The Shadow (13 page)

“Unless what? He blows himself up?” For the first time, she looked at Cranston.

Barth caught the eye contact. “Miss Lane, I think you already know my nephew—”

“Yes, we’ve met,” she said, forcing a smile.

Cranston stood up and motioned to the chair between his and Barth’s. Barth shot him a sharp look that was too late in arriving. “Please,” Cranston told Margo.

Margo sat down. The gown’s scoop neck was black chiffon, shimmering with bugle beads and asymmetrically cut gunmetal. Her earrings were emerald-cut, and there was a square ring on the third finger of her left hand. Cranston leaned back in his chair to take her in.

“The fact that your father is behaving strangely is hardly justification for a police investigation,” Barth was saying. “Scientists and eccentricity go together like—”

“He has never refused to see me. The people I spoke to at the War Department claim that he’s suddenly forbidden all visitors, including his daughter. But that’s just not like him.”

Barth traded knowing looks with Cranston. “Maybe the new restrictions were issued by the War Department. After all, his work is classified, isn’t it?”

“Of course, but it’s not top secret, if that’s what you mean. He’s involved in energy research. Some kind of implosion device.”

Cranston looked up sharply but turned away before Margo could notice.

“Something’s wrong, Commissioner,” she was saying. “I can feel it. When I spoke to him on the phone this morning, he was fine. But tonight he sounded distant and confused. And he was babbling in what sounded like
Chinese.”

Barth drained the last of his drink and motioned for a waiter.

Margo showed him a disapproving look and went on. “My father doesn’t speak Chinese, Commissioner. What do I have to do, place an ad in the papers for The
Shadow
to help me?”

Barth grimaced, then sighed with purpose. “All right. I’ll have someone drop by the Federal Building to see him. Will that suffice?”

Margo relaxed somewhat. “That’s all I was asking for.” But when she turned to solicit Cranston’s opinion, he was no longer there. She glanced over her shoulder and saw him leaving the club. “Excuse me,” she told Barth, getting to her feet and hurrying after him.

Cranston had collected his hat, scarf, and overcoat from the coat-check girl and was moving fast, but Margo was only steps behind him when he reached the sidewalk, the doormen under the awning gesturing good night with tips of their top hats. She tried calling to him, but he didn’t stop; so she put some volume behind her second attempt. When he didn’t respond even then, she quickened her pace and caught hold of his arm, bringing him around to face her.

“Wait a minute, will you?” she began. “What’s your hurry? Did I say something to—”

She stopped herself, confronted by a look in his eye she hadn’t met before, a burning look that didn’t wear well on an alleged man about town. Suddenly there was nothing carefree about Lamont Cranston. He seemed filled with an almost vicious urgency. The force of his glare made her back away from him in alarm.

“Your eyes,” she said, locked into his minatory gaze.

He held that gaze for a moment, then whirled and took a step toward the Cord taxi that had pulled up to the curb.

“Ying Ko,” she said, not at all certain where the words had come from, what they meant, or what had made her blurt them out.

Cranston stopped short of the open rear door and did a slow turn.

Margo swallowed hard. Ying Ko sounded like a Chinese name. So was she beginning to speak in tongues like her father? Had both of them come down with some sort of contagious speech dysfunction? Cranston was eyeing her balefully.

“Who is Ying Ko?” she asked, still confused, but somehow sensing that Cranston knew or even
was
the answer.

His eyes were glowing blue orbs, boring into her. When he spoke, his voice had dropped in pitch and was seasoned with something sinister.

“You’ll forget me.”

She stared at him, wondering what he was up to now. “Not likely, Mr. Cranston. And why would I, anyway?”

“You’ll give me no further thoughts,” he went on in that same low tone, showing her the red ring on his left hand.

Margo glanced at the ring and forced an aggravated exhale. “Look, Mr. Cranston, I don’t know what kind of women you’re used to dealing with, but I certainly don’t appreciate—”

Cranston swung away from her. As he climbed into the Cord, the door seemed to shut itself, and the cab squealed into traffic, disappearing around the first corner. Completely baffled, Margo didn’t make a move. She wasn’t certain, but the cab driver looked like the same one who had driven them to her brownstone the night she and Cranston had met.

