top of the
office desk and tried to flip a cord around Cranston's neck. Cranston was set
just right for it - or would have been, if he hadn't seen Takara coming. As it
was Cranston lured the strangler on.
     Twisting at the vital moment, he sent Ambridge upward as a blockade
against Takara. The strangler made a side dart to get past Ambridge, missed his
footing on the desk, and went sprawling to the floor. Doing a rubbery back ward
bounce, Takara went out through the door, and wisely. For in the brief interim,
Cranston had gotten hold of Ambridge's gun.
     At that, Cranston would have potted Takara before he reached the doorway,
except that Ambridge made a wild try to get the gun back. Cranston clouted him
senseless with a blow of the revolver, then blasted the weapon's last two shots
in Takara's direction. But by then, Takara was out through the doorway.
     In one quick look, Cranston saw that there weren't any cartridges among
the scattered articles from the desk drawer. So he went right after Takara with
the empty gun, hoping at least to bluff the killer while overtaking him.
Cranston had overtaken Takara once before and could have done it again if
Takara had fled to the street.
     Instead, Takara was racing up some stairs in a deep corner of the
fireworks factory. Hard on the trail, Cranston held his own, but couldn't gain.
There were many turns in the stairs and they proved helpful to Takara's darting
tactics. That was one reason why he had chosen them.
     There was another reason.
     Reaching the third floor, Takara made a quick dive beyond some big red
bundles of fire-crackers and scrambled up a ladder leading to a little cupola.
Cranston was close enough behind Takara to have dropped the creature in his
tracks, if Ambridge's gun had held one bullet more. Instead, Cranston had to
follow Takara up the ladder.
     There were other boxes and bundles in the cupola: fire-crackers and
fireworks. Springing upon them, Takara reached the rafters under a tiny roof,
squeezed himself above a ledge and glared down. All that showed were Takara's
glistening eyes and an equally shiny knife that he clutched in one claw. He was
inviting Cranston to come further.
     Cranston parried with the gun, as though it were still loaded, and Takara
shifted. Pushing some bundles aside, Cranston worked beneath the ledge. One red
box fell and showed a name printed in large letters on its side. That brought a
whispered laugh from Cranston's lips, a tone reminiscent of The Shadow. Takara
heard it up above and shifted.
     That gave Cranston an idea.
     Apparently Takara thought The Shadow, too, was somewhere about. Muffling a
louder laugh, The Shadow gave it a ventriloquial effect. Takara's face appeared,
to peer down toward the stairs. Instantly, Cranston wheeled out from cover and
across the cupola, waving his gun upward. Takara, thinking this his last chance
to settle Cranston before The Shadow arrived, made a long lunge, knife ahead of
him.
     Takara didn't know that Cranston intended an instantaneous back-track.
Whipping around and away, Cranston was clear as Takara made a flinging dive,
knife ahead of him. Wildly, Takara tried to change direction in midair, but too
late. All Cranston had to do was spring forward and clout Takara as he landed;
but remembering Takara's rubbery ways, Cranston knew that his own action must
needs be swift.
     That was why, in recoiling, Cranston shoved right back against the wall,
to take advantage of a rebound of his own. Only he didn't need it, nor did he
have to worry about settling Takara. Cranston's elbow struck a metal plate set
in the wall and it took care of everything.
     The plate actuated a trap door that flopped downward in the cupola floor
just as Takara reached it. The howling strangler scaled right through and amid
the howl came a click from a trap that opened in the third floor, one flight
below the cupola. Two more clicks occurred, as Cranston was leaning forward to
watch Takara's helpless dive.
     The cupola was the top of a secret shaft to the basement of the fireworks
factory. Each floor had a separate trap but they were actuated as one. Unable
to grab a ladder that ran down the side of the shaft, Takara was talking a
headlong trip to doom, each trap door opening just in time to provide new space.
     A box of fireworks tumbled after him, but Cranston caught the others
before they fell to obscure his view. Beyond the one falling box, he saw Takara
smack the stone floor more than forty feet below. Then the box of fireworks hit
beside him and scattered all about his crushed and motionless figure. Not even
the rubbery Taka Takara could have survived that fall.
     In life, Taka Takara had hounded Lamont Cranston. In death, he was serving
him. For in his dive, Takara had taken the very pathway that Cranston wanted to
find.
     With The Shadow's whispery laugh, Lamont Cranston started down the ladder
to the spot where Taka Takara lay.