Shrevnitz heard the drawer beneath the seat open; then he caught a rearview mirror glimpse of The Shadow’s broad-brimmed hat and neatly folded cloak. Cranston was breathing harshly and rapidly.

“The Federal Building,” he said in a grating tone.

A sudden snap of the black cloak gave the hackie a start. The Shadow had melded into the darkened rear. Spooked, Shrevnitz readjusted the angle of the rearview and gave the car the gun.

“Hot dog?” inquired the shorter of the two Marine sentries posted at the door to Reinhardt Lane’s lab. A sidelong glance revealed a torqued expression on his partner’s face. “Well, I’m sure not gonna eat another hamburger.”

“I’m not asking you to eat a hamburger,” the taller Marine made clear.

The elevator at the end of the long hallway announced its arrival with a bright
ding,
and the two men peered at it, hands on holstered .45s. But when the doors opened, the car was empty. They looked at each other and shrugged.

“You like fried fish?” the first one asked.

His partner returned a noncommittal grunt. “What about a hamburger?”

The shorter man adopted a long-suffering look. Maybe he’d put in for that transfer to the South Pacific, after all. It wasn’t like there was a war going on. He was about to say as much when he heard a
tsssicck
ing sound that ended with someone or something slamming him hard in the ribs. Looking down, he saw the wooden shaft of a leather-fletched arrow protruding from his chest. The “Oh” he managed was more one of surprise than pain. But his body knew that irreparable damage had been done to it, and his knees were already starting to buckle.

His partner looked at him with widened eyes; then the sound returned and instantly a like arrow was buried in his thorax. The Marines regarded one another in anguished dread, then, with moaning sighs, slumped to the ground. The last thing the second sentry saw was a group of swarthy Asians in helmets and archaic body armor standing in the elevator car.

At least one of them was armed with a crossbow.

Khan’s right-hand man, Hoang Shu, led his charges into Lane’s cluttered laboratory. The sword-bearing captain of the guard was built like an ironmolder, and wore a Fu Manchu style beard. Save for a foot-long ponytail at the back of his skull, his head was shaved. Clicks from Hoang Shu’s tongue sent his cohorts fanning through the room, drawing swords, and opening folded crossbows.

Transfixed, Lane was standing to one side of his desk, methodically buttoning his tweed jacket. As instructed by the Llama billboard, he had placed the orb in a cushioned carrying case, the lid of which had reinforced corners and was stenciled with the words,
WAR DEPARTMENT
. On a click from Hoang Shu’s tongue, Lane lifted the case by its handle.

But a sound from the balcony brought the Mongol to a sudden halt. Once more, he clicked his tongue at Lane, and the professor set the case down, resuming his motionless stance. Hoang Shu motioned one of the bowmen to check on the noise.

The bowman came through the balcony doors with his weapon raised in front of him and moved to the front wall, where he looked over the edge. Seeing and hearing nothing, he went to the wall opposite the billboard. As he was glancing about, his back to the wall of the building, black-gloved hands swooped down, as if out of nowhere, and grabbed hold of the conical crown of his helmet, yanking him off his feet.

The bowman screamed, more out of surprise than anything else, kicking booted feet in the air and losing hold of his weapon, which clattered to the balcony floor. His hands free, he reached above his head for the rigid wrists that were lifting him and put all his strength into a downward tug of his arms.

The Shadow flew headfirst from his perch on the roof ledge, executing a midair somersault; then, when his feet made contact with the balcony, a nimble forward roll placed him out of arm’s reach of his opponent. The Mongol saw only a rolling ball of blackness until The Shadow whirled on him, showing the upper mask of his ax-keen face. The Asian drew his saber and attacked, only to find The Shadow more than willing to meet him halfway. The two men struggled for dominance of the raised sword, until a right cross from The Shadow sent Asian and blade flying.

Before his armored adversary could recover, The Shadow stepped in, grabbing him in a forward-facing bear hug. He lifted him off his feet, flinging him through a half circle. But the Mongol was no slouch; he reversed the hold, answering The Shadow in kind, and landing him on his back atop the balcony’s front wall.

While behind him, rings puffed from the mouth of the contented smoker, the Mongol pressed the attack, throwing himself on The Shadow and maneuvering him closer and closer to the edge. His back bent over the wall, The Shadow almost succeeded in squirming out from under the Asian. But all at once, the Mongol put the power of his stout legs into a final push, and over the two men went, locked in a deadly embrace.