     XXII

     THE Old One was beckoning the last of the knife-men to a heavy metal door,
indicating that it was time for them to leave before the great blast came. As he
reached for the door, it flung suddenly inward, and the Old One dropped back.
     Coming in from the door was Lamont Cranston, a man the Old One recognized.
Behind him, on the stone floor of a square shaft, lay the crumpled body of Taka
Takara, draped with sky-rockets, pin-wheels, and Roman candles.
     Before the knife-men could surge forward, Cranston bowed to the Old One,
whose force of habit caused him to bow in return, as he said:
     "I am Chung Sung, the Mandarin. I welcome -"
     The Old One caught himself with a snarl. Cranston had taken advantage of
the Old One's usual custom. An important advantage, too, for it had given
Cranston time to wheel back into the shaft and snatch up the only improvised
weapons he could find, an armful of the fireworks.
     Cranston hadn't time to look for the knife Takara had lost. Instead, he
hoped to gain some blades from the crew that now threatened him. Thwacking
their faces with rocket-heads, he broke through their ranks and dived to a door
beyond, turning to fling back a handful of pinwheels.
     They were after him then, full force, but Cranston was finding plenty of
doorways. He came to one that was blocked by debris, the ruined passage to the
Three Pagodas. Turning the other way, he came to the balcony above the
work-shop, where hapless slaves looked up from their chains, beside shelves now
emptied of jade.
     Eluding two knife-men, Cranston cut through another room, hoping to find a
single adversary from whom he could snatch a knife. He saw a doorway which had
steps leading down and made a dash for it. From another doorway, he heard the
Old One scream to his followers, and a trio of knife-men surged to cut off
Cranston's course.
     They met at the stairs and Cranston reeled downward in a grapple with his
foeman, all at such close range that they couldn't get their knives into
action. He grabbed one man's knife and twisted it away, but it fell to the
stone steps. To avoid another knife, Cranston took a deliberate backward spill,
then grabbed an enemy as he fell, carrying him along to break the sprawl.
     Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Cranston tangled with his foemen anew.
One was groggy, another now unarmed, so only the third was dangerous. In the
grapple, Cranston kept away from that fellow's knife. During the struggle, he
also saw the scene, here at the bottom of the steps.
     Cranston and his foemen were in between two burning torches that showed
three prisoners tied to chairs against the walls of a square room. Cranston
recognized Vic Marquette, Harry Vincent and Gloria Brent. He could hear the
frantic words they shouted. Hearing them, Cranston saw what they meant.
     Across the room, a big hour glass was dripping its last sands on one side
of a nearly balanced scale. The hour glass was bottomless, resting atop a metal
tripod. The prisoners were shouting that when the scales balanced, the whole
place would be blasted.
     And the scales were almost even!
     Cranston tried to break loose from the knife-men. They still clutched him,
for they were a suicidal tribe, glad to die in evil duty, provided they took an
enemy with them to death. Here they had four victims whose lives were at stake.
They struggled all the harder.
     The grains of sand were now so few they could almost be counted. Vic
Marquette gave a hopeless groan and Harry Vincent understood it. Even a
gun-shot at that hour glass could not prevent the explosion. If the glass
crashed, the remaining sand would drop all the faster.
     Cranston was trying to grab the last knife. Its owner flung it away rather
than let him take it. They were fighting with bare hands now, claws and fists,
while the sands of doom neared their fatal finish. Then all looked finally
hopeless, for Cranston dropped suddenly from sight amid the hands that clawed
for him.
     A moment later he was up again, brandishing something that looked like a
club which he had snatched from the floor. Wrenching one arm free, Cranston
shoved the thing into a flaming torch bowl. The end of the long stick fizzed,
as he whipped it away. Then, out of the maze of clawing hands, the stick
delivered a fiery ball that burst before it reached the wall.
     Cranston had ignited a Roman candle, the last of the fireworks that he had
used in the course of his running fray. Again a fiery streak flashed across the
room. This time it burst above the hour glass. Cranston was aiming those shots!
     There was a third pow from the Roman candle, then a fourth and it was the
one that scored. The burning ball hit the hour glass squarely, toppled it back
from the tripod amid a burst of colored name. The hour glass didn't shatter,
not until it hit the floor. When it broke there, a tiny spray of sand fell from
its upper globe. They were the fateful sands, the grains that hadn't trickled!
     Now, brandishing the shooting candle, Cranston was shoving it at the faces
of his foemen. They broke, dived for the stairway and went racing upward with
Cranston shooting flaming balls at their heels. When the candle emptied,
Cranston flung it away, sprang across the room, and brushed sand from the
scales, so that they tilted well the other way.
     Then, finding a pair of dropped knives, he cut Harry loose and handed him
a knife to release Vic, while Cranston himself was severing Gloria's bonds.
     When the group reached the stair top, the Old One and his crew were gone,
evidently fearful that the place might still explode. Leading the others to the
shaft, Cranston climbed up to the first floor of the fireworks factory, found a
panel there, opened it, and beckoned the others along.
     As they climbed the ladder, they had to step over the body of Taka Takara,
but when Gloria looked at the dead strangler, she hardly felt a shudder. Takara
was one creature who looked far more pleasant in death than in life.
     Ambridge was still lying senseless when they reached the factory office.
While Harry and Vic were dragging him out, Cranston probed the desk drawers and
picked out a few items that he wanted. Then they went out to the street, where
sounds of chaos greeted them.
     The police had already rounded up most of the Wei Hai Wei, but without
great trouble, for the members of Chung Sung's company surrendered quite
peacefully. But now the riot squad was after a group of savage knife-men,
headed by an old Chinese with beard and mustache: the Old One.
     Police guns ripped the knife bearing fanatics. Tremendously outnumbered,
the mad tribe was annihilated, with the exception of the Old One. Five plain
clothes men grabbed him and hustled him into a patrol wagon which already
contained Chung Sung, the Mandarin.
     Marquette was contacting some F.B.I. men.
     "Bring them up to Gilmar's," Vic ordered. "Chung Sung and the Old One.
Meanwhile you'll find a lot of Chinese chained in the cellar under the
fireworks factory. Release them."
     With that, Marquette turned to Cranston:
     "Let's start to Gilmar's."
     "I'll meet you there," said Cranston, with a slight smile. "I have to stop
by at the Three Pagodas and pick up some packages. I'll bring Gloria along with
me."
     After having seen Cranston in action in the Room of the Hour Glass, Gloria
was only too glad to go along with him. She didn't feel she'd be safe anywhere
else.
     When they reached Gilmar's, Marquette was already quizzing Chung Sung.
Gilmar had opened the door to the strong room, so that Marquette could
reconstruct the death of Sangju and detail how Takara had first stolen the Jade
Dragon. All this was supposed to shake Chung Sung, but the Mandarin, resplendent
in his fanciest robe, was quite unperturbed.
     Chung Sung simply gestured to two other prisoners: Ambridge and the Old
One. Then he said:
     "Talk to them."
     "You know all that I can tell you," said Ambridge to Marquette. "I was in
the racket, yes, but I was only being told what to do. Mostly by the Old One,
but occasionally by telephone. I never even met Chung Sung."
     The Old One began to cackle happily. His words were a foolish jargon, his
eyes had a far away stare. His senile brain had either cracked or he was
putting up a presence that would be too hard to disprove. Marquette looked
helplessly to Cranston, hoping he'd have some suggestion. Cranston did have. He
turned to Chung Sung and began an unexpected quiz.
     "I understand that you own a jade mine up in the Stockton hills," said
Cranston, calmly. "Is that correct, Chung Sung?"
     Chung Sung bowed.
     "What have you been doing with the jade you mine there?"
     "The Wei Hai Wei has been shipping it to China," replied Chung Sung. "The
jade mines there have become almost exhausted. We haven't made it public that
we discovered jade in California or there might be a jade rush. We shipped the
jade with other minerals, under that general head. We have paid taxes on all
profits. Our trade is thoroughly legitimate."
     "Have you had trouble with any shipments?"
     "Yes," Chung Sung admitted. "We received payment for them but not from the
steamships that were supposed to carry them. Why do you ask that?"
     "Because of this label," replied Cranston. "I found it in Ambridge's desk."
     The label bore the word "Mandarin" in large letters. From his pocket
Cranston also brought a piece of red paper that he had torn from a package of
firecrackers. It bore the name "Mandarin" too.
     "This was stored in the fireworks factory," explained Cranston. "The term
Mandarin does not just mean an important Chinese official. Firecrackers of a
specific size are also called Mandarins."
     The answer snapped home to Chung Sung.
     "The truckers mistook the labels too!" he exclaimed. "They thought the
crates saying 'Mandarin' were meant for the fireworks factory."
     Gilmar gave a laugh at that.
     "So you made a mistake," he sneered. "A very weak explanation, Chung Sung."
     "So weak it is probably true," returned Cranston. "Chung Sung didn't have
to divert his own shipments. Nor did he need to keep a factory of jade carvers
in Chinatown, when he had a ranch up in the hills, right beside his mine.