T
he Shadow was in the midst of calculating his rate of fall and terminal velocity when he and his aerial-act companion struck an unyielding surface that certainly wasn’t the street. When he’d shaken off his momentary dislocation, The Shadow realized that they had, in fact, fallen less than two stories, landing on one of the Federal Building’s architectural embellishments: a stone eagle with outstretched wings ten feet wide. Anticipating impact twenty-three stories below, The Shadow had rolled himself into a superior position, and so the Mongol—who was the better fortified for it, in any case—had taken the brunt of their crash, sustaining countless broken bones as a result. Just now, he lay facedown on the eagle’s back, with The Shadow atop and astride him.

“Next time, you can be on top,” The Shadow muttered through his scarf. He glanced skyward toward the balcony and began his ascent. Scaling the side of the building, he wished he had thought to bring along the suction devices he normally employed for such acts of death-defying dexterity, but time hadn’t permitted it.

Inside Lane’s laboratory, the rest of Khan’s imperial guards were waiting in vigilant unease. Evidence of his controlling master’s unfathomable powers, the professor himself was standing stock-still by his desk, psychically sealed off from the activity around him. Pausing outside the balcony doors, The Shadow melded with the lab’s dim, flickering light and eased into the room.

Hoang Shu had his saber at the ready when a seemingly invisible force snapped his head back. Two follow-up blows from The Shadow’s fists sent him reeling backward into a counter topped with glassware, most of which tipped over and shattered on the floor. The force of the punches dropped the Mongol as well, whose outstretched left arm swept a gooseneck lamp from its soapstone perch, further darkening the room.

The felling of their leader sent the other Asians into a frenzied counteroffensive. The glinting blades of curved swords sliced the air and hands and feet shot out in lightning-fast displays of Chinese martial arts techniques.

Back came The Shadow’s attenuated laugh, wicked and taunting, though the laugh came from lips that could not be seen.

A gliding adumbration closed on the Mongol who was waving two swords about. The first punch left him stunned; the more forceful second stripped him of weapons. The Shadow sent him sprawling across another glass-filled countertop and down to the floor, where he landed in a confused heap, glancing up in wounded disbelief.

The three warriors who were still standing turned toward the general area of the attack, only to be left staggered by blows from fists, elbows, and knees. One’s backward flailing carried him into a control panel, whose suddenly interrupted voltage took an instant liking to him. Held in the panel’s galvanic grip, the armored warrior’s arms, legs and head jerked spasmodically, while bolts of coruscating electricity danced around him.

Short-circuited, the lab’s banks of overhead fluorescents went out. Shining through bubbling beakers, spirals of glass tubing, and racks of Erlenmeyer flasks, the countertop lights scattered chaotic shadows on the walls and ceiling.

The black-clad crimefighter was enjoying himself immensely, despite the rank smell the Mongols had introduced to the lab. (Springs represented the higher powers of their god, Tengri, so water was not permitted to be fouled by washing the body, clothes, cooking utensils, or dishes. That restriction and a steady diet of horse meat and fermented mare’s milk contributed to a dizzying brew of odors.)

In fact, The Shadow was enjoying himself so much that he neglected to notice that the bald victim of his first blows, Hoang Shu, had risen to his feet and found his way to an ingenious idea. From the same countertop his fall had shaken, he had grabbed hold of a flashlight and was shining it around the now tenebrous room.

At first he saw nothing but his confederates stumbling back from the blows launched by their unseen assailant. But then Hoang Shu caught sight of something else: a streak of coiling blackness and a shadow on the far wall where there shouldn’t have been one. The shadow showed the unmistakable silhouette of a tall man dressed in a high-collared cloak and broad-brimmed hat.

The sight brought a grin to the Asian’s high-cheekboned face. Gripping the shaft of the Everready in his teeth, he raised his crossbow, nocked a quarrel, and aimed the loaded weapon.

Aware that the flashlight beam had betrayed him, The Shadow was darting left and right, but the Asian was successfully anticipating him. The Shadow heard the grind of the crank that drew back the bowstring; the racheting sound of the bow’s three-arrowed, cylindrical quiver, which automatically rotated one of the bolts for nocking; the solid click of the locking nut; the loud snap of the trigger . . .