Somebody else is the brain behind this game of fraud, slavery, and murder."
     "Somebody else?" queried Gilmar. "Like whom?"
     Cranston calmly said: "Somebody like you, Gilmar."


     XXIII

     FROM then on, Cranston had the floor, while Gilmar sat behind his desk,
chalky face buried in his oversized hands, as he smiled smugly at Cranston's
statements. But Gilmar's smile, though he retained it, gradually became more
forced.
     "Crime began with the Jade Dragon," declared Cranston, "which Prince Tsai
Hsung brought to America." As he spoke, Cranston was opening a square red
package that he had picked up at the Three Pagodas. "But you didn't know the
dragon was in San Francisco, Gilmar, so you had your slave workers fashion a
duplicate."
     From the package, Cranston lifted the Jade Dragon, or more correctly a
Jade dragon, saying:
     "This is the duplicate."
     Gilmar's smile indicated he wasn't willing to believe it.
     "You were working with the Old One," Cranston continued, "probably
promising him great wealth, so he could call himself a real mandarin, rather
than merely be humored by Chung Sung. The Old One was sending out special
lottery slips to jade buyers, slips bearing the name of Wei Hai Wei. You also
were using hired assassins, Takara and some roving knife-men, instructing them
to make all crimes look like the work of Wei Hai Wei."
     From his smile, Gilmar expected Cranston to continue, so Cranston did.
     "After you sold this false dragon to Artemus Kremp," denounced Cranston,
"you learned the real one was in San Francisco, in the possession of Koon Wan.
Where genuine antiques were concerned, you wanted them yourself. So you sent
Gloria to buy it and then had Takara murder Koon Wan. You were afraid that he
might know that Kremp had already bought an imitation.
     "If anyone knew two dragons were about, your whole racket would be ruined.
When Gloria bought the real Jade Dragon, she noticed something about it that
frightened her - its shadow. You noticed that shadow too, Gilmar, and realized
that it was the one thing your slave artisans could not copy, for it had been
worked into the jade by some great artist."
     Setting the false dragon in the light, Cranston illustrated that its
shadow was quite ordinary, but Gilmar smiled on. Without the original to
compare it by, the false dragon could still hold its claim to be real.
     "Kremp had been buying a lot of jade," continued Cranston. "He thought it
was smuggled stuff; therefore he was as crooked as you. You decided to fake a
theft of the real dragon and let the false show up in Kremp's safe, where it
already was. So you brought Takara into your strong room, concealed in a
taboret."
     Gloria gasped. She remembered that little stool in front of the dragon's
niche, how heavy it had seemed. Marquette remembered too, how easily Gilmar had
swung it down on Sangju's head. Cranston's explanation covered both factors.
     "Takara unbarred the brass-shuttered window himself," stated Cranston,
"and then got back into his taboret. You purposely told Gloria to stay in the
strong room, Gilmar, so that Takara would have a chance to murder her and then
flee, presumably taking the Jade Dragon with him.
     Those facts really shot home. They explained Sangju's actions. The Korean
had obviously suspected Gilmar's crooked ways, but had known too few facts
about them. The crash of the brass window told Sangju he was being
double-crossed, so he'd grabbed the kris, hoping to finish Gilmar before Gilmar
could finish him. But with Marquette as his unwitting helper, Gilmar had been
the winner of that duel.
     "When Takara left here," continued Cranston, "he went directly to Kremp's.
I happen to know, because I went there myself. Takara must have arrived before
Kremp or myself, because he was hidden in Kremp's office. Therefore he couldn't
have gone to the Three Pagodas to leave a package for Kremp."
     A sudden look of understanding showed on Chung Sung's rounded face, as he
realized that Cranston must have known of his own visit to Kremp. As for
Gilmar, he tried to laugh the situation off.
     "All this is theory," said Gilmar, "not fact."
     "The facts themselves prove it," countered Cranston. "Takara would have
had to be at Kremp's a long while in order to soup the safe. Maybe too long. Am
I right, Marquette?"
     Marquette nodded.
     "I've just been thinking that over," said Vic. "I can see where my theory
was wrong. All that drilling and planting explosive wouldn't be in Takara's
line, anyway. But what did blow the safe?"
     "The package that Kremp picked up at the Three Pagodas," returned
Cranston, "thinking he was getting a new antique on approval. Instead it was a
time bomb, rigged at the fireworks factory and shipped underground to the Three
Pagodas."
     "You've got it!" Marquette thwacked his palm. "The safe blew and we found
the Jade Dragon, the phoney one, right where Gilmar wanted us to find it. Since
Kremp was dead, he couldn't tell us that he'd had the dragon a long time."
     "There was a piece of partly burnt paper at Kremp's," reminded Cranston.
"Red paper that bore the name Mandarin. It was unquestionably from a
firecracker package that had been used in making the bomb."
     Marquette had turned and was shaking Ambridge savagely. The fellow
sputtered helplessly.
     "I - I didn't know what was going on," he claimed. "But I phoned here -
and I phoned Kremp's -"
     "Like you phoned Chung Sung's later," added Cranston, "on another night.
Because those phone calls were at specific times. They were signals for Takara
to get into action.
     "A friend of mine went back to your penthouse after I left it," Cranston
told Chung Sung. "That was the night of my first visit. Takara was in the tea
chest behind your desk. He attempted murder when the phone bell rang, but he
failed. You had left unexpectedly, Chung Sung. Otherwise you would have been a
victim."
     Sadly, Chung Sung shook his head and looked at the Old One, the only
person who could have arranged that trap. But the Old One was stroking his
beard and babbling softly to himself.
     "My death at that time would have been convenient," said Chung Sung, with
a nod. "I realize that somebody was trying to involve the Wei Hai Wei in some
evil business. But my men were peacefully trying to learn the source. Even at
Kremp's, they were only trying to protect me. Later, they saw Takara and tried
to shoot him, knowing he was a criminal."
     Cranston understood. That night, as The Shadow, he had almost run into a
hail of bullets fired by the Wei Hai Wei men. But it was his proximity to
Takara, the speed with which he was overtaking the fugitive strangler, that
made it look as though the fusillade had been meant for him.
     "I offered to buy jade antiques," declared Chung Sung, "and sell them to
you, Cranston, hoping I could get a lead to what I thought was really a
smuggling game. That was the only way to protect the Wei Hai Wei."
     "It was," agreed Cranston. Then, turning to Gilmar, he said: "We'll carry
the story to this very night, Gilmar, and in that way clinch the case against
you. Who was it that suggested using compasses to trace the passage from the
Three Pagodas to wherever it might be?"
     Gilmar couldn't possibly reply to that one, not with Vic and Harry present.
     "That tunnel led east from the Three Pagodas," declared Cranston. "But at
the end of each straight passage was a magnet, set there to control the series
of blasts that later wrecked the tunnel. Knowing of those magnets, you also
knew that they would attract any compass and make it point north."
     Cranston turned to Vic and Harry.
     "The Old One let you make that phone call," Cranston told them, "so you
would give the word that you were under the Wei Hai Wei Building, which was
straight north from the Three Pagodas."
     Chung Sung came suddenly to his feet.
     "I have something to say," he declared excitedly. "A friend of yours,
Cranston - I have been keeping him prisoner, but only for my own protection. He
uncovered my jade mine and I trapped him there. If I can telephone the mine -"
     "It can wait," interposed Cranston.
     "These packages were addressed to me," said Cranston, "I found them in the
fireworks factory so I let them go through to the Three Pagodas, just before the
passage was blown. Here is the second item that you pretended to sell, Gilmar,
to make your racket appear to be Chung Sung's."
     From that package, Cranston brought the chess-board and its men. He set
them up, green in front of Gilmar, black in front of himself.
     "Jade versus Jet," declared Cranston. "It's your move first."
     Gilmar simply stared, so Cranston toppled one of the jet chessmen. It
rolled to the edge of the desk, fell to the floor and broke. Cranston did the
same with another, then another. The black chess-men broke, one by one, though
on a previous occasion, they had stood this test.
     "You wouldn't let the real Jade Dragon out of your possession," Cranston
told Gilmar, "therefore I reasoned you would not let your real chess-set go,
even temporarily. The reason you delayed the sale was because you were having
your chain workers fashion a duplicate set. They did all right with jade, but
not with jet.
     "The jade from Chung Sung's mine was as good quality as any in China,"
added Cranston, "but not the jet that he shipped too. It isn't actually jet,
but merely a form of lignite called anthracine, which closely resembles jet. It
is slightly brown, it smudges" - Cranston picked up another chess man, rubbed it
on his hand to show a brownish streak - "and it breaks."
     Forcibly, Cranston cracked the chess-man on Gilmar's desk and met the
accused man's gaze with a flash of challenge. Hands clenched, Gilmar glared, no
longer smiling, but still he wouldn't talk. Cranston wasn't going to break him,
like the black chess-man.
     Coolly, Cranston opened the third package and Gilmar relaxed, merely
expecting more talk about antiques, real or false. But as the paper spread
apart, Cranston tilted it so that only Gilmar could see its contents.
     In the package lay a black hat and cloak, laden with a brace of
automatics. In that instant Jonathan Gilmar recognized the other identity of
Lamont Cranston, the man who had so thoroughly investigated and denounced him.
     The Shadow!
     That was enough.
     Flinging the heavy desk forward with one of his mighty spasms, Gilmar
dived for the door. Others rushed after him, but Cranston simply swept up his
package and made for the door of the strong room. There, sweeping his cloak
about his shoulders, the hat upon his head, Cranston snapped back the clamps of
the huge brass shutter, yanked open the window.
     Dropping down to the ground, he was just in time to look through a window
and see Gilmar ducking down a cellar stairs. Closest behind Gilmar was Chung
Sung, who had borrowed a gun somewhere during the chase. As Gilmar gained the
doorway to the cellar, Chung Sung fired after him and Gilmar jolted slightly,
then managed to slam the door behind him.
     Though wounded, Gilmar had escaped the man who had the greatest right to
stop him, for Chung Sung had all but met ruin through Gilmar's evil schemes.
There was a car waiting out front, with Chance LeBrue at the wheel. The Shadow
reached it, just as the next event came due.
     Gilmar's house was built upon a slant, its stone-work cellar being
practically a first floor on the lower side. Suddenly that stone masonry
parted, a station wagon roared out from the cellar and veered to the street.
Gilmar was the driver and he was off in flight.
     The Shadow's car came close behind.
     Through the San Francisco steeps they raced. Suddenly, as the car was
almost overhauling the station wagon, Gilmar made a turn to a street that was
practically unused and The Shadow's car swung in almost beside him.
     Poised at a speed of forty miles an hour, the two vehicles looked to be on
a cliff edge. Gilmar, driven to desperation, had chosen the steepest hill in San
Francisco for a downward escape. Deserted by traffic, which hardly ever dared to
negotiate it, the street slanted down toward tiny houses, several blocks below,
then eased its slope toward San Francisco Bay.
     Then the cars were gone in what amounted to a madcap plunge, Gilmar
laughing crazily as he blasted shots from the station wagon, hoping to enjoy
witnessing The Shadow's death before experiencing his own. But The Shadow did
not intend to die, not with Chance LeBrue at the wheel. The cloaked fighter
returned Gilmar's gun-stabs. The Jade Master wilted at the wheel.
     The Shadow's car was taking the curb, aiming straight for the wall of an
old frame house that was dilapidated and deserted.
     Chance LeBrue punched a hole right through that house. He went so fast the
car was hardly damaged, but the impact braked the pace, enabled him to swing
into a cross-street and bring the car to a halt. Meanwhile, The Shadow was
calmly watching for Gilmar's car to reappear below.
     It showed, at about ninety.
     Hitting the level, Gilmar's car struck a blockade at the end of the
street, turned a gigantic somersault and dived far and deep into the bay,
carrying its dying owner with it.
     When Lamont Cranston returned to Gilmar's house, he settled one little
problem that had been bothering everybody and which Gilmar, realizing that it
would be the final give-away, had not dared stay to face. Finding that the
group was in the strong room hunting for the genuine Jade Dragon, Cranston
halted them.
     Having discarded The Shadow's garb, Cranston was again his analytical self.
     "We know Taka Takara didn't take the Jade Dragon," affirmed Cranston.
"Therefore Gilmar must have taken it himself. He had hardly more than time to
reach its niche after that fight in the darkness. Therefore -"
     Stepping toward the niche, The Shadow used one hand to lift a light
taboret that blocked the way, and lay it to one side. Probing the sides of the
niche with his fingers, he found two mosaics of mother-of-pearl that yielded
under pressure.
     The little empty niche moved up like an elevator. Another came up to
replace it; this one filled with the statuette known as the Jade Dragon, which
glared, yet happily, as it made its strange return. It was the true Jade
Dragon, for as Cranston's hands withdrew, the figurine threw a weird, monstrous
shadow across his palms.
     That silhouette vanished as Cranston drew his hands away. Vanished like
Gilmar, and all the evil that he had represented.
     From Cranston's lips came a whispered echo of The Shadow's laugh, marking
the final triumph of Jet over Jade.


     THE